When I was younger, I was the world’s shittiest student. It explained why going to university after high school was never even on my radar. What was the point when everything to do with studying bored me to tears? Besides, even if there was something I was interested in, the testing system was always designed to make me fail. Every time I sat down to take a test, it didn’t matter how well I knew the subject, I totally froze. I couldn’t decide on the right answer for the life of me. Everything I knew went out the window and my mind went a million other places instead. As a result, I flunked.

So you can see why I’m having second, third, and fourth thoughts about my choice of princesses from the fact sheet.

Let’s just push aside the truth for a moment, that what I’m doing is extremely unrealistic, and, well, silly. Let’s forget that I’m actually selecting a human being to be my motherfucking wife and get down to the gritty facts and logistics. Those being that even though I spent a good week pouring over my options and Google and Facebook and Instagram stalking these blue-blooded, noble ladies to the extreme, I’m still having doubts that I’ve picked the right one.

But how can I even know that at this point? How can I pick the right one if I haven’t even met them face-to-face? There’s so much more than just what my father said about intelligence and wit and it’s got nothing to do with looks. It has to do with sexual chemistry. I’ve been with my fair share of women and not all of them are stellar supermodels. Okay, some literally are. Sometimes I’m after the same pack of women as Leonardo DiCaprio. Hell, sometimes I see Leo at the same party and we do this head nod as if to say, what up brother, keep doing you.

Where am I even going with this? Right. So sometimes I’ve been with women who aren’t conventionally beautiful for one reason or another, but I connected with them on another level. If you want to get into that deep shit, you could say that it’s our souls that forged with one another. If you want to stay real, it’s more that your bodies want to forge. You want to fuck and you’re both very good at it, so you do it and go your separate ways. That’s that.

Anyway, I’ve had to scour page after page of these women and try and settle on one of them, and even though I was never fully confident about my pick—because how can I be—I’m doubting myself now.

As I pace back and forth in the main hall of the royal palace.

Hands behind my back.

Waiting for her arrival.

I don’t know what was said or what was promised, but the moment I went to my parents and told them I’d settled on Princess Isabella of Liechtenstein, calls were made, and then I was told she’d be here tonight for dinner so I could meet her in person.

I’m not sure if this is just a trial dinner, you know, like speed dating, princess-style, or something more. I’m pretty sure if I don’t like her, if she turns out to be a total bore, if we have zero spark or chemistry, I can move on to my second and third choice picks, though honestly, I can’t remember who they are right now which tells you a lot.

The reason I picked Isabella was because she looked the most normal. Apparently she was in a boarding school in England during her high school years and now is studying at St. Andrews University in Scotland. Other than a barely updated Facebook page, there isn’t a lot of information on her, which I took as a good sign. The tabloids don’t follow her, she doesn’t do anything that makes the news, and for the most part, it looks as if she lives a life of total anonymity.

And, yes, of course, she’s pretty as hell. Striking, even. Tall, blonde, sparkling eyes, and a big smile. She exudes charm and warmth through her photographs, more than any of the others did. There was no formality in them, no forced cheer. She just seemed real.

Lord knows if she’ll match my expectations.

“Nervous?”

I stop my pacing and turn around to see Mari standing in the doorway to the sitting room. Her blonde hair is braided down both sides, and her black and red dress almost looks like the traditional Norwegian dress. It strikes me that Mari is closer to Princess Isabella’s age than I am.

“Me, nervous?” I ask her with a smile.

“Of course not,” she says, slowly walking over. “Prince Magnus worries about nothing.”

My smile falters slightly. I wish that perception of me were true.

“Do you think I made the right choice?” I ask her as she walks over to the window and peers down at the courtyard at the back of the palace.

“For your wife to-be?” she asks, her eyes growing wide. “I wish I could say.” She takes in a deep breath. “Magnus…”

I nod and come over to the window beside her. “I know.”

“This is so ridiculous.”

I give her a hopeful look. “I’m glad you agree. Now perhaps you can talk mother and father out of it?”

“I wish,” she says with a shake of her head. “I’ve never seen them so adamant before. More than that, I’ve never seen them so…I don’t know. Excited.”

“Excited?”

She gives a slight shrug and starts playing with one of her braids. “You’re the first one of us to get married. They thought it would never happen for you.”

“With good reason,” I mutter, trying to keep the anger out of my voice. All this unfairness has been simmering inside me for the last twenty-four hours but my youngest sister doesn’t deserve to hear it.

