a generous amount of muscle. For him, trying to change his clothes in a tiny airplane bathroom was an invitation for disaster. He would at least break the mirror when he stretched, if not accidentally tear a cabinet off the wall when he tried to put on a shirt.
He removed a suit of unrelieved black clothes from the suitcase and set them aside. He shrugged off the black Armani suit jacket he wore and unbuttoned the white, silk-blend shirt underneath.
Under his shirt, he wore a slim platinum cross on a thin chain that he didn’t take off. He’d hung it around his neck directly before he’d left the hotel and Dree sleeping like an angel in the crisp, cotton sheets.
As he removed each item of clothing, he folded the clothes neatly and tucked them inside the empty luggage.
After a quick shower in the private plane’s minuscule stall, he donned the other set of clothes, which was just as finely made and also Armani, but tailored in a more subdued style. He tucked the platinum cross inside the shirt, next to his skin.
The shirt’s collar was a high, ecclesiastical band into which he inserted a white tab.
It felt less like a baptism and more like a snake shedding its worthless skin.
When Maxence looked up in the mirror, a Catholic priest—or almost-priest—wearing a Roman collar looked back at him, judging him for the way that he had spent the month since he had last worn ecclesiastical garb.
It was a harsh judgment, as it should be.
Also, his black hair fell in curls over his forehead and around his ears. He really should’ve made time for a haircut while he was in Paris.
When he returned to his seat, he slipped on a suit jacket that matched the slacks, also in sober black and as well-tailored as everything else he owned.
Back at the suitcase, Maxence removed a fine gold crucifix on a string of black rosary beads from a side pouch of the bag and stuffed it in one of his pockets. He looped a different cross around his neck, a slightly larger one made of iron on a matte, metal chain.
As the plane began to descend to Kathmandu’s Tribhuvan International Airport, Maxence took the opportunity to utilize the plane’s Wi-Fi to check his messages.
His cousin Alexandre had texted a long diatribe about their family’s political machinations and how much of his time these intrigues required. Alex also said he was on his way home because a particular errand required his presence, which seemed menacing, and he suggested that if Maxence wanted to attend their dying uncle’s funeral, he might want to start finding his way home because it would happen soon. Alex also mentioned that his wife, Georgie, had been in touch with her college friend who had married the notorious Wulfram von Hannover, and unmentionable plans had swung into progress re: Flicka.
That was even more menacing, but Alexandre had a flair for seeming a bit of a dangerous psychopath. His reputation for the occasional brutal murder had probably kept him alive. The Grimaldi all had their tricks.
Maxence inhaled a steadying breath and, for the first time in days, checked his limited, private social media and the newsfeeds.
He found a picture on his social media feed that stopped his heart.
Max’s ex-girlfriend, Flicka von Hannover, the one who got away, stood beside his older brother, Pierre, and they posed for the cameras as the happily married couple they were purported to be. Her smile was not the joyful grin Maxence had seen directed at himself so many times, but she wore the formal, seamless mask she used for important engagements and when she was weeping inside.
A bump of turbulence jostled the airplane, and Max’s arm swayed with the phone as he tried to compensate.
Queasiness filled his stomach, and he swallowed hard.
Maybe it was an old picture because Pierre was pulling a PR stunt. Anything was possible.
He sent a DM to his cousin Marie-Therese Grimaldi, Is Flicka in Monaco?
He waited only minutes for Marie-Therese’s reply. Yeah, she just showed up out of nowhere. I saw that pic, too. When I asked around, everybody’s hush-hush, but they said she’s in the palace. My dad is *pissed.* He thought she had divorced Pierre. And then, you know.
No, Maxence didn’t know what his Uncle Jules would do in that case, and he sure as hell didn’t want to. Jules Grimaldi was a psychopath of the highest degree and a virulent racist and misogynist. Maxence had expected someone to dox