The King and Queen of Courtland are staring me down as I sit across the table from them, stuffed in an uncomfortably short chair. To most people, their twin scowls of disapproval would be enough to inspire terror, or at least awe.

To me, it’s just the same old lecture that my grandparents have been giving me half my life by now. As a fucking twenty-five year old man, I’ve long since given up on being able to please them; now I’ll settle for living through the long list of admonishments they are going to heap on me.

I recall some of the better scoldings, and their results:

Alasdair, you must attend university before you may serve in the military.

I did both, at the same time, and singularly excelled at each.

Alasdair, you must achieve higher goals in the Royal Air Force’s Elite Guard. You must be the best of the best, they all look up to you.

I did all that, left with the top honors, and continue to serve a month each year.

Alasdair, you need a career.

I became a Formula One driver, which of course they loathed.

Alasdair, you must have a real career and let people know you’re serious, that you’re repentant after… that unpleasant business.

So I founded the Asher Charity, which again my grandparents utterly despise, because it reminds them of my mistakes. It reminds me, too, but I think that can only be a good thing.

Alasdair, you need to settle down, find a respectable girl.

All right, I admit I’ve never even tried on that account. Desired heir aside, I’ve given them everything they ever asked for, jumped through every hoop.

After the accident, I finally grew up a little bit, came into my own as a man, and realized that I needed to start doing things for myself. Living my life, experiencing everything I could — while making a positive contribution to the world, instead of wasting my days getting high and wishing that Asher was still alive.

Grandmother straightens in her seat and clears her throat. She’s going to try to play good cop, I can tell.

My grandfather is going to be the bad cop; he’s always the bad cop. Even with his hair gone to silver, when he’s scolding me he still looks just the same as he did when I was a little kid.

It’s nothing short of funny now, since I tower over him by several inches and at least fifty pounds; I’m always given the lowest seat in the room, to make sure everyone knows that my grandfather has all the power.

My grandmother clears her throat, brushing off the skirt of her tasteful pink dress suit. Even this evening, when they’re only receiving close family, she’s coiffed and dressed like a portrait of herself.

“Alasdair, darling. Your grandfather is quite upset about the amount of attention you’ve received in the press recently,” she says.

No fucking shit.

My grandmother beckons to the footman hovering by the door, who produces a pile of glossy tabloid papers. She takes them and lays them down one by one on the table in front of me, letting me get a good look at each.

For my convenience, someone has thought to put them in fucking order of publication date, so it’s like she’s replaying the last few years of my life for me:

Prince ‘Magnum’ Westwood Hits the Club Scene Harder Than Most

Zoom! Magnum Risks Life in the Formula One Fast Lane

ORGY?? Prince Magnum Leaves Club with A Dozen Pretty Ladies

On Again? Prince Magnum and Model Alessia Pearson

Bad Prince!! Magnum Caught Smoking More Than Just Tobacco

Breakup Blues: Prince Magnum Dumps Model GF… Or Does He??

Princess Camille to Prince Magnum: You’re Partying Too Hard!!

Fiery Crash, Magnum Walks Away Unscathed, Tells Family to ‘Stuff It’

Royal Intervention: King Tells Magnum ‘Slow Down!’

Magnum in Fatal Car Crash — Best Friend Found Dead At Scene

‘I Won’t Quit’: Magnum Unrepentant, Plans To Continue Racing

There are more, but I put up a hand to stop her.

“I get the idea,” I say.

“Don’t be disrespectful,” my grandfather growls, shoving to his feet. “We’ve had quite enough of your attitude and behavior.”

“I’ve changed since that night. Hugely,” I say, keeping my voice calm.

“Not in any ways that matter,” the King tells me. “You know what we expect from you, Alasdair.”

“He means a grandchild, darling,” my grandmother says, though I had no doubt what he meant. “An heir. You can’t just dash around, putting yourself in danger, when you don’t have an heir!”

“Which means,” my grandfather cuts in, “No more running around, flaunting yourself in the press? If I see another photo of you on a yacht with some foreign supermodel, I will cut off your stipend.”

I try not to sigh. I have no wish to be cut off, of course, but I also have quite a bit of my own money by now. I invested my Royal Air Force pay well, and banked everything I made from racing Formula One.

Not that I’m going to point that out just now. Just like I won’t point out that I haven’t been in the tabloids in nearly half a year. Or that I’ve let most of my shitty friends slide, or that I’m doing real and meaningful work now.

They don’t care about any of that, and I know it well enough.

Grandfather is two seconds from frothing at the mouth, and I don’t want to be the one who gives him an aneurysm. Especially not before he can achieve his ultimate dream of finding a good reason to disinherit me.