“And now, it’s something new to do. They get to ensure that their legacy will live on. Mother gets to plan a wedding. Father gets to see you settle down. The world’s focus on us will be in a positive way again.”

“All while I’m throwing the rest of my life away.”

She glances at me thoughtfully, gnawing briefly on her bottom lip. Mari always has this rather unnerving way of seeing straight through you that at the same time makes you see straight through her. Sometimes I think I see an old soul trapped in a teenager’s body. “I know this is bitter pill to swallow,” she says softly. “Never in a million years did I think this would be a solution to anything. But now that it is their solution to a big, big problem, I don’t think it’s the end of the world necessarily. Your friend, the Crown Prince of Sweden, is getting married.”

“Viktor is getting married to a woman he’s fallen madly in love with. So mad that it’s not just her he’s bringing into his royal family but all her sisters and brothers as well. If anyone deserves to get married it’s those two. Not me. Not to someone I don’t know.”

“Yeah,” she says after a moment, looking back out the window. “I’m just trying to see the positive in the situation here.”

“There is no positive, not for me,” I tell her.

“Well, in that case, maybe you can at least go into this knowing this is making our parents—and it will make our country—very happy.”

I don’t care much about the latter but that’s probably something I need to work on, and fast. I do care about my parents though. But enough to actually go through with this? That remains to be seen.

“Also, you should remember that you have a choice,” she says to me. “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. You can abdicate.”

“And let Cristina sit on the throne? She’d kill me.”

“You know that Irene would do it in a heartbeat.”

I swallow hard, feeling that same wave of anxiety wash over me. “He wants me to be king. I won’t abdicate. Not now. I won’t let him down.”

“He also wants you to be happy,” she says. “And I know if you said that you didn’t want the crown, he’d understand.”

He would understand. He’d probably expect it. Everyone probably does. Everyone knows as well as I do that I’m just not cut out for it. But, fuck, that fact makes me want to prove people wrong sometimes.

Is that why I’m doing this? Willing to marry a stranger just to prove everyone wrong, including myself?

“I think this is them,” Mari says as headlights come down the drive and one of our security officers at his post talks to the driver of the car. The gates open and the car glides in, parking alongside the other official vehicles.

Holy shit. This is happening.

“Now are you nervous?” Mari asks me.

It almost feels like I’m about to leap off a cliff.

Without a chute.

I watch as Tor strides out of the palace toward the car and opens the back door. Though it’s twilight and the sky is a hazy, pale gray, the car is directly under the lights and I can see Isabella in fine detail. Her hair somehow seems blonder, pulled back high off her face with a few pieces hanging loose. She’s wearing a black fuzzy looking coat and flat shoes. I’m both relieved that she’s just as pretty as her pictures, almost more ethereal and graceful, yet she’s looking at Tor and around at the palace like she’s completely out of her element.

“She’s got great eyebrows,” Mari comments, and I have to do a double take. Her eyebrows are pretty nice, I guess. They’re dark compared to her hair.

“You know I don’t give a fuck about eyebrows, don’t you?”

Mari sticks her tongue out at me. “Every YouTube tutorial is about getting brows as thick and shapely as those.”

“The only thing I want thick and shapely are her thighs and ass,” I tell her, peering back out the window. “And with that coat, I can’t see either.”

“Well, she’s pretty, anyway,” Mari says approvingly. “Even more so in person. Taller, too. Wait, who is that?”

Another woman comes shuffling rather comically out of the back seat, dressed in a bright yellow raincoat. She’s, well, the polite term would be to describe her as pleasantly plump and she’s already laughing as she struggles to get out of the car, holding on to Tor’s arm who is taking it all in stride.

“Maybe that’s her mother,” I say, though her face is round, her hair black, her skin tanned, looking very different from the Galadriel-like paleness of Isabella.

“Princess Isabella’s mother died when she was a child,” Mari says, not taking her eyes off of them.

“Oh,” I say, feeling sympathy for her. Even though my mother and I don’t always see eye-to-eye, I can’t imagine growing up without her.

“She’s probably her private secretary,” Mari says. My sister has one of her own though I don’t see them together very often. “Though she seems rather, uh…”

She trails off just as the woman starts laughing again, so loudly that we can hear it through the thick-paned windows. I can tell already I’m going to like her. I especially like how embarrassed Isabella looks, gesturing with her hands for the woman to keep it down.

I exchange a look with Mari. This is going to get interesting.

“She’s here,” my mother says from behind us, her voice urgent and hushed.

