Widows of the Prince

The breaking point was when Madeleine found Auggie and me “going at it” herself, something she had avoided actually seeing and thus that she heretofore could deny.

We were in the cabana by the pool at the palace. I had Auggie on all fours on a lounge bed and was hunched over him and mining his ass deep when I saw the door of the cabana open. Madeleine stood there in the doorway for the longest moment, not saying anything, just staring at us with those washed-out blue ice-maiden eyes. I saw her eyes narrow and an expression of disgust float across her face. Then she was gone.

The next day we were in Switzerland, skiing. As a mere valet, I was some distance behind Auggie and Madeleine when they raced down the slope. I had no idea where her goons were, but when I got to the scene of the “accident,” where Prince August had veered off the course and into the trees, smashing his body against one, Madeleine and both of her thugs were there, bent over his body.

Madeleine was a widow—and the regent of the princedom on behalf of her two-year-old son. I was a widow too. But one without status or place—or recognition by anyone now alive.