Royal Marriage Market Read Online Free PDF Page B

I would do what was best for Vattenguldia. And I would do it because I am from the House of Vasa, and we live and die by tradition.
    Tradition, I am learning, is not as rosy as it was once.
    After that edict, my arse was ordered onto our private jet and now I am on the third leg of our journey as we travel from Los Angeles up the coastline toward a tiny town named San Simeon. As we begin our descent, my sister settles in the seat across the aisle. She’s stiff and silent, her fingers laced tightly across her lap. I don’t think Isabelle uttered more than twenty words the entire journey. Shortly before we departed, she gripped my arm and murmured, “Wake me from this nightmare. This cannot be how it all goes down.”
    I answered, “Only if you wake me first.”
    After that, her game face fell firmly in place, but I know better. She is just as distressed as I am by this farce, probably even more so. Unlike my single self, my sister is currently embroiled in a messy yet passionate relationship our parents know nothing about.
    I murmur, “Tell Father. It’s your Get Out of Jail card.”
    A quick, sharp shake of the head is the only response I receive, leaving me puzzled. Why would she continue to hide such a thing, especially now? Isabelle is reserved, nearly to a fault, but she has never been a pushover—or at least not the kind my parents wished for.
    Although, until this week, I would have claimed the same for myself. Yet here we are, the Vasa girls on their way to the latest Marriage Market. Beyond the jet’s windows are soft, multi-hued, green rolling hills and choppy waters crashing against golden shores. Further in the distance, our destination materializes: high upon a hilltop, surrounded by dense trees, off-white towers peek out at the ocean.
    I have been around beautiful architecture my entire life. I grew up in Vattenguldia, spent much time all over Scandinavia. I attended school in Switzerland, vacationed often in France and Italy. I have viewed stunning buildings from all ages. And yet, the first glimpse of Hearst Castle has me questioning if I have actually ever seen such a stunning site before.
    It doesn’t even look real. Which is fitting, I suppose, considering I still feel as if this whole bloody situation cannot possibly be happening.
    Minutes later, our jet lands on a tiny strip at the base of the hill. An SUV is waiting, alongside the Prince of Liechtenstein. “Gustav! Just in time,” he calls out as we disembark. “The MC is meeting in an hour, and your expertise is required.”
    There is no time for idle chitchat on the runway. Aircrafts from Japan, Saudi Arabia, Malaysia, and Swaziland are all arriving within the hour. In fact, the moment our luggage is stowed and the doors to the SUV are shut, the jet we rode in on shoots down the strip.
    “Was the flight comfortable?”
    It takes a moment to realize the question was angled at me. I turn away from the window and lie to the monarch from Liechtenstein, “Very pleasant, Your Highness,” because I’ve obviously waded into the River Styx and am rapidly approaching Hell.
    If Hell is a gorgeous, glamorous hilltop castle in California.
    “My daughter sends her love,” the Prince continues warmly. “She wishes she could attend the Summit, but alas, commitments at home keep her away.”
    There is no chance the Princess of Liechtenstein desires to be here. She’s already married. She’s probably thrilled she never had to be trotted out at any of the Summits.
    Lucky lady.
    I tell the Prince, “Please convey my love and regards as well, Your Highness.”
    From that point on, my father and his friend talk shop. I keep one ear on their discussions—apparently, a number of the microstates want to band together to have a larger voice in global politics—but the view outside my window is far more demanding. We climb the emerald hill via a winding path that brings the castle in and out of focus. Fruit trees and succulents line the road, and I must