Cherry blinked. “No you’re not.”

“Yes I am.”

“No,” she insisted. “You’re not. There are, like, five princes. Charles, Philip, Will, Harry—“

“I’m not an English prince.” He rolled his eyes. “Obviously.”

“Oh, right. I forgot we’re not the only ridiculous country in the world.”

He arched a brow. “I take it you’re not a monarchist?”

“Are you offended?”

“No.” A corner of his mouth kicked up into that lazy, half-smile. “I’m not a monarchist either. I’m not much of a prince.”

From his place by the window, Hans let out an irritated huff. “Yes, you are. You are His Royal Highness Prince Magnus Ruben Ambjørn Octavian Gyldenstierne of Helgmøre and you are very much a prince.”

Cherry’s brows shot up. “Magnus? Your name is Magnus?” For some reason, the idea that she’d been calling him the wrong name all this time bothered her more than the fact that he was, apparently, royalty. And where the fuck was Helgmøre? She’d been hoping he was from Monaco.

But he shook his head vehemently. “My name is not Magnus.”

“Hans just—“

“My name is not Magnus. My name is Ruben.” He lost his cool all at once, like the breaking of a damn. His eyes burned bright and his fists were clenched by his sides.

Well. It was about time someone else lost their shit, since she’d been losing hers for the past twenty minutes.

“Fine,” she said. “Ruben. Whatever.” She shook her head, trying to capture all of her scattered thoughts. “Look, what really matters here is… Christ, you are famous. Like, really famous. Right?” She looked at Hans for confirmation. The huge man nodded. “So where’s Helgmøre? Will those pictures show up in the British press? Because—“

Ruben held up a hand. “You don’t need to worry about the pictures.”

“I don’t? Why not?”

He and Hans shared a look. “They’ve been dealt with.”

Cherry frowned. “Jesus Christ, what did you do?!”

“Nothing! Nothing bad.” Then he appeared to reevaluate that sentence. “Well, actually…”

She didn’t like the sound of that. Or the way he was looking at her, with wary concern, as if she was a dangerous animal that could turn on him at any moment. Her eyes flew to Hans, and he seemed to share Ruben’s worry.

“What?” She snapped. “Just tell me!”

“Well… We may need to get you a security detail or… Something. Not sure. Now I think about it—“ He frowned suddenly, as if pained, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Hm. This could get complicated.”

“What?” She demanded.

He ignored her, turning to Hans. “What do you think we should do?”

“What?” Cherry repeated.

Hans scowled. “Don’t ask me. Clearly you’ve lost your fucking mind today, so I doubt you’d listen to my advice.”

“Oh, don’t be a bore, Hans. This really isn’t a good time.”

“You’re telling me this isn’t a good time? I told you—“ Mid-sentence, Hans switched languages.

Cherry pursed her lips, listening to their rising voices for a moment. Then she searched the living room for something to throw.

She marched over to the bookcase, hefting an encyclopaedia with both hands. Was she strong enough to throw it at someone’s head? She wasn’t sure. It was rather heavy.

“Cherry.”

She moved on to an ornamental bulldog her dad had given her as a kind of weird flat-warming gift. It had a decent weight to it. Hefty, but light enough for her to throw it with some force. Now to choose the first victim.

“Cherry.”

She looked up, the bulldog in one hand. “What?”

Ruben looked at the ornament warily. “Could you put that down?”

“Why?”

“Please?”

She watched his jaw clench. And said, “No.”

“Fine,” he sighed. “Okay, here’s the thing. I told the photographer that you were my fiancée—Jesus fucking Christ, woman!” He leapt aside as she launched the bulldog at his head.

It landed on her coffee table with an ominous thud. Hans walked over to the table and picked up the ornament to reveal a slight dent and a mess of chipped varnish.

Cherry glared at Ruben. “You owe me a new coffee table.”

“What?”

“Shut up. Why would you say that?”

“Because—“

“I said shut up! Jesus,” she spat, throwing up her hands. Without permission, her feet began to pace. She didn’t really mind. It seemed appropriate. “So what happens now? A load of foreign paps come over here and stalk me? Camp outside my flat? Brilliant, bloody brilliant. Jesus Christ, I didn’t even get a shag out of it.”

“Well, we could still—“

“I swear to fucking God, shut the fuck up or I will gag you with your own fucking dick.” Had she screamed that last part? She rather thought she might have.

Oh, dear. She was losing her temper.

But Ruben didn’t seem to comprehend the danger. He crossed his arms and stared her down and said, “I did it to protect you. Okay? You don’t know how—“ His voice broke off, and for a minute he looked almost… lost. So lost that she forgot, in that very minute, to be furious. When he spoke again, his voice was stiff and formal. “No, you’re right. I—I have put you in an untenable position, without your knowledge or consent, and for that I apologise.”

“Oh,” she said sweetly. “You apologise. Well that’s just grand. Can you also guarantee that my life isn’t going to change because of your big fucking mouth?”