“You’re fourth in line to the throne, Alasdair,” my grandmother says.

“I couldn’t possibly forget, ma’am,” I say, keeping my tone light.

Her eyes narrow; now I’ve annoyed her, as well.

Excellent work, asshole, I chide myself.

“I am going to have my secretary send you a list of names,” she said.

“Names?” I ask.

“Appropriate single women of noble birth,” she says. “You’re too high up in the line of inheritance to just marry… whomever.”

The way she says the last word, glancing down at a photo of me with Alessia Pearson, makes me want to roll my eyes. Alessia was a major party girl. Bringing her to a few royal events was a big fucking mistake, apparently.

I’ve never heard the end of it, though I broke things off with Alessia nearly a year ago.

“Of course, ma’am,” I say, unwilling to drag this conversation out any longer.

“We must face facts,” she says, picking an invisible piece of lint off her skirt. “Your sister Camille may never be able to produce heirs.”

“She’s only twenty-nine, Grandmother. It’s premature to say that,” I say, growing defensive.

Cam’s been in tears over this very issue for months now, bending over backwards trying to get pregnant so that my grandparents will approve of her.

It pisses me off to no end, the way they make my sister feel like such shit about herself. Like a timer went off when she was married, and suddenly she’s not good enough anymore unless she starts pumping out babies.

It’s beyond fucked up, and there’s no solution in sight.

Worse, I’m only a few years younger than her, and I know the second I bring home some ‘acceptable match’, my grandparents are going to be breathing down her neck just as hard.

“I think we all know that she’s not capable. She’s been married two years now,” my grandfather says.

I grind my teeth, trying not to say the hundred things crowding my brain. After all, no matter that they’re my grandparents, no matter that they bounced me on their knees when I was a baby, or that I’ve known them my whole life.

One does not yell at the King and Queen.

“I disagree, but that’s not really what we’re here to discuss,” I say.

Foolish, perhaps, to draw the conversation back to myself, but I’m desperate not to lose my temper. Camille’s my biggest sore spot, and I’m about to go off any second now.

The King goes so red in the face that I’m pretty sure his head’s about to fucking explode.

“Six months!” he thunders, making my grandmother jump.

“Percival…” she says, but he holds up a hand and she falls silent.

“No. Six months. I want you married in six months, an heir in a year, and I want it all done the right way. Not a whiff of scandal, I tell you! If you’re anything like your disappointment of a sister, you’d better put a ring on some lucky girl right away, because you’re going to run out of sand in the hourglass while you’re trying to knock her up.”

“That’s insane,” I say, rising and crossing my arms.

“It’s final,” he says. “You’re dismissed, Alasdair. Or should I say, Prince Magnum?”

His use of the paparazzi’s preferred nickname makes my fucking blood boil. I just shake my head and stalk out of the room, disgusted by his controlling bullshit.

Everyone thinks being a royal is all fucking privilege and parties at castles, I think. No one sees this side of it, where you aren’t allowed to live your own goddamned life.

Shaking my head, I trot down the stairs into the front drive. Already, a valet is pulling my Aston Martin One-77 up. Thank fucking god, because I want to be anywhere but here.

The sun’s already long gone down. I glance at my watch as I slide into the custom leather driver’s seat and slam my door, revving the engine.

Yeah, not too early for a drink.

Strangely, I don’t feel like drinking alone. The prospect of going back to my empty apartment is usually appealing after a long day working at the charity, but tonight I can’t handle it.

What are my options, though? I’ve kept myself out the club scene for months now, haven’t stepped foot in one since the night of the accident. I’d love to just go grab dinner and drinks somewhere low key, but I’ve put so much distance between myself and all my former friends and flings…

There’s really no one that I want to call.

In a moment of complete fucking insanity, I think about calling Kit. Her face flashes in my mind, the way she bites her lip and blushes when she’s a little embarrassed.

The fuck. No. Absolutely not.

It’s like I want to get burned again. Haven’t I learned my lesson where Katherine fucking Saville is concerned?

Apparently not, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to be stupid enough to… what, pursue her? I’ll see her plenty, now that she’s my fucking stepsister-to-be.

The thought kills me.

So I push aside the thought of her, of how fucking incredible she looked yesterday when she first stepped into the grand ballroom, of how I got hard the second I laid eyes on her.

Instead, I take a deep breath and press a button on my console to turn on the voice command. If I want to go out, be around people, I know one person who will be ready to roll.

“Call Bramford,” I order as I pull out of the palace’s front drive.

