The Prince and the Player

Reaching down, I take my mother’s hand to assist her out of the shiny black Mercedes town car. A strobe of camera flashes explodes around us making it difficult to see her foot wrapped in a strappy silver heel as it clears the curb. My mother is as accustomed to such events as I am, and she exits the vehicle with practiced grace.

It’s been two weeks since my royal indiscretion was plastered across the front page of every blog and cheap tabloid on the continent, and in that time I’ve performed nonstop penance.

I’ve been photographed at two charity auctions—the first for a children’s home in Romania, shaking hands with the chief architect. The second was at a benefit for the rail workers’ union. I donned a hard hat and stood beside men I equaled in height but didn’t match in sheer brawn.

Behind closed doors, I’ve met with two entrepreneurial startups. I’ve chatted with an American tech billionaire on possibly locating one of his clean-energy electric storage facilities in the northern hills of Monagasco. It’s so risky and new I’ve only discussed it with Cal, but it’s the closest I’ve gotten to revolutionizing our economic basis and moving us away from oil dependence.

Tonight I’m at the royal gala benefitting the Monagasco Red Cross. The annual event draws celebrities and dignitaries from all over the world, and once it’s over, they filter into the streets and the casinos to flood the town’s coffers with high-end tourist dollars. As we walk slowly toward the Royal Sporting Club, my mother leans on my arm.

“Make the most of this night,” she says through her smile. “Look at all the eligible young ladies in attendance. Many are daughters of our allies.”

Her words cause the muscles in my neck to tighten. Glancing up, I notice the Earl of Bishopsworth standing near the entrance with his daughter Graceland at his side. Speaking to him is the Duke of Westingroot. My throat goes dry when I see his eldest daughter Lara on his arm. Lara… The reason I’m in this fucking mess.

I don’t have time to dwell on it. Beside them is another earl or baron whose name I don’t recall… along with what appears to be his daughter, and the pairs continue into the Club.

I lean into my mother’s ear and speak through clenched teeth. “What have you done?”

She smiles and nods to an old crone who arches an eyebrow at me. My smile clenches harder. As if what I did was so blasted unheard of. So I allowed an overzealous courtier to suck my dick. So sue me. It isn’t the first time something like that has happened.

Straightening, my mother speaks softly through her smile. “I simply put out the word the crown prince is ready to marry.”

It takes all my strength not to explode. We’ve made it to the entrance, and the duke is waiting.

“Rowan,” he says heartily, gripping my shoulder in one hand as he shakes my hand with the other. “It’s good to see you keeping with tradition. You remember my daughter Lara?”

All too well… “Yes, of course,” I say, nodding my head while focusing on her mouth. Indeed, that was a superior hummer.

Lara lifts the side of her blue dress and bows her blonde head as she curtseys. “His royal highness and I took riding classes together in Nice,” she says, glancing up at me with a knowing grin.

“You were a far better rider than I was,” I say, giving her a brief smile in response.

I’m not a dick, even if these ancient assholes are royally pissing me off. I really liked Lara that summer. Our memories of being fifteen, riding along the shore, and passing the time together in the twilight hours of Nice are what preceded her dropping to her knees. We’d both had a little too much alcohol that night.

“Perhaps you’d like to dance,” her father says in an encouraging tone.

“Ah, yes… Right after I see Mother in.” I use my mother’s arm to push us through the entrance.

It’s a shitty thing to do. Lara’s a pretty girl, we’ve had some fun times, but nothing puts me off wanting a woman like having her shoved down my throat.

“Oh!” Mother squawks like a hen, but I guide her around the corner into a narrow hall.

“What is this? Some kind of reverse Cinderella scheme?”

She straightens her dress as if I’ve offended her. “Actually, it’s a very straightforward Cinderella scheme.”

“Jesus!” I couldn’t be more humiliated. My fists tighten at my sides as I pace the small space. I wonder how far back it would set me in my PR efforts if I walk out on this charity gala. “So what did you do? Put a link on the royal website? Send out a royal text alert?”

“Of course not,” she sniffs. “I wouldn’t even know how to do such a thing. I simply called a few of my friends, your great aunts…”

Striding back to where she stands, I pause to control the volume of my voice. “I would appreciate being allowed to control my personal life.”

“I’d be happy to allow that, darling, if you hadn’t already lost control of your personal life.”

“I have not lost control of anything.”

“Hello? What’s happening back here?” Cal enters the narrow space all smiles and decked out in his navy Carabiniers jacket.

“MacCallum, would you please escort me to the ballroom. Your brother needs to collect himself, and I have guests to welcome.”