He swallowed. “No. I really can’t. But I—“

She held up a hand. “I think that’s enough talking for one day. You can see yourself out.”

“Wait, Cherry—”

“Get out.” Her voice was hard. “Now.”

She didn’t expect him to listen. Not really. But after a moment, he nodded tightly and turned on his heel, barking, “Kom,” at Hans.

The large man hesitated by the window for a moment, his eyes on Cherry. Then he said, his voice soft, “We will return tomorrow.”

“I won’t be here.”

“Yes,” he said firmly. “You will.”

Before she could work past the outrage blocking her throat, he left.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Cherry threw herself onto the sofa, sinking into cushions made soft with age. Her parents had given her this sofa when she’d moved out. Almost all of her furniture was second-hand.

Jesus fucking Christ, he was a prince.

Cherry sucked in her cheeks and bit down, hard. Nothing about her current situation became any clearer.

He’d said the pictures were dealt with, but he couldn’t know that for sure. This was the modern age. Cloud technology and all that shit meant that nothing was ever really gone.

And even if it was gone, did that matter? He’d told some journalist or whatever that they were engaged. A journalist who’d found them between two blocks of flats. All the guy had to do was hang around until morning, and he’d find out quickly enough who Ruben’s so-called fiancée was.

Of course, that might not matter. She’d never heard of Ruben, or Helgmøre—geography wasn’t her strong suit—so however famous he was over there, no-one in England would care, right?

But she was English. So maybe people would care. Crap.

Cherry heaved herself up off the sofa and snatched her phone out of her bag, opening up her messages. The first thing that popped up was her family group chat.

Mum: Netflix date tonight, Maggie

Magz: I haven’t forgotten!

Dad: Cherry where r u. We start at 10 o’clock.

Dad: Here.

Dad: Maggie we start at 5 o’clock for u.

Cherry checked her watch. It was just past five, GMT. Lunch for her sister. Their parents, as usual, were worrying over nothing.

Imagine how they’d worry if they found out about tonight.

Cherry: Don’t worry, I’ll be there

Having committed to their virtual Netflix date, she left the chat and pulled up Maggie’s name.

Cherry: Problem

She bit her lip, then continued.

Cherry: Secret

Magz: Shit, you never pull secret. Finally done something wrong?

Cherry: Shut up. Not exactly

Magz: So spill

With a sigh, Cherry typed out an abbreviated version of the afternoon’s events.

She didn’t mention Ruben’s fiancée comment. Maggie’s outrage would be a fearsome and tiring thing.

One minute passed. Then another. And then the phone rang.

“Oh my God. A prince?”

“You shouldn’t be calling. It’s too expensive.”

“Relax. It’s an internet call and I’m on wifi.” Cherry could almost hear her little sister’s eye roll, and it set her teeth on edge.

She loved Maggie—but sometimes she envied her sister’s ability to ‘relax’. It was hard to chill out with financial ruin breathing down your neck.

But then, Maggie wouldn’t know anything about that. No-one wanted her to.

“Yes, he’s a prince,” Cherry sighed, pushing her envy away. “And knowing my luck, there’ll be pictures of us splashed across the papers tomorrow morning.”

“Hardly,” Maggie snorted. “I’ve never heard of him, so I doubt anyone else has. It’s not like he’s a prince prince. You know people only care about Brits.”

Cherry had had the same thought herself, but hearing it from Maggie’s lips steadied her rocketing pulse. She took a deep breath and let those words sink in. “You’re right. No-one will know. No-one will care. It’ll just blow over.”

“Exactly. Don’t worry about it. But, while we’re on the subject, how long have you and him been—”

“I should go,” Cherry blurted out. Anything to avoid telling her little sister that she’d been planning an impromptu one night stand. “Still in my work clothes. And I can practically feel my makeup clogging my pores.”

Maggie, who never wore makeup and would happily roam the streets in stained pyjamas, tutted. “Take that shit off. Eat some ice cream. But don’t think you’re off the hook with this, and don’t miss the family date, okay?”

“No-one would know if I did. I could just Google the episode synopsis.”

“Mum would know. She’d sense it with her weird magical mum instincts. And then you’d be in deep shit.”

Cherry rolled her eyes. “Okay, true. But before I go, how are you?”

She almost felt Maggie stiffen through the phone. “Checking up on me?”

“I’m your big sister. Of course I’m checking up on you.”

“Well, you don’t need to. I eat my vegetables, I take my medicine, I keep my doctor’s appointments—I am a model citizen.” She said this with a vaguely wounded air, as if it were unreasonable for Cherry to worry about her chronically ill baby sister.

“Any pain, recently?”

“What would you do if I said yes?” Maggie demanded. “Fly out just to force-feed me some painkillers? I’m fine. Now go and get ready. Or unready. Whatever.”

“Okay, okay! I’ll talk to you later.”

“Bye, Cherry Pie.”

“Goodbye, Magnolia.” She hung up on her sister’s indignant sputtering.