I don’t wait for them to finish opening the massive wrought-iron front gates. Instead, I gun it and shoot through the narrow gap, barely missing the gate on both sides.

“Alasdair, my man!” Bramford shouts into the phone, making me wince. “Where have you been?”

“Are you out?” I ask, ignoring his question.

“Well, yeah, man.”

Of course he is. My cousin Bramford is always out. I’m not even sure that he keeps a flat anymore. It seems like he usually sleeps at some random girl’s place.

“Where are you?” I ask, crossing the bridge from the palace’s little island into Valencia City proper.

“Club Tonixxx, got a bunch of girls here, plus some party favors,” he says.

“Listen, Bramford, do me a favor. Get rid of any of the girls you don’t know. Like really, really know. And ditch the party favors. I’m keeping it as low key as possible, I don’t need that shit in my face.”

“Yeah, sure, man.”

“I’ll be there in twenty.”

I disconnect the call and hop on the motorway, speeding the whole way downtown. Once I’m in the thick of the city, my chest starts to feel less tight. Like a big weight lifted off my shoulders, being back in my old routine.

That might not be a good thing, I think, but then I’m climbing out of my car in front of Tonixxx, tossing my keys to a uniformed valet.

I stretch and pull off my dark suit jacket as I stroll up to the door. Without it, my dark t-shirt and jeans don’t meet the dress code, but I’m not worried.

I’m Prince Magnum; there’s no club in Valencia City that would turn me away, even if I showed up high, wearing half a fucking sleeping bag.

Much like my disreputable friends waiting inside, they simply aren’t picky.

The doorman unhooks the velvet rope and lets me in without a word. I stroll into a familiar setting: big dark room, sparkling bar all along one wall, flashing strobe lights, go-go dancers in cages, booths and tables scattered here and there.

It’s early yet, but there are already girls dancing in the cages and on the dance floor. I stop at the bar and order a magnum of champagne. The same kind of bottle I used to order when I first started going out and running with this group of guys.

That fateful day, I held up the huge bottle of champagne and told them that it was named after me, Prince Magnum, and the nickname spiraled out of control in less than a damn week.

Now, the words Prince Magnum make me fucking cringe. All the things people say about me, the whispers of spoiled playboy, complete asshole, waste of space. Those things were true, down to the last letter.

I was just too bloody busy admiring my own reflection to see the reality of my situation. The reality of how I affected other people in my life, how I dragged them into my self-pitying rich boy bullshit.

I honestly didn’t know.

I didn’t know until the moment that I was sitting in that crumpled, burning husk of a racecar. Shaking Asher’s shoulder and shouting his name, knowing that we’d made a terrible mistake…

“Hey, you made it!” Bramford says, clapping me on the shoulder and drawing me from my dark reverie. “Magnum in the house!”

“Don’t call me that,” I say, shaking off his touch.

“Back to Rex, then, are we?” he jokes.

“Fuck off with that,” I say. Hell, at least Bram knows me.

More than just a member of royalty, more than just the club-loving ladies’ man of the last few years. I’ve known him my whole life, since he’s just a year older than me. Bram’s always been there, even if his version of being supportive isn’t exactly… substantial.

“Come on, we’re in the small VIP booth,” he says, pointing to the lower of two private sections of the club.

“Why aren’t we in the big one up top?” I ask as we climb the steps and pass the bouncer holding the velvet rope.

Bram snorts.

“Would you believe that Kitty’s holed up in the big booth? I haven’t seen her, but her little upper forms friends are all here, and they’re not shy about dropping her name to get service.”

“Kit?” I ask, feeling my neck start to go tense. “She’s here?”

Bram isn’t really listening.

“Man, I have to get the dish about the other night. I heard there was hard evidence that Kit’s beau has been fucking Dianah, and that you saw all of it? I cleared out before it all went down.”

“I—”

My words are cut off, because Kit chooses that moment to descend the stairs, passing right by our booth.

“Jesus,” Bram says as he notices her. He cranes his head to get a better look. I can’t blame him, I’m doing the same fucking thing.

Mother of fucking Christ, does she look amazing.

Kit’s wearing this short, sparkly dress with sky-high white heels. I can barely see the dress itself, all I can see is miles of fucking tanned legs on bottom and killer cleavage up top. Her blonde hair is waist length and wavy, her lips red as blood.

Kit and her friends walk right past us and down the VIP stairs, if beauty could kill, Bram and I would both be fucking dead right now.

“Shit,” I say. “Why the fuck is she dressed like that?”

Bram turns and arches a brow.

“Why do you care?” he asks.

At that moment, I realize that Bramford, being my oldest friend, is probably the only person on the planet who knows about Kit and me. About our past, about exactly how… close… Kit and I were in upper forms.

