CHAPTER TWO
Asher
Three Months Later . . .
Ash’s cell phone let out a loud, annoying chime which made him want to toss the thing over the balcony. He swiped at his eyes. It’d been one insanely long night. If the ding was anything to go by, it wasn’t over.
Tugging the phone from his pocket, he read the text. It was from Bailey, of course. She’d been sending them every ten minutes for the past twenty-four hours.
Bailey, his boss—what a strange concept—had given him a new assignment last week. He’d come up with several new typeface designs, but none of them worked. Bailey had rejected each, in turn, explaining they weren’t quite right.
He scanned his notifications.
Beautiful design! It’s not there yet. Think ancient, almost royal. Can you do that?
Royal? She wanted him to think royal? Asher snorted. Oh, if she had any idea.
He pulled the small notebook from the pocket of his bathrobe, slowly flipping through his designs for each letter of the alphabet. Some people might find font design to be intimidating, tedious even. Asher, on the other hand, quite enjoyed it. Designing fonts had been his hobby for quite some time, until it became his occupation. He loved the way the curve of a single letter’s stem could set a tone. Typeface could make a language scream ominous or cast it as lighthearted, or even romantic.
When Ash had discovered his family’s financial situation, he’d applied for a job and posted a mostly true résumé. The experience part was true. He had completed three graphic design degrees online over the past five years, so he knew what he was doing. It was his name he’d had to lie about.
Asher Tiberius Hawthorne Tarrington, Crown Prince of Florico wasn’t a name designed to avoid raising suspicion.
He’d applied instead using the name Jenson—Jenson Keats, to be precise—and he’d gotten the job.
Ash had been working for Bailey Parker, owner and president of Bailey Parker Designs. She did the designs, he, the typefaces.
For the first time in his life, he felt normal. He’d held a job just as any working man might have. The door to his bedroom still revolved, just not as often.
Another ding.
Think old and ancient but new and vibrant. Am I making any sense at all?
The text she’d just sent was typical Bailey. Heavy on the instruction, but light on the details. It was exasperating. Yet, when he created something she loved, which was often, she rewarded his efforts well. All of that money went back into his family’s accounts.
In addition, he’d designed a series of typefaces for Typophile Market, an online font site. At $299 for a full type package, it was easy money. Especially since The Market geared their advertising toward corporate graphic designers. Ash created new content whenever he could, so the site gave him a steady stream of revenue. A drop in a very large bucket compared to what his inheritance used to be, but it was a start.
A knock sounded on the door. He pocketed his phone. “Come in, Jenson.”
It was a daily miracle that Jenson stayed with him. Ash was glad he had, for he had never learned how to do his own laundry. The staff had always taken care of things. Those days were in the past. Now it was mostly Jenson, who’d seemed determined to do as much as possible.
He’d even loaned Ash his name.
When Ash was small, Jenson had seemed an impassable force of protection, helping to shield Ash from the real world. He noted the gray forming in Jenson’s sandy hair at the temples, the slight paunch he’d picked up, and the way his shoulders hunched, just barely, but enough to be noticeable.
“Did you forget the ribbon cutting at the new elementary school is in an hour and one quarter’s time?” Jenson cringed as he asked the question.
“Of course I’ve forgotten. Don’t suppose I could go dressed like this?” Asher straightened the collar on his bathrobe and cocked an eyebrow. “You’ve heard of casual Fridays?”
Jenson didn’t bother to suppress a smile. “Certainly, sir, and no doubt the female population and a great portion of the males would welcome such a wardrobe choice. The Queen, however? Another matter entirely.”
Asher frowned, the expression sinking into his soul. “Ah, yes. I’d forgotten. Best not disappoint.”
Ash strode into his closet. It had once been filled with so many designer suits, he could’ve gone years without wearing one twice. Since Walter’s news, he’d auctioned off quite a bit of his wardrobe and even a few art pieces around the palace to bide them time. There would be no more new suits for quite awhile. He needed to pay the servants’ salaries, Jenson’s among them, as well as for a new roof on one portion of the palace.
He deliberately avoided Jenson’s eye as he returned, handing over the suit. “Sir . . .” Jenson’s voice had that tentative ring to it as he removed a crisp, white shirt from a hanger and held it out for Asher to slide his arm into.
“I don’t like that tone of voice, Jenson. It’s the same voice Father used to give me before he launched into one of his lectures.” Asher dropped his robe, standing only in boxers. Jenson helped him into the shirt.
“The Historical Society’s offer was extremely generous. If you’d only consider it—”
Ash locked his jaw. “Consider their offer, really? And then watch my childhood home slip from my grasp? You know how hard I’ve worked to hold onto this drafty old shack.”
As he said that, he scanned the room, taking in the rich, velvet window hangings in golds and blues, the warm tones of the wood paneling and hardwood floors, the heavy furniture as familiar to him as his own reflection, like the large four-poster bed which had once been his parents’. His eye was drawn to the French doors leading to a balcony that overlooked his family’s kingdom.
It didn’t matter that he wasn’t in charge yet. It didn’t matter that he was a figurehead now, or that he wouldn’t really govern. He was the crown prince and these were his people. Someday, he would be king.
Though becoming king had never been a dream of Ash’s, it mattered. Duty mattered. That was something which had been drilled into him since birth. It was a part of him.
“I can’t give up our home. Imagine what it would do to Grandmother.”
Jenson turned away. For several moments, he seemed focused on Ash’s large monitor—on the typeface designs for Bailey. “You’ve been working so hard, maintaining a dual identity, if you will. You must consider yourself for a change.”
“I don’t have time to consider myself. There’s too much at stake.” Ash’s words came out harsher than he’d intended. “I appreciate your concern. The Historical Society is the last resort.” That time, it was Ash’s turn to cringe.
“Very well, sir. As you wish.”
Ash’s phone dinged three more times, but he didn’t answer. Instead, he left it on his desk.
“Good day, Jenson,” he said, positioning his tie. “I’m sorry, old friend. I know you only have my best interests at heart.”
Without another word, Ash straightened his shoulders and stalked out the door. He had an elementary school to christen.