We turn around to see my mother dressed in a dark silvery dress that catches the light, something that she would normally wear for an official event. From the anxiety sparking in her eyes, I know this is a big deal for her. She’s meeting her potential daughter-in-law and wants to put on her best face possible.

Fucking hell.

The thought hits me again for the millionth time that day.

Just what the fuck am I doing?

My mother looks us both up and down quickly. “You look fine, Mari. Magnus, you could have shaved. And an orange tie? Really?”

I glance down at my tie. I’m in a navy Tom Ford suit that fits me like a fucking glove thanks to the family tailor and I always try to inject a little bit of personality into my clothes via color. “What’s wrong with orange?”

My mother shakes her head and then hurries off.

I look over at Mari. “Seriously, what’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing,” she says reassuringly, taking my arm and pulling me toward the door. “Let’s go.”

We head down the stairs and stop outside “The Bird Room,” the formal antechamber for visitors and guests, where the walls are painted with scenes of Norway and adorned with different birds. My mother is waiting outside the doors beside my father’s butler, Sven, and I’m surprised to see father already there, discussing something with the nurse before she nods and walks away.

My father is dressed in a tuxedo that must be new since he’s lost a bit of weight from being ill and this fits him better than his other clothes. He flashes me a warm smile, his cheeks ruddy which has to be a good sign, as my mother quickly reaches over and adjusts his bowtie.

Shit. Was I supposed to wear a tux too? Is that what my mother had issues with? Next to my father I look out of place. Then again, he is the King. Maybe that’s the point.

“I think you made a great choice,” my father says to me.

I point at the tie. “The Queen doesn’t seem to think so.”

“I mean with Princess Isabella,” he says patiently. He glances at his wife. “And in this case, I think the Queen agrees.”

“She’s certainly beautiful and seems to have brains,” my mother says quickly. “Let’s see what else she has to offer us.”

Suddenly I feel sorry for Isabella and what she’s about to be subjected to, like a prized cow being paraded in front of discerning judges, sizing her up on the sheen of her coat, the way she handles, how big her udders are. Okay, maybe it’s only me who is interested in that last part.

Kidding. I’m kidding.

There’s a certain order in the way that we enter rooms when we’re together—by rank. So with Sven opening the door and announcing us, my father is the first to step in, followed by my mother, then me, then Mari.

Isabella and her assistant are already standing and giving the standard curtsey to my father and lightly bowing before him as he offers his hand to shake.

“Thank you so much for coming tonight, Princess Isabella,” my father says to her in English, and I remind myself that Isabella won’t understand a lick of Norwegian. Luckily we all speak English fluently, as do most Norwegians these days.

“It was a great honor to accept,” Isabella says, her voice soft and airy, her accent unusual, like mild German with a British tone and refinement. Though I can see clear over my mother’s head in front of me, I have to crane my neck to get a good look at her around my father’s back.

My father moves on to the other woman, who, in a very loud and twangy British accent, addresses herself as Lady Jane, and the moment she says it, Mari kicks the back of my calf lightly because she just knows I’m about to laugh. I’ve met a lot of “ladies” in my day and I don’t think Lady Jane is one of them, which of course makes me like her even more.

I bite back my smile at that and my eyes shift over to Isabella. Her eyes are trained on my mother who is now coming forward with her hand extended. Not once have we made eye contact, but at least now I can get a good look at her while she’s preoccupied.

In person and up close, Isabella is pretty. That’s the first word that comes to mind. Not necessarily hot, not in her demure, long, floaty blue gown with cape-like sleeves that only shows off her pale collarbones. Not necessarily sexual with her prim mannerisms, her hair up, and her makeup light and casual, with just a dusting of pink on her cheeks and her lips like bruised cherries, like she’s been kissing for a long time.

Fuck. Maybe she is hot and sexual. I could definitely look at those lips all day, bring that same flush to her cheeks my own way.

Then she smiles at my mother as she greets her, and hot and sexual and pretty don’t seem to cover it anymore. She’s absolutely gorgeous, her smile so wide and real that it stuns me, making me momentarily forget that this is supposed to be a horrible and unjust experience.

Until my mother moves on to Lady Jane and I’m up next.

Isabella meets my eyes rather reluctantly.

Just for a second before she curtsies.

And that second is all it takes to get her message across.

She does not like me.

Whatever radiant light was shining out of her a moment ago when she was greeting my parents has now dimmed like an oncoming storm and I swear I feel a wave of pure animosity rolling toward me.

I really wouldn’t have thought she would have come at all if that’s the way she felt.

