“We need something filthy. Something big.”

Martin, the editorial chief, pumped his fist into his open palm, looking around the small conference room.

“What we need to deliver is a story that people will talk about for years — something that scandalizes. So, get out there, get hunting, get digging, and bring me all the dirt you can find. We have a job to do people, now let’s get to it.”

He slammed his fist on the table like he tended to do when he ended one of his little speeches, his slightly piggish face bright red and sweaty.

The room nodded as the meeting broke and people started to get up from the table, collecting their things.

“Something big, people! I’m hungry!”

I resisted the urge to snort as I rose from the table. Simone, to my right, did not.

“There’s a headline,” she muttered under her breath. “Fat, sweaty, walking-sexual-harassment editorial chief is hungry. Stop the fucking presses.”

I turned to grin at her, rolling my eyes.

“We could not bring him something when he’s hungry. That’d be the real scandal.” I sighed as I gathered my stuff. “I mean isn’t anyone else getting tired of this ‘scandal’ crap? Wasn’t the whole point of this team to find stories that mattered when it came to royalty?”

Simone shrugged. “Yeah, well, people don’t want ‘what matters’ apparently. They’re just interested in who’s fucking whom.”

I shook my head as I shouldered my bag, and we started to head out of the conference room when Martin cleared his throat behind us.

“Emma?”

I made a face before turning and forcing a smile.

“Can you stay behind for a second?”

I glanced back at Simone, who gave me a half-smile, half-sympathetic look.

“I’ll, uh, meet you downstairs?”

She nodded, her eyes saying “good luck” before she headed out of the conference room.

“What’s up, Martin?”

“Just wanted to check in with my favorite team writer,” he smiled, his eyes firmly on my breasts, as usual.

“Anything juicy for me?”

I shrugged, pulling out my phone and bringing my notes up.

“We’re following up on some leads about the rumors of the Countess of Vandim having had a baby in secret somewhere. Apparently the dad might be her husband’s personal trainer.”

Martin grinned. “Nice.”

Yuck.

Crap like this was not why I’d become a journalist. It’s not what brought me to the Revania Post either. When word had gotten out that we were starting an internal special investigative team to look into hard-hitting stories around royalty and their families, I was so excited to be picked to be a part of it. I mean, that was why I’d gotten into this business — to write the stories that mattered and shed light on the things that people needed to hear about. Secret treaties, trade wars between kingdoms, allegations of corruption — these were the things I was excited to dig into and write about.

Instead, our “special investigative team” was basically a gossip column. We were not writing about the things that mattered. Instead, every story was about who was sleeping with whom (allegedly), who was wearing what, and who was spotted at some exotic location with someone other than their queen or king.

It was a joke. Instead of hard-hitting stores, I was following up on stories of scandalous affairs and royal celebrity sex tapes.

“What else?”

I paged through some more of my notes on leads. That was one thing about royals and the hints of scandal — it was always there if you just look a little deeper than the surface.

“There’s a source that claims she has evidence that Princess Amalla of Krysto is actually Prince Amalla.”

Martin beamed, still looking at my tits.

“Good, good. Nice work, Emma.”

“Thanks, boss.”

“But I think we can go deeper. Get something that matters more.”

I raised a brow. Well, this was new for Martin.

“Yes!” I said excitedly. “I’ve been dying to do something hard-hitting that gets into the real stuff that matters!”

He grinned, nodding his head eagerly. “Good! I like your fire, and I think you’d be perfect for this.”

The smiled stretched across my whole face, excited to finally be moving past this scandal and rumor stuff and into something that really mattered.

“So, what are you thinking?” I eagerly flipped to my notes of actual political news. “There are reports of Lumloria amassing troops at their borders, and there’s a ton of stuff to get into with the separatists insurgency fighting in Berne. Or, I know there’s—”

Martin cut me off with a laugh and shake of his head. “Nah, not what our team is after.”

My spirits sank.

“Oh.”

He rubbed his hands together, his eyes finally pulling back up to my eyes.

“Ever heard of the Triple Crown Club?”

The name gave me pause. I knew I’d heard the name before, but I couldn’t grasp it.

“Maybe?”

“Alleged members-only, royalty-only sex club? Ring any bells?”

That was it. Yeah, I’d heard of it, as the completely bullshit urban legend it was.

I smiled and started to roll my eyes at Martin, when he stopped me.

“No, hang on. I think it’s more than a rumor.”

“Got any leads or anything?”

He shrugged. “None. But wouldn’t it be awesome if it was true? I mean, a secret club where princes and dukes and other royal elite men go to…fuck, I don’t know. Bang pricey hookers, or each other, or whatever the fuck they do there.”

I’d heard the rumors, of course. The whispered stories, the urban myths of a secret sex club of the elite, like something out of Eyes Wide Shut. I, like most sane, rational people, was pretty sure it was as bullshit as it sounded though.

That all said, if it was real, the story would be the holy grail of news stories. If someone was ever able to prove that the Three Crowns Club, or the Triple Crown, or whatever it was called was real, the story would be worth its weight in gold. And as much as I didn’t like Martin, or the tabloid-drama angle our special team had turned into, this was a chance at something big. Maybe not trade embargoes or troop movement, but still, much much bigger than just a simple who was sleeping with whom.

“Here, this is all we have on the story.”

Martin turned and grabbed a small folder, handing it to me.

“It’s not much, but I want you to start looking into it. See what you think.”

I frowned, nodding as I opened the folder to the flimsy stack of notes and interviews.

“Know any royals who might help us dig into this?”

“Sadly, no.”

Not anymore at least. I’d burned the last of my contacts to get the story a month back on the Duke of Leané having those sex parties involving men a third his age and bondage. Again, a totally lame, tabloid story, but Martin had insisted on chasing it. And it had made quite the headlines, despite being trashy gossip.

“Your roommate just started working for Prince Snow, right?”

I frowned and he chucked. “Overheard you telling Simone about it in the break room the other day.”

Great, my pervy boss is eavesdropping on us now too. Wonderful.

He was right though. Julia had just started as the personal assistant to Prince Luke Snow, of North Revania — a position she scored with the help of her cousin Anya, who worked with the royal family of Berne.

I nodded slowly. “She did.”

“Great, can we use it?”

I didn’t even hesitate before shaking my head. “No, I don’t think she’s going to be working very close with the Prince at all.”

Of course she was going to be working close with him, she was his PA. But then, it was a huge job for her, and there was no way I was going to step on that or jeopardize it for her. I wasn’t going to burn my friend to get a story. Contacts, yes. Snitches, maybe. But friends?

No way.

“I’ll look into it though,” I said with a forced smile at my boss.

Sure, I’ll look into rumors, and bullshit legends, and fake stories sorority girls tell to make each other blush.

Because I knew as scandalously tempting a story it was, that’s all it really was — just a story.

…Right?