The Royals Collection. Rebecca Winters

her or any other source in the Yurkovich, Zaretsky or Volyarussian wealth.

      Oddly, if she divorced Demyan, or he divorced her for anything other than her infidelity, she would still be well taken care of. Until she remarried. If she were ever to marry someone else, or have irrefutable evidence of infidelity brought against her, she lost all financial benefits from her marriage to Demyan.

      It wasn’t anything less than she expected, but having it spelled out in black and white sent a shiver along her spine that was not exactly pleasant.

      Demyan laid his hand over hers before she signed. “You are okay with all the terms?”

      “They are more than generous.”

      “I will always make sure you have what you need, no matter what the agreement says.”

      “I believe you.” And she did. With everything in her.

       CHAPTER TEN

      THE MORNING OF Chanel’s wedding was every bit as tediously focused on beauty, fashion and making an impact as she’d feared it might be with Beatrice in charge.

      Strangely, for the first time in her life, Chanel found she didn’t mind her mother’s fussing over her appearance.

      For once, going through the paces of having her legs waxed, her hair done and makeup applied resonated with an almost welcome familiarity in this strange new situation that had become her life.

      It had been years since Chanel had sat through one of her mother’s preparation routines for a social function, but the sound of Beatrice’s voice giving instruction to the stylists resonated with old memories.

      Memories were so much easier to deal with than the reality of the present. She was marrying a prince.

      It was beyond surreal.

      “Your fingers are like ice.” The manicurist frowned as she took Chanel’s hand out of the moisturizing soak. “Why did you say nothing? The water must be too cold.”

      Beatrice was there in a second, testing the water with her own finger and giving Chanel a look filled with concern. “Are you all right, sweetheart?”

      Chanel nodded.

      Her mom did not look comforted. “The argan oil solution is warm enough, but the manicurist is right. Your hands feel like they’ve been wrapped around an icicle.”

      Chanel shrugged.

      “Mom, she’s marrying a prince. That’s not exactly Chanel’s dream job,” Laura said in that tone only a teenager could get just right. “She’s stressed out.”

      “But he’s perfect for you.”

      “You’ve barely seen us together. How would you know?” Chanel asked, with little inflection.

      “You love him.”

      Chanel nodded again. There was no point in denying the one thing that would prompt her to marry a man related to royalty.

      “He adores you.”

      Laura grinned at Chanel, her eyes filled with understanding. “I agree with Mom on that one, at least.”

      “I think he does,” Chanel admitted. Demyan acted like a man very happy with his future.

      Beatrice reached out and put her hand against Chanel’s temple, frowning at whatever she felt there. “You’re in shock.”

      “Sheesh, Mom, way to state the obvious.” Laura didn’t roll her eyes, but it was close.

      Beatrice frowned. “I do not appreciate your tone, young lady.”

      “Well, you’re acting like Chanel should be all excited and happy when it’s probably taking everything in her not to run away. She’s a scientist, Mom, not a socialite.”

      “I am well aware of my daughter’s chosen profession.” Beatrice was careful not to frown—that caused wrinkles—but her tone conveyed displeasure.

      The interaction fascinated Chanel, who hadn’t realized her mother and Laura had anything less than the ideal mother-daughter relationship.

      Beatrice looked at Chanel. “Do you need some orange juice to bring up your blood sugar?”

      Chanel shook her head. “It just doesn’t feel real.”

      “Believe it or not, I threw up twice before walking down the aisle to your father,” Beatrice offered with too much embarrassment for it not to be sincere.

      Laura snorted. “You were preggers, Mom. It was probably morning sickness.”

      “I was not morning sick. I was terrified. I nearly fainted when I was getting ready for my wedding to your father.”

      Chanel couldn’t imagine her mother agitated to that level. “Really?”

      “It’s a huge step, marriage. No matter how much you love the man you’re marrying.”

      “I don’t know what the big deal is. If it doesn’t work out, they can get divorced,” Laura said with the blasé confidence of youth.

      Their mother glared at her youngest daughter. “That is not the attitude women of this family take into marriage.”

      “You and Chanel can get all stressed about it, but I’m not going to. If I get married at all. It all seems like a lot of bother over something that ends in divorce about fifty percent of the time. I think living together makes a lot more sense.”

      Chanel almost laughed at the look of absolute horror crossing their mother’s features. She would have, if she could feel anything that deeply.

      Right now the entire world around her was one level removed.

      “Stop looking like that, Mom. You and Chanel take everything so seriously. I’m not like you.”

      It was a total revelation to Chanel that Laura considered her like their mother.

      “You’re more like us than you realize, young lady. Regardless, there will be no more talk of divorce on your sister’s wedding day.”

      Chanel had never heard her mother use that particular tone with her golden-child sister.

      And Laura listened, but her less-than-subdued expression implied she had heard it before and didn’t find it all that intimidating.

      How much had Chanel missed about the world around her? She hadn’t realized Demyan was a corporate king, much less a real-life prince. She’d had no idea her mother still loved her father and she’d been sure Beatrice no longer loved her.

      Chanel had been wrong on all counts.

      It was a sobering and hopeful realization at the same time.

      Nevertheless, she continued through the rest of her personal preparations for the wedding in the fog of shock that had plagued her since waking without Demyan in her bed.

      As the makeup artist finished the final application of lip color, a knock sounded at the door.

      “The driver is here. Are you both ready?” Beatrice asked, managing to the look the part of the mother of the bride for a prince, anyway.

      Laura looked like a blond angel in her ice-blue Vera Wang maid-of-honor dress that was a perfect complement to Chanel’s vintage designer gown.

      Chanel hoped her mother had worked some kind of magic and she looked her part, as well. She hadn’t looked in the mirror since the hair stylist had shown up.

      “It’s not the driver,” Laura announced after opening the door. Then she dropped into a curtsy and Chanel’s throat constricted.

      Had the king come to tell her he didn’t want Chanel marrying his quasi-adopted son? No, that was an irrational thought.

      But...her