Then again, maybe it meant nothing at all, just that the light was in her eyes. Maybe she’s nervous. Maybe my thoughts are starting to do that thing again where they ramble along at a mile a minute.

I take in a deep breath, reminding myself to speak slowly and clearly. Sometimes when I get like this and my thoughts seem all over the place and I feel like I’m driving in a car in the rain and the windshield wipers aren’t working, I tend to blurt out the first thing I’m thinking.

In this case, it wouldn’t help at all. It would be “what the hell is your problem with me?”

Instead, I manage to rein it in and extend my hand to her and flash her a smile that makes normal girls weak in the knees.

It’s hard to tell if it works since she’s curtseying anyway.

“Very nice to meet you,” I tell her. My words sound stiff and absolutely rehearsed even though I never gave any thought to this. I probably should have so I didn’t sound like such an idiot.

She gives me a tight smile, seems to think twice about what she’s going to say, and then says, “Very nice to meet you as well.” She shakes my hand and I’m surprised at how firm it is. I expected a limp noodle but it’s like she wants to break my hand in two. I guess it matches the venom in her dark eyes.

Then her attention immediately goes to Mari behind me and her hand drops out of mine like I was never even there to begin with.

Well, fuck. This is going to be a hell of an interesting dinner with my potential bride. Which, after this, I’m pretty sure I’ll have to hit that list again because there’s no way in hell I’m hitting that, whether in marriage, in bed, even on a fucking date.

Especially as I watch her greet Mari like she’s her long-lost relative or something, back to being all smiley and beautiful and warm.

The clearing of my father’s throat brings my focus back to him.

Back to Lady Jane who is waiting in front of me.

At least she looks happy to see me. I think her smile might just break her face in two and her dancing eyes are along for the ride.

“Lady Jane,” I say warmly, and it’s impossible not to smile back at her. “So thrilled that you could join us tonight.”

“Oh, the pleasure is all mine, Your Highness,” Lady Jane says. “But, please, if you can, call me Jane. I’m definitely not a lady.”

I burst out laughing and shake her hand even harder. Even though up close she seems to be middle-aged, maybe in her mid-fifties, there’s seems to be youthful exuberance escaping every pore. This is a woman who hasn’t lost her lust for life. Perhaps she could teach the princess a thing or two.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I tell her and then lean in to whisper in her ear. “Between you and me, there aren’t that many ladies in this house to begin with.”

Now it’s my mother clearing her throat. I pull away from Lady Jane and avoid my mother’s eyes. The Queen’s hearing is second to none. She can hear a bubble-wrapped pin drop on a floor of cotton balls a mile away.

We then leave The Bird Room and proceed down the hall to the formal banquet room, my mother and father walking beside each other, heads held high. The last time I was in here was a few months ago when the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge came to visit, but it looks kind of silly now when it’s dinner for just the six of us in this large, ornate room.

There is a round table in the center of the room lavishly decorated with gleaming place settings and hydrangea flowers in heirloom vases, and I hear Lady Jane suck in her breath appreciatively.

“How darling,” she coos. “Oh, Ella, would you look at all this.”

I glance at her over my shoulder. Not Isabella but Ella, huh? She didn’t even address her as madam or Your Highness.

And Ella doesn’t seem to notice that until she catches me looking at her. Then her cheeks go even pinker than before and she elbows Jane in the side who doesn’t even pay attention to the jab.

We all sit down, with Ella and Jane’s places right across from me and Mari, my father and mother between us on either side. Two of our waiters come out with various bottles of wine and sparkling water, a nice little distraction before things settle into being awkward as fuck.

Because how can it not be? This is like a blind date, only I’m on it with my entire family. If I let myself think about it too much, I might just get up and leave. I have a hard time sitting through dinners as it is.

But then I look at my father and he looks like a completely different person from the one I saw hooked up to the IV last week. There a spark in his eyes that wasn’t there before and the way he keeps glancing at my mother as they exchange secret thoughts makes my chest feel like it’s way too tight. For reasons I don’t understand, this really is bringing them joy, and as Mari said, at least there’s that.

I take in a deep breath and decide to approach this with all I’ve got. This is happening whether I like it or not, so I may as well take what control I have over the situation.

“Your Highness,” I address Ella as I pick up my glass of red wine, and her eyes go to mine, startled. “May I propose a toast to you and your country of Liechtenstein. Thank you so much for coming to stay with us this evening. I know myself and my family have been very excited to meet you.”

She raises her brows, as if this whole thing is catching her off guard. Perhaps she didn’t expect me to talk. Well she’s going to have to get used to it. If things go well here, she’ll have to get used to it for the rest of her life.

