Marco is waiting for me when I finally leave Tessa Lulach’s hospital room. Unsurprisingly, my younger brother is chatting up a pretty woman in maroon scrubs. There’s a reason his nickname is the Playboy Prince.

When Marco catches sight of me, he winks. After dropping a quick kiss on the nurse’s cheek, he jogs down the hall to meet me.

My brother is two years younger than I am, and two inches shorter than my six four, but anyone with eyes could see we’re related. We have the same coloring, the same nose, and the same eyebrows. 

He’s dressed in a gray-and-white-striped dress shirt and charcoal trousers, which is a step up from his usual jeans and T-shirt. I can’t remember the last time I wore jeans and a T-shirt outside the palace. After years of wearing flight suits almost day and night, now I wear custom suits. 

“How did it go?” Marco asks, tilting his head toward Tessa’s room.

I glance around, checking to make sure no one can overhear our conversation. “The surgery is scheduled for Friday.”

My brother’s dark eyebrows arch in surprise. “That’s the day after tomorrow.”

“She can’t wait any longer.”

I start moving toward the elevators, where my security detail is waiting. I have at least one guard with me at all times, sometimes more depending on the situation. The only time I didn’t have a security detail was when I was in the navy.

“At least your liver grows back,” Marco points out, slapping me on the back.

He’s right. The liver is the only organ in the human body that can regenerate.

Prior to receiving the phone call from the transplant center, I didn’t know you could donate a portion of your liver. I thought it was all or nothing, but it’s not. The requirements to donate are fairly simple: your blood type must match the recipient and your liver must be large enough to spare a chunk.

After a portion is removed for donation, it takes only a few months for the liver to return to its normal weight. Still, I would’ve preferred to keep all my organs intact, at least while I’m breathing.

Scowling at Marco, I say, “I don’t see you giving your organs to strange women.”

“Wrong.” A slow smile lifts my brother’s mouth. “I give one organ to several women on a regular basis.”

A disgusted sound erupts from my throat. “I don’t understand why my image needs improvement when you say shit like that.”

According to public opinion polls, the Alsanian people love Marco but hate me. I just don’t get it.

Among the aristocracy, the firstborn son is the heir, and the second-born is the spare. The heir must be perfect. The spare can be anything he wants. As the heir to the throne, I’ve always done my duty, proudly and honorably. As the spare, Marco has always done whatever he wants.

Marco is a royal fuckup, pun intended. Despite that, I love him. I’d do anything for him, and I know he feels the same way about me.

He’s never been jealous of my position as first born and heir to the throne. He’s never resented me. Sometimes I think he even feels sorry for me.

From the moment I understood what the word friend meant, Marco has been my best friend. I can’t imagine that ever changing, even though our paths will diverge once I take the throne, whenever that happens.

My father, King Carlo, always told me that he would step down before my thirtieth birthday. But a couple of months before that momentous occasion, he told me that he’d decided to postpone his abdication. I was shocked—no, more than shocked—stunned.

That was more than a year ago, and my father hasn’t set a new deadline. He’s explained his hesitation—my dismal approval rating. That and my Polar Prince nickname.

When the media first started calling me the Polar Prince, I thought it was kind of funny. The alliteration was amusing, at the very least.

I know I don’t come across as warm or caring. But I do care. I care about the people of Alsania, and I want to be a good king for them.

My father doesn’t want me to take over our country without the people’s support, and I understand his concern. It’s difficult to lead effectively when people are against you.

I know my father won’t step down until my numbers are as good as or better than his. It’s hard to change public opinion though, particularly when you’re reserved and undemonstrative like I am.

To my disappointment, my approval ratings have really tanked since I left the navy two years ago. Back when I was flying jets, about fifty percent of Alsanians had a favorable opinion of me. Today, only twenty percent do.

Think about it this way: if I were to pass ten people on the street, eight of them would frown at me, maybe even try to trip me or ram their elbow into my stomach. Only two would smile at me, and more than likely, their smiles wouldn’t show their teeth.

Improving my image is my number one priority. It’s the reason I agreed to participate in a public service campaign to promote organ donation.

Like most countries, Alsania has an opt-in policy for organ donation. That means people must register to be organ donors.

Some countries, like Spain, have opt-out policies, which means you’re a donor unless you take steps to opt out. Those countries have much higher participation rates.

