I’m in the middle of a daytime TV interview two days later when Nate steps up behind the interviewer and taps her on the shoulder, leaning down to whisper something in her ear.

She flashes an artificially broad smile at me, almost appearing to crack the thick layers of makeup she’s wearing to offset the bright camera light, and swiftly rises to her feet. “Thank you so much, your highness,” she says to me. “It appears we’ve run out of time, but please do visit us again soon.”

“You’re so welcome,” I say, shaking her hand. Denise is the lead anchor for Saintland’s biggest—and only—news network. She routinely interviews me once every few weeks.

I step towards the side of the set, and Nate is there to meet me. I shoot him an irritated look while I wait for the tech to disconnect the microphone pinned to the inside lapel of my jacket.

Once the man is out of earshot, Nate gestures for me to follow him to the exit.

“What’s going on?” I’m not sure if I should be concerned about the interruption or annoyed by it.

“The King has requested a meeting.”

“In the middle of an interview?”

“He doesn’t seem to care about the interview.”

“Yet he’s the one who insisted on scheduling all of them.” I roll my eyes.

Nate shrugs. I shouldn’t take my anger and frustration out on him. He’s only the messenger.

I’m silent during the short drive back to the palace, spending the time racking my brain trying to figure out the reason why my father needs to speak to me so urgently. So urgently that he would interrupt a media appearance that he scheduled. This can’t possibly have anything to do with the spontaneous meet-and-greet with that cute family Jessica and I signed autographs for after dinner last night, can it?

Surely not.

When I get to the council chamber, my father’s face is beet red, and his jaw is clenched tight.

“Your Majesty,” I acknowledge, giving a little bow. I remain standing in front of his desk.

My father rises swiftly to his feet, his arms crossed over his chest, but he doesn’t speak. His eyes spark with fury.

The door behind me opens, then closes forcefully. It’s Marcus. He exudes an air of importance as he strides through the room to stand next to my father.

Good God. Now what?

“Alexander,” my father growls. “These publicity stunts need to stop.”

Though I have no idea what he’s referring to this time, I’m immediately on the defensive. “Publicity stunts?”

“Parading that woman in front of the media, meeting with the public…what makes you think you have any right to do that?”

“It’s time you realized,” interjects Marcus in a patronizing tone, “that your actions are reflecting poorly on the entire Caldwell house. We are the royal family, Alexander, and we have an image to uphold if this country is going to remain a respectable player in European politics.”

I roll my eyes at him, and I’m unable to resist hurling a biting comment. “Thank you endlessly, Marcus, for letting me know. I’d almost forgotten that our father is the King of Saintland.”

“That would explain it!” my brother shouts condescendingly. His face has transformed into a strange color, the flush in his cheeks not the characteristic color when he’s anger. “There’s no other possible reason for to you act with such disregard for your station,” he hisses.

“I see, I see. You’ve got it all figured out, have you? Go ahead. Accuse me of drumming up publicity to air our dirty laundry.” Never mind that the real purpose for my dinner date was to formally demonstrate my intentions for pursuing a relationship with Jessica. I certainly didn’t take her there to advertise the discord in our family. “If that was how my dinner date was perceived, I’m sorry, but you only have yourselves to blame—

“I’m not making a baseless accusation, Alexander!” my father says sharply, interrupting me as he slams a copy of today’s newspaper down onto the desk in front of me.

“What, did your bullheadedness finally make…?” My voice trails off as I see the headline on the front page. It’s a high-resolution photograph of Jessica. She’s kneeling down to talk to a pair of children, a radiant smile plastered across her face, and holding a tiny notebook in her hands. In the photo, I’m smiling at the young parents. It’s a pretty scene, but the headline splashed directly above the photo reads, ROYAL PALACE SHUNS SAINTLAND’S SWEETHEART.

Saintland’s Sweetheart? As far as I know, Jessica’s name hasn’t been leaked to the media yet. Nate would have told me if it had. Admiring Jessica’s exquisite beauty radiating from the photograph, it’s easy to see why they could have come up with that headline. I could look at her all day, and I can’t be the only one. I scan the text of the article—her name doesn’t appear anywhere.

“You’ve got this all wrong,” I argue, looking up from the paper. “I didn’t plan this. The two children ran up to us and—.”

“After your recent behavior, I have no reason to believe you,” my father thunders. “I am through listening to your snide comments and excuses.” His face hardens to stone. “This ends now, Alexander, right now.” He inhales a deep breath and clenches one fist on the surface of the desk. “Find something to occupy yourself, away from this office, until you’ve gotten rid of the girl.”

I open my mouth again, then snap it shut.

What the…? My father is impossible.

Nodding slightly to him, I spin on my heel and head toward the door. I fling it open with a hard shove until the door cracks against the wall, and stride angrily into the hallway.

But Marcus isn’t finished with me.

“Do you understand now, little brother? You’re not the only one who matters in this country,” he snarls menacingly.

“Screw off, Marcus.” I spit back, my voice strangely calm.

“As the crown prince, I consider it my duty to ensure that you’ve finally come around to—.”

“I’m not coming around to anything. You are the ones making a grave mistake.”

Without thinking, I’m heading toward the gardens located on the side of the palace, a place I used to spend time alone with my mother. Marcus continues following me, relentless in his needling, and I open the door to the garden with a bang that sounds like a gunshot. He trails out behind me, still shooting off at the mouth.

“I don’t see it, Alexander. What could a common woman from the United States possibly mean to you? You’ve always been so blind. So sadly blind. Are you coming to realize that you have a part to play as a prince of Saintland? Are you finished being so self-absorbed?”

I stop, turn to face him, closing the distance between us in one step. With a roar, I grip the front of his jacket with both of my fists, shoving him up forcefully against the palace wall.

“Don’t you ever speak of her again, you waste of a human,” I bellow into his face, holding him up a few inches from the ground and shaking him. “Never again, or so help me God. I love her, and there’s not a thing you and father can do about it. Is that understood?”

Marcus’s eyes dart to the side.

Too late, I see the photographer who has climbed up onto the garden wall. He’s holding his camera in one hand and has his phone positioned at an angle towards us in the other, capturing our every word and movement.