And yet the way she’s looking at me, as if I’m from another planet entirely, maybe of some low life form, like an amoeba or something, makes me wonder if she even wants to be here with me at all.

“Here, here,” my father says, raising his glass of sparkling water.

We all say cheers and then the appetizers are spread out and the small talk begins.

“So, Princess,” the Queen says, “I’ve heard that you left Liechtenstein at a rather young age. Has Lady Jane been with you that whole time?”

“Since she was thirteen, Your Majesty,” Lady Jane says and then quickly covers her mouth with her napkin as Ella gives her a look for talking out of turn.

My mother takes it in stride. “Thirteen. So young. And you went to boarding school in England…I do hope you were able to go home to see your family during the holidays and the summer.”

Ella manages a small smile. “Yes,” she says carefully. “I went home often enough. But I didn’t find boarding school to be a lonely experience. It taught me a lot. It especially taught me to put all my focus into my studies.”

“And you are at St. Andrews University, correct?” my father asks as she nods. “What are you taking?”

She gives him another tight smile and seems to pause, momentarily staring down at her plate and seeming to take in a deep breath before she speaks. “Environmental studies.”

“That’s very interesting,” my mother says before spearing a piece of salad with her fork.

“What kind?” Mari speaks up. “I mean, what are you learning about?”

Again, the princess seems to take a moment. “It’s a lot to do with climate change, with global protection acts, with protecting resources.”

“So you’re an environmentalist in the making,” my father says with a nod. “A female Leonardo DiCaprio. You know Magnus here knows him.”

“That’s nice,” she says, giving me a quick, curt smile.

Her tone basically says “good for fucking you” and damn does it ever get under my skin. So I say to her, “Well, Norway recently vetoed potential seismic drilling around Lofoten in order to protect the orcas up there.”

A flicker of surprise, like she’s impressed, runs through her dark eyes but it’s quickly buried. “The only reason Norway did that was because of public pressure. There was a lot of campaigning on behalf of activists such as Sea Legacy and journalists from all around the globe, campaigning that went directly to the Norwegian people to let them have a say in what their government was planning to do. It was only then that the prime minister and your government, and maybe even yourselves, decided to prevent the oil and gas exploration up in the Arctic. The change came from outside.”

There’s so much heat in her voice, a fire in her eyes, that she suddenly doesn’t seem so quiet and demure anymore.

I glance at my father, waiting for his response. I mean, she pretty much just took any credit away from us, from what little we had to do with the end result.

But he chuckles softly. “You certainly know your stuff. And you are very correct. I’m afraid if it wasn’t for activists and environmental crusaders, nothing would have changed and the drilling would have been allowed. Rest assured, that area is now protected.”

“But that’s just one area,” she says quickly. “When will the government stop whaling? When will sustainable practices be used for commercial fishing?”

“We have pledged to become climate-neutral by 2030,” Mari speaks up.

“And yet you’re one of the world’s largest exporters of oil and gas.”

“Among students, though, we’re really pushing for change with the country,” Mari tells her with almost as much passion. “Renewable energy is a lot of our focus, even in high school. We’re challenging the government, challenging the companies.”

My father clears his throat loudly. “Seems the two of you are both the voices of the future. You must understand, Your Highness, that this nation is trying to become as green as it can be.”

“But so far you are more of an environmental hypocrite rather than a hero.”

“Ella,” Jane chides her, glancing around furtively. “I don’t think insulting the country is appropriate when you’re currently its guest.”

Ella’s face falls at that, her skin seeming to grow even paler.

“Oh, don’t worry,” my father says good-naturedly. “It’s very rare that we have guests over that speak their mind the way that you do, and I can tell that these issues are very important to you. There’s nothing wrong with that and I can whole-heartedly agree that as a country we have a long way to go. It will take time but it’s people like you who are pressing for the change. I think it’s rather charming that you feel so strongly. Don’t ever be afraid to argue with me.” He glances at me. “In fact, you remind me a bit of Magnus. He’s also never afraid to argue, even when he knows he’ll lose.”

I cock my brow. “When have I ever lost?”

But the knowing gleam in his eyes reminds me that I’m currently losing at this very moment.

With Princess Planet finishing her spiel about Norway and the environment, the conversation turns to safer topics such as favorite travel spots or the latest programs on TV. When my mother asks Lady Jane about herself, she takes the questions and runs with it for most of the meal.