Organ donation is a public health issue, and it’s something I truly believe in. I thought my involvement in an organ donation campaign would kill two birds with one stone: increase donor participation and improve my image.

When I added my name and blood type to the registry, I didn’t expect to be a match for someone needing a liver transplant from a living donor. In retrospect, if I’d known that I’d be matched, I probably wouldn’t have signed up. I’m not that selfless. In that regard, I have a lot of company. Most people aren’t willing to sacrifice their organs unless they’re dead or unless it saves a family member.

“Is she cute?” my brother asks.

“Who?” I look sideways at him. “Tessa?”

A smirk twists Marco’s lips. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you refer to a woman by her first name.”

I think about that for a moment and silently concede that he may be right. Except for my mother, I always refer to women either by their titles or their honorifics. I guess I’m old-fashioned that way. 

“So, what does Tessa look like?”

Sadly, there’s only one way to describe her. If I had any doubt about her need for a liver transplant, seeing her in person erased it.

“Sick. She looks sick. Her eyes were yellow.”

“Like cat’s eyes? That’s freaky.”

“No.” Idiot. “The whites of her eyes were yellow. It’s a sign of liver failure.”

Beyond that, I didn’t notice much about her appearance. Well, that’s not entirely true. I noticed her smile, mostly because I was surprised she could smile under the circumstances.

It makes me wonder what she was like before she got sick and what she’ll be like once she’s well again. Because she is going to be well again.

We reach the elevators and take a short ride to the ground floor. My driver is waiting for us with the limo when we exit the hospital. It’s sprinkling, which is unusual for this time of year. May usually gives us blue skies and warm weather. 

Once Marco and I are inside the limo, he grabs a couple of bottles of San Pellegrino from the built-in cooler and tosses one to me. As soon as I buckle my seat belt, I twist off the cap and take a long drink of the sparkling water. I let the cool liquid trickle down my throat and ease the dryness. 

“Why does Tessa need a new liver?” Marco asks.

“She had a bad reaction to an antibiotic. It damaged her liver to the point where she needs a transplant.”

Antibiotic-induced liver failure isn’t common, according to the research papers I read, and fifty percent of all liver transplants are related to alcohol-related disease.

There’s a lot of debate about whether people with alcohol-related liver disease should receive liver transplants. Those against it point out that these people are responsible for destroying their liver and should suffer the consequences, even if those consequences are death.

Intellectually, I understand the argument. Philosophically, I disagree with it.

To me, that would be like withholding chemotherapy from people with lung cancer because they smoked. Or denying people with HIV the treatment they need because they contracted the disease by engaging in unprotected sex.

I would have gone through with the donation regardless of the reason Tessa needed it, but her situation is no fault of her own. It’s bad luck, pure and simple. Who could imagine that an infected cut would lead to liver failure?   

Dr. Barchon didn’t tell me much about Tessa before the hospital visit, but his description of her intrigued me. She’s a remarkable young woman, he said. She sees the weeds but chooses to look at the flowers instead.

Now that I’ve met Tessa, I understand exactly what the surgeon meant. I consider myself a realist, and delusional optimism has always angered me. But Tessa’s personality appeals to me. She’s positive without being idealistic.

Marco takes a sip out of his bottle before leaning against the seat rest and rolling his head in my direction. “I’m not sure about this whole living donor thing. I know it’s riskier for the recipient, but something could go wrong on your end too.”

Being a living donor isn’t risk-free. Fifteen to twenty percent of donors experience complications. Blood clots and infection are the most common, but in rare cases the liver doesn’t regenerate.

Unlike Tessa, I’ve never experienced any life-threatening injuries or illnesses. Though I occasionally fall victim to a cold or a stomach bug, I’m healthy overall or else I wouldn’t be eligible to be a living donor.

Back in Tessa’s hospital room, she asked me if I was afraid. I purposefully deflected her question and tried to reassure her. The truth is, I am afraid—afraid for myself and afraid for her.

One of my favorite quotes is from Franklin D. Roosevelt: Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the assessment that something else is more important than fear.

I’m not going to let my fear prevent me from donating my liver. Helping Tessa is more important than my fear.

“Are you sure you want to do this, Leo?” Marco asks quietly.

“Yes.”

Tessa Lulach is not going to die. Not if I can help it.