My father slams his fist down onto the hardwood table in the private council chamber situated behind the throne room, his cheeks burning beet red with frustration.

“Damn it, Alexander, get your head out of your ass.”

He’d never use this kind of language in public, but I’ve pissed him off enough that he’ll say it to me freely behind closed doors.

“I’m seeing perfectly,” I spit back at him, so angry that what little self-control I’ve built up over the years is beginning to slip away. “You’re not going to barter my time like I’m some princess from the sixteenth century.”

His eyes flash in fury.

My older brother—perfect in every possible way—chooses this moment to interject. “It’s a few dates, Alec. You’re blowing this completely out of proportion.”

“Is there something I’m missing, Marcus? Maybe you can explain it again so we can be certain that your idiot brother Alec understands.”

Marcus, infinitely calm and forever infuriating me, holds up his hands. “There’s no need to be so volatile—”

“I don’t see,” I scowl, my voice remaining deadly calm, “how the two of you can decide to set me up with not one but a series of dates for political gain. What’s the endgame? That I marry the girl so you can trade intelligence information with her father at the wedding brunch? I don’t think so.”

My father, the reigning kind of Saintland—a job that, if I’m being completely honest, has aged him thirty years since he took the throne a decade ago—lets out an exasperated sigh.

“We’re simply trying to leverage our available assets to make international connections.”

“Oh, so I’m an asset now.”

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

“The language couldn’t have been plainer.”

“Your brother—”

“My brother,” I say, jabbing a finger toward Marcus, “has had an incredible amount of control over his personal life, despite being heir to the throne. How do you explain that, your majesty?”

Marcus looks at the ground, saying nothing. My father cuts his eyes across to him, then looks back to me.

“Your brother has always had the interests of Saintland at heart.”

“So have I.”

“Then why won’t you—”

“At the end of this,” I say through gritted teeth, “I’ll still be playing second fiddle to Marcus. If I agree to this ridiculous dating scheme, you two will use it against me until I’m dead.”

It’s all true, yet there’s more that I can’t say to my father, the King, and my brother, his favorite.

The truth is that one day I’d like to settle down, eventually moving my wife into the royal apartments at Sainthall Palace to live out my days with her. I’ve long since accepted that most of my life will be dedicated to honorably playing my role as the spare prince, but I’m not willing to give up everything.

For one thing, I’m not willing to be trotted out like a royal whore so that my father and brother can make connections. This isn’t the Middle Ages.

The greatest fear I have, the one I keep buried so deeply that it will never, ever see the light of day, is the possibility of falling for someone on one of these sham dates.

What do I do then? Cave to my father and Marcus and marry whoever it is, playing right into their hands? God only knows what they’re thinking. Maybe this is some ploy to turn me into a permanent bachelor, someone who they can send out to restaurants across Saintland and the rest of Europe to make “political connections” whenever it suits them.

Not a chance.

This time, we’re reaching beyond the limits of propriety, and my father is surely running out of time before his next meeting.

I want to keep shouting, keep fighting, slam my own fist onto the table, but my years of royal upbringing are kicking in, much to my disgust. In spite of myself, I’m taking in calming breaths, running through their arguments in my mind.

I don’t want to understand their point of view, but I can’t help it.

Saintland is the result of a tense civil standoff, and its position will forever be precarious. My father needs to use every avenue at his disposal to make allies in the surrounding countries, even though it’s the year 2016 and we should be past that shit by now. The fact that we have a functioning monarchy is still a bit of a miracle, although with the current climate among superpowers like the United States, is it any wonder?

What I see, and what they apparently do not, is that this romantic strategy is almost sure to backfire. It’s one-and-done. Once my reputation as a playboy gets out to the other countries in Europe, that’s it.

As much as I hate it, the easiest way to end this argument is to agree.

This time.

I’ll come back to this issue soon, when I can present myself calmly and rationally, to deal with it once and for all.

I blow a harsh breath out through my lips. “Fine. I’ll take the girl out. For one date.”

My father’s shoulders drop a couple of inches with relief, and Marcus smiles at me indulgently. In response, I roll my eyes.

“I don’t consider this matter settled,” I say.

“We’ll revisit it later,” my father says dismissively, already returning his attention to the papers on the desk, my brother turning away from me.

That’s my cue that we’re done, at least for now.

What I don’t say, as I turn on my heel and head for the door is that this shit is making me crazy. I don’t say I need a vacation. And I don’t say I’m already making plans to get the hell out of here for a week, maybe two, and there’s nothing they can do to stop me.