Page 18 of Heavy Crown

“Is that the paper?” I try to catch a glimpse of the headline.

“Yes.” She tugs it out from under her arm. “Prince Alexander reads the national paper every day.”

“Can I read it?” If I’m sitting in this room all day, I’m going to die of boredom. At least if I can read the paper, it’ll give me something else to focus on.

Stella hesitates and then passes it over. “It’s a very flattering photo of you.”

I swallow at the implication. When I open the folded paper, there’s a photo of me alongside a picture of the sports car that hit me and another of my car being dragged up the cliff. Apparently, it didn’t clear the jagged rocks to land in the ocean after all. But it’s so mangled, I’m certain I wouldn’t have survived.

Seeing the proof that I could have died, that the man in the sports car did die, creates a vise around my chest. “Thank you,” I manage to eke out. “Can I—just a minute.” I shut the door gently but very much in Stella’s face, and then I collapse on the bed in a puddle of tears.

nine

Alex

I should have known I’d end up here when I began making arrangements for Rory to join the royal staff without consulting my parents. In this instance they’re more the king and queen than parental figures. While they’ve been almost regular parents to Nick and Brice, my relationship with them is clouded by succession. The pressure on me to be the best, to make the right choices, and to put the country first would crush many. I’ve never allowed myself to want anything that would compromise even one of those principals. My shoulders are broad enough to withstand the weight of the kingdom, and my place in history was cemented the day I was born.

Still, part of me hoped the king would let Rory’s hiring slide or wouldn’t notice her new status until it was too late. Today is one of his good short-term memory days, and the addition of Rory to the apartment listing and kitchen staff has not gone unnoticed.

Also, I’m pretty sure our accounting firm called to confirm Rory as a new hire. Missed that one in my scheming.

“You understand what taking the day off means, don’t you?” My father reclines in his chair and observes me. My mother is perched on the couch behind me. She’s taken to sitting in on meetings where my father needs to be clear and concise. Too many cooks in the kitchen, if you ask me.

“I do.” I’m not dressed in my typical suit, and the power dynamic between us is weirder than normal. Usually, I’m his equal, but right now I’m remembering what it was like to be a boy scolded by my father.

“Hmm.” His gaze narrows. “Normally, when one takes a day off, one doesn’t negotiate contracts for new employees or slot them into empty estate apartments.”

“I’ve always been an overachiever.” I give him a smug smile. “You must know that by now.”

“Explain to us what’s going on here. It seems like you’ve developed an intense fixation on this girl. Trauma and traumatic experiences can do strange things to the brain,” my father says. “You need to be making clear, level-headed decisions right now.”

My mind shouldn’t be my father’s concern; I understand my place in this family. But the stirring in my chest is an issue. That truth will never leave my lips. Instead, I feed him the same series of logical, rational arguments I made to Rory in her room. I can’t remember the last time I spun a tale for my father that appeared real but didn’t get to the heart of the matter. We tend to be brutally honest with each other, which made his Alzheimer’s diagnosis and the fact Mom had to tell me about it even more surprising. Between the three of us boys, I’ve always been the one to bear the brunt of hard decisions before everyone else. I’m used to impossible choices. I was raised on them.

Just as he wasn’t completely honest with me about his diagnosis, I’m not being totally honest here. The truth, the bare, unvarnished truth, is that I don’t know why I’m so keen to help Rory. Is her life a train wreck? Yes. Under normal circumstances I might help her find a new job or make some calls to get her a new position.

But in our kitchen? At our estate? That’s mistress territory, and we all realize it. Hell, even Rory called me on it already.

“She’s a very attractive girl.” My mother makes the observation my father wouldn’t dare articulate.

“She’s ten years younger than me. I’m not that dumb.” I sigh as though they’re being dense.

Truthfully, I might be that dumb.

My parents are seeing a big red flashing sign telling them this path with Rory is trouble. Likely because I’ve never behaved irrationally before and everything I’ve done since I turned down West Shore Road has been impulsive.

Me? I’m staring down the path, and I’m seeing yellow. Could this path lead somewhere that isn’t good for me? Yes. Is that likely? Only if I allow it. At any point, I can back off.

In university when it became clear Jules would never feel for me what I was beginning to feel for her, I reined in my emotions. When Anna Samuels wanted more than casual fucking on holidays, I broke it off. I can make hard, rational decisions even when my heart or my dick are involved.

Rory will be no different.

“I leave next week for my seven-country wife-finding trip. I’m focused on that. Organizing a better life for Rory is the right thing to do. You’ve got nothing to worry about. I know where my priorities and obligations lie.”

My father and mother exchange a long glance over my shoulder.

“Bellerivian or royal,” my mother says from behind me. “I just—I don’t want you to get your heart set on an outcome that isn’t achievable.”

I chuckle and turn to her. “My heart has never been involved in any decision I’ve ever made.” Then I rotate around to my father. “I’m giving her the job in the kitchen, and I’m setting her up in the apartment. As far as I’m concerned, this conversation is over.”