Felix and the Prince (Forever Wilde 2)

“Arthur, what are you doing up? I hope you weren’t waiting for me. It’s late.”

“You don’t want to hear about what happens to your body when you get older, sir,” he grumbled. His hands were wrapped around a mug I knew contained chamomile tea.

“You’re forty for god’s sake.”

“When I see you drag your scraggly ass in from a romp in the Ignatius hay, I feel ten times older.”

I kicked off my shoes and reached into the refrigerator for some water. “You’re just jealous. He asked about you again, you know.”

Arthur’s eyes shot up. “Who did?”

“Iggy.”

Despite his formal posture, Arthur blushed from his collar up to his hairline. “Dear god, you must be insane.”

I shrugged. “He’s had a crush on you since we were at Hotchkiss, and you know it.”

“Pfft. I wouldn’t go near that disease-ridden play—”

“He’s one of my closest friends,” I warned. “And he’s never had sex without a condom in all these years. You know I wouldn’t go there otherwise.”

His nostrils flared before lifting into the air. “And you think I need your sloppy seconds? I may not be a royal, but I can pull as well as the next guy.”

In almost fifteen years of being in service to me, I’d never once seen Arthur with a man. I’d heard rumors, of course. He’d dated a man named Paul for a few years, and when it ended, he hadn’t been able to hide his sadness. It had happened not long after Grandpa passed away, and the two of us had bonded over our respective grief: Arthur for the loss of his love and me for the loss of my beloved role model. Arthur had been more than a valet ever since. He was almost a substitute for the warm, easy relationship I’d had with Grandpa.

I bid Arthur goodnight and retreated to my bedroom where I collapsed on my bed and fell into a deep sleep. Two hours later he was back, shaking me out of my dreams.

Before I could protest he said, “It’s your father.”

I bolted upright, alarm bells ringing in my head. Immediately I remembered a similar morning fifteen years ago when I’d woken to the news of my Grandpa’s death. I grabbed Arthur’s arm.

“He’s okay,” Arthur quickly reassured me. “He was experiencing chest pains but the doctor examined him thoroughly and is certain it was merely a panic attack.”

I placed a hand over my thundering heart. “Thank goodness.”

“He’d like to see you.”

“The doctor?”

“Your father. He’s summoned you to his room, and you know better than to keep the king waiting.”

My head started to pound again.

Half an hour later I made my way through the bowels of the palace to a specially designed medical bay in the basement. My father had it built years before so the royal family could get treatment without tipping off the paparazzi.

When I arrived, I found my father arguing with his doctor.

“I can’t do this anymore,” my father mumbled down toward the front of his thin examination gown. “I won’t.”

Thank god the on-site medical staff had been able to treat him without tipping off the media to any heart attack rumors.

“You’re fine, Father. You’ll be back on your feet tomorrow with meds that’ll fix you right up,” I suggested. “Maybe you’re just too stressed.”

Truth be told, inside I felt nothing but a giant sigh of relief at the situation. Thank god it wasn’t something more serious. As selfish as it may have been, I was grateful I didn’t have to take his place so soon. I wasn’t sure who had been scared worse by the situation—my father or me.

As I caught my mother’s eyes across the bed, I noticed a slight shake of her head. She didn’t look scared so much as… disappointed.

“Maybe it’s time, Lior,” she murmured to my father. “Tell him.”

“This is neither the time nor place, Catherine,” he asserted, taking on the persona of strength I was more used to seeing.

My mother looked at me with a kind of sympathetic sadness. “It’s time you prepare yourself to take the throne, darling.”

I stared at her in disbelief. “It was just a panic attack,” I protested. “Lots of people get them.”

“He’s going to step down,” she said quietly. We were the only people in the room, but even so, the news was shocking coming from her mouth. I glanced toward the hallway to make sure no one could have overheard.

“No,” I said.

“Son,” my father began, “she’s right.”

“No,” I repeated, feeling my heart begin to stutter in my chest. “No. You’re fine. It was just a—”

My mother shook her head. “He had a panic attack when he told me he was divorcing me. He’s in love with someone else.”

The words, spoken by my strong and beautiful mother, almost shattered me.

I stared at them both in stunned silence as my brain struggled to process this information. “You can’t.” This time it was a childish sound. A plea—a whine even. I wasn’t a prince worried about his father stepping down from the throne, but a son blindsided by the news of his parents divorcing. “Please.” A whisper.