“You can’t tell anyone that we used to date,” I say, grabbing his sleeve. “It would ruin Kit’s reputation.”

I give Bram a little shake, and he cackles.

“I would never, but now I’m going to fuck with you endlessly,” he says. “Can you imagine your father’s face when he found out that you fucked his stepdaughter?”

“God, don’t call her that,” I say, disgusted. I release him and lean back in the booth, trying not to watch Kit and her friends descend the stairs like a flock of jewel-feathered songbirds. They’re dazzling, pretty, and rich…

And they all fucking know it. I try to pinpoint the names and faces of the party girls she’s hanging out with; they all look vaguely familiar, in the way that I may or may not have slept with them or gone to school with them… who knows, really.

“Shots!” I hear one of the girls call as they parade to the bar.

I roll my eyes and turn to Bram.

“Shall we?” I ask, pointing to the champagne that some invisible waitress has set in an ice bucket for us.

“Abso-fucking-lutely,” Bram says, waving to a girl who’s sitting in the booth. “Get a tray of coupe glasses, darling. Let’s crack this bottle.”

Soon we settle into the booth with a couple of Bram’s guy friends and a gaggle of smiling models. We drink a few bottles of champagne, catch up on recent gossip, and relax.

I spend my time not paying attention to Kit, who’s downed several shots and taken the dance floor by storm. Bram keeps sneaking off ‘to the loo’ with one of his lady friends, which means they’re probably doing some kind of narcotics.

Business as usual. It could easily be three or four years ago, during my wild heyday.

Except it’s not. It will never be like that again.

Not with Kit back in Courtland, already ruling the hearts of every man that lays eyes on her.

Not with Asher’s ghost stepping on my heels everywhere I go, his absence a constant reminder of my mistakes.

Not with my heart as heavy as it is, not with all this regret for things I can never fix.

So I sip my champagne and talk with the girl on my left, a sexy brunette with a French accent. She tells me about her art history degree, hints at her distantly royal breeding.

I have to ask her name for the third time. She laughs, fluttering her lashes.

“Sophie,” she reminds me. “You’d do best to remember it, your highness.”

She’s hunting for a husband, a high-placed man of means. And if I were less of a fool, I’d pay attention. She’s close to perfection, well behaved despite the wild revelry going on around us. She might even be on that cursed list my grandparents thrust upon me, for all I know.

“Do you know someone down there?” she asks, putting her hand on my knee.

I glance at her and raise a brow.

“I know a lot of people.”

“It seems like maybe you want to make someone jealous, ah?” she asks.

I smirk at her. On top of her looks and breeding, she’s not empty-headed either.

“Perceptive,” I admit with a dip of my head. “I’m distracted. Apologies.”

“Ask me to dance,” she says lightly, rising from the booth. “Get yourself out there, Alasdair.”

After a moment, I concede.

“All right. A drink first?” I ask.

“Bien sûr,” she agrees.

So I take Sophie by the hand and lead her down the stairs, glancing back every once in a while to admire the sexy slit in her red dress that climbs up, up, up to reveal endless olive skin. With her dark hair and light eyes, Sophie really is a stunner.

And yet…

And yet.

We have our drink at the bar, two old-fashions, and chat. She mostly tells me who we know in common.

I’m not listening; I’m watching as one of Kit’s friends leans in to whisper in her ear.

Sophie asks if I’m still racing. She mentions that she knows my sister through some charity they both volunteer with.

Poor Sophie is trying desperately to pull me into the conversation, but she’s failing.

I’m watching the group of girls on the dance floor, writhing and grinding to the pulse of the music. Kit’s right in the middle, a loose circle of girls surrounding her as they flaunt their fit bodies on the dance floor.

It’s hard to even see the girls for the tight press of eager men hovering around them, waiting. One by one, men are approaching Kit’s friends with drinks and then leading them off for a more private dance.

Slowly, Kit’s losing her protective barrier, though she hardly seems aware. She’s exuberant, dancing hard, lost in the music.

“Ready to dance?” Sophie asks.

I grab her by the waist, winking at her as I lift her off her feet. Sophie gives a surprised giggle as I take the lead, half-carrying her out to the dance floor. I spin her in my arms with a dramatic flourish, and she flushes with happiness.

That moment, when I don’t react to charming Sophie and her genuine joy, that’s when I know I’m fucked. Broken, wrong in some kind of way that I don’t know how to make right.

Because I can’t get the past out of my head, and I can’t move on.

Especially not when I can’t stop staring at her…

Yeah, this is starting to be a problem.