Something isn’t right.

Call it a sixth sense, a reporter vibe, a journalistic feeling—whatever. I’m sitting at a table with eleven of my not-even-remotely close friends at the Montovia state dinner—a royal affair, even if they pretend like it isn’t. And I’m not stupid—I know it’s impossible for a journalist to score a ticket to this shindig. Just being here seems impossible enough. And I can’t remember the last time I heard that someone from the press came to one of these things. I know it’s a huge honor to be here, but I can’t shake the little twinge I always get when I know there’s a story happening.

I’m pretty sure I saw Lady Karina and Queen Penelope make a beeline into one of the rooms on the far side of the ballroom not twenty minutes ago. And I’m positive I saw the queen pull Elle in there not a few minutes later. Elle may not have wanted it, but holy hell, that silver dress was a show-stopper. All eyes were definitely on her and the man seated next to her. And that first dance they shared—they should be happy there were no members of the press here other than me. The electricity between them was palpable, even from all the way over here.

It couldn’t have been anyone but Elle who had gone into that room with the queen. And now… Now Leo has gone into that room, too. My stomach does the weird twingey-fluttery thing it does when I’m sensing a story. I can’t take it any longer—I stand and excuse myself from the table, making an apology to the Duke of Somewhere—a middle-aged, balding man who thought it appropriate to be the only person in the room to wear his red, official-looking royal suit. He’s also the only person to have paid me a lick of attention tonight, but that doesn’t matter at all. I’ve been listening to the talk—the whispers among the other party-goers, and it sounds like I’m not the only one who thinks something is fishy in the land of Montovia.

I’ll admit it—I only came here tonight to try to corner Prince Andrew. Elle thought she might be able to score me a seat at his table, but she probably has a lot less influence here than she thinks. I haven’t seen the man at all tonight. But even if I had, all eyes here are on this Leo and Karina situation. That’s where the story is—I just know it. I’ve been—yes, unfortunately—assigned to cover the bad-boy prince a lot more often than I’ve wanted to in the past few years. And I remember the rumors of his little fling with Karina. If I’m doing my math right, it was less than six months ago.

And that chick is way more than six months pregnant. I’m not sure how everyone else seems to have missed that little fact. If my previous experience means anything, most of the tabloid reporters I know don’t want to know the truth—especially if someone like Lady Karina is feeding them a story. It’s lazy reporting, but it’s easy—and it sells a hell of a lot of magazines.

But I would love nothing more than to break a story—any story—about Montovia and the stuff I know they’re hiding. Being invited here is next to impossible as a reporter, and I’m going to damn well make the most of my next few nights here, starting with tonight. Starting with this Karina story.

I make my way to the small crowd that has gathered near the side door where I saw the queen take Karina. After a few moments, Elle rushes past me, not even looking over. I don’t think she even noticed that a group had formed at all. It’s not even a minute later before Leo comes rushing past himself—and collides with a waiter holding a tray of full champagne flutes.

Thankfully, I’m able to step out of the way before I’m soaked or before any of the glass reaches me. Leo scrambles to his feet, and I’m about to follow him out when I feel a tap on my shoulder.

I turn and almost faint when I look up into the darkest blue eyes I’ve ever seen. They’re like sapphires, deep and blue, and the light from the chandelier is making them almost look like they’re faceted, just like jewels.

Prince Andrew doesn’t smile at all. He only extends his hand. “Would you care to dance?”

My heart feels like it’s going to flutter right out of my chest. My concerns with breaking a story about Lady Karina or Prince Leo or hell, even Elle’s role in all of it are the last thing on my mind when I look into those eyes.

I can barely nod, I’m trembling so much. But I manage to bob my head in agreement—I think I even crack the smallest of smiles before I squeak out my response.

“Yes.” And then I take his hand.