Which is more than fine with me. It gives me time to watch Ella closely, to really take her in. Normally I have a hard time focusing on people, like I’m able to look at them but not really see them. But with her, I have tunnel vision. I can’t look away even if I wanted to.

And I want to. Despite the craziness of this arrangement, despite the fact that I rarely care about what people think, I don’t want to be known as this crazy creeper who won’t stop staring at her.

But it’s probably too late for that. When she meets my eyes from time to time, it’s only for a second and then she quickly looks away. I’ve heard from women that my gaze can be intimidating and intense but all those times I was only faking it, faking my interest. Now that I’m really absorbing all her little details, I might just look certifiably insane. Magnus the Mad, indeed.

Since I’ve seen how outspoken she can be, she’s become a little less ethereal in my eyes. Still fairy-like and dainty, but there’s a fiery realness to her. Her eyes are this rich dark brown and narrow, like she’s permanently squinting, which is also kind of hot since she looks like she’s thinking of what sexual things she could do to you. Her mouth is wide, her lips soft but not outrageously plumped as it seems to be in style these days. Half the time I’m with a woman I can’t tell if those are her actual lips sucking me off or the plastic surgeon’s filler.

I think the most endearing thing about her are her teeth, which she doesn’t show much unless she’s smiling or laughing. The front ones are large and there’s the slightest gap between them. It’s both adorable and extremely sexy.

I just wish she’d show them off more often. Or, to put it another way, I wish I was the one making her smile. Usually the women around me can’t stop smiling at me. At first anyway. The scowling comes later (and there’s a fuckload of that).

Once dessert is finished, we all stand up and move into the parlor for drinks and digestifs in the world’s smallest cocktail party.

Before Ella gets settled though, she anxiously turns to my mother and asks where the washrooms are, then politely excuses herself and Jane as they head over to them.

I watch Ella carefully as she disappears from sight, still unable to tell if she’s nervous because of me, my family, the whole marriage thing, or everything combined.

I turn to my mother. “I don’t remember. There’s no window she can escape from in the washroom, is there?”

She laughs. “I think it’s all going fine, don’t you? She’s lovely.”

“And feisty,” my father says. “Oh, I look forward to arguing with her. She seems so quiet but I can see there’s a spitfire underneath.”

“She’s okay,” I concede, still unsure exactly how I feel about her. I’m definitely attracted to her, intrigued even, but whether we have any chemistry remains to be seen. I’m trying to not even think about marriage.

But I should probably start. I exchange a look with Mari and then say to my mother, “Don’t you get the feeling that she doesn’t know why she’s here?”

“Nonsense,” my mother says. She looks at my father, brows raised. “You did tell the Prince of Liechtenstein why Princess Isabella was invited, didn’t you?”

“Of course I did,” he says, looking rebuked. “I was completely honest and upfront about the whole thing. You know me. I told him that you were looking for a bride and that Isabella captured your interest and you wanted to meet.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” I say, waving my hands as I shake my head. “You told him I was looking for a bride? You didn’t tell him that I had no choice in the matter, that we’re doing this because of a scandal?”

He frowns. “Goodness, no. That would be most insulting, not to mention presumptuous. That would reflect very badly on us.”

I stare at him, open-mouthed. She honestly thinks she’s here because I want to potentially marry her, not because I’m being forced into the matter? She thinks this is…genuine?

If she even thinks it at all.

“You know this is all going to blow up in our face,” I tell him. “There’s no way around it.”

“Calm down, Son,” he says, his eyes wistfully going to a glass of champagne that my mother is plucking from one of the trays the waiter is carrying. “I’m not saying that we won’t tell her the truth. We will. She has to know what she’s getting into. But I couldn’t very well tell her father that on the phone.”

“So when do we tell her the truth?” Mari asks, taking a champagne for herself.

My father looks at me.

Fuck it. I need another glass of something. I finish the one in my hand and plunk it down on the waiter’s tray before grabbing another one. I meet the waiter’s eyes for a second, and even though they’ve got this blankness that so many of our servants seem to have, the look that tells you they aren’t listening, that they aren’t even here, I can see that this guy thinks the whole thing is crazy. I bet when he took this job he had no idea what our royal family was really like.

“You know what I think? I don’t even think she knows why she’s here at all, not the whole truth anyway,” I tell them, my eyes darting to the washroom doors, far enough away that I know they can’t hear us. “And I really think one of us ought to spell it out for her, and soon.”

All six eyes land on me. Because of course I’ll have to be the one to make sure she knows.

I’m just not sure how to tell her.

And if she’ll even want to hear it.