For the first time ever, my approval rate is above fifty percent. Since I got out of the hospital nine weeks ago, the poll numbers have held steady at sixty percent—an increase of forty percent prior to the surgery.

That’s huge. Huge.

The official announcement from the House of Trioni that I’d been a living liver donor for an unknown recipient created a fucking frenzy. Every reputable and disreputable media outlet in the world covered the story, and interest still hasn’t died down.

People desperately want to know who got a piece of my royal liver, and I’m shocked no one has discovered Tessa’s identity. It’s only a matter of time though.

You can’t keep something like that a secret forever. Someone, somewhere, will let the proverbial cat out of the bag. It may be an accident, or it may be someone trying to cash in, but Tessa’s name will eventually get out there. 

My father taps the report laying on the table next to his breakfast plate. “Six out of ten Alsanians have a favorable opinion of you, Leo. That’s a step in the right direction.”

My father is starting to show his age. His hair is silver now, and deep grooves bracket his mouth and eyes. 

My mother, the much-loved Queen Eleanor, returns her teacup to its saucer. At fifty-five, she’s ten years younger than my father. Her light brown hair has faded to ash blond, but other than that she hasn’t aged much since I was a teenager.

“Just think how popular he’d be if he had died and donated all his organs,” she says, just a hint of sarcasm in her voice. 

I choke on my coffee as laughter bursts from my throat. My mother must’ve read my mind. I’ll probably be like Van Gogh—appreciated only after I’m no longer breathing. 

“I can’t believe you said that, Elle!” my father admonishes, his voice sharp. “Leo’s death is nothing to joke about.”

Her shrug clearly conveys her lack of concern over the king’s displeasure. She knows he adores her, even when her tongue slices like a knife. 

My parents and I eat breakfast together every morning unless one of us is traveling. Marco rarely joins us because he’s usually recovering from the three Ps: partying, pussy, and privilege.

From June through September, my parents shutter the royal palace in the city and move to Helios, our estate in the country. It’s a centuries-old tradition started by my great-great-grandfather and namesake. (I’ll be King Leo II.)

When Helios was built in the early 1800s, it was hours away from the city center, via carriage. It’s a little less than an hour by car.

I definitely prefer Helios over the palace, where people congregate outside the fence and snap selfies. I would live in the country year-round if I could. Maybe when I take over the throne, I’ll make Helios my home instead of the palace.

As my father flips a couple of pages in the report, his eyes narrow behind his silver-framed glasses. I recognize the look—an idea just sparked in his head, and he’s plotting something.

In Alsania, the king is in charge of the military, which means my father has been strategizing and planning for nearly forty years. He ascended to the throne in his early twenties, after his father died in a plane crash.

He taps his finger on the report. “It says here that your willingness to be a living donor made you seem human.”

“I am human,” I point out through clenched teeth.

A robot wouldn’t wake up with a painfully hard erection after dreaming about Tessa Lulach. Robots don’t dream, and they don’t have penises ... though one day, I’m sure some enterprising company will manufacture a model that does. The demand would be unbelievable.

“More human,” my father amends his previous statement.

He flips the report shut and picks up his coffee mug. My mother bought it for him. Made of ceramic, it’s stark white except for the black block letters on the side: A KING IS NOT COMPLETE WITHOUT HIS QUEEN.

I happen to agree with that statement. My father would’ve been a good ruler without my mother by his side. But he’s a great one with her there. 

I’m starting to feel the pressure to find my queen. I’m expected to marry, sooner rather than later. Even if I preferred to live out my life as a bachelor, which I don’t, my feelings on the subject wouldn’t matter. The people of Alsania want a king and a queen.

I suspect that’s one of the reasons my father decided to postpone his abdication—that and my image problem. Unfortunately, I think it’s going to be hard to find a woman who makes me and the kingdom happy. Even my mother, who was the daughter of a grand duke, struggled to win over the people of Alsania.

Women have been paraded in front of me like prize steers at a livestock show since I was a teenager. Women with royal blood, suitable to wear the crown. Never before has an heir to the throne married a commoner.

I was interested in a couple of those suitable women—interested enough to fuck them anyway. But before I could get serious about anyone, Queen Eleanor sat me down for a little mother-son chat.

I’ve never forgotten what she said: You need to feel more than a spark for the woman you marry. And she needs to feel more than a spark for you. It needs to be a full-on wildfire—one that’s impossible to put out. The pressures of being king and queen will snuff out a spark, Leo, but a wildfire will continue to burn.

My mother doesn’t have a romantic bone in her body, according to my father, but it’s obvious to everyone that my parents feel more than a spark for each other. 

“Have you spoken to Miss Lulach since you returned to Helios?” my father asks.

Wondering why he brought up Tessa, I narrow my eyes. He’s never asked about her before. His lack of interest in her well-being has always bothered me, although I’m not sure why.

“Yes, I’ve spoken to her a few times.”

The truth is, I’ve talked to Tessa every day since I left the hospital. The first time I called her, I said, This is Leo, and she replied, Leo who?

I was offended, edging toward pissed off, until I heard her giggle. Then she said, I’m just teasing you, Leo. Of course I know who you are.

No one ever teases Prince Leo of Alsania. No one except Tessa.

“How is she?” my mother asks.

“She’s well. Back at work.”

My conversations with Tessa never last long. I call for two reasons: I want to see how she’s doing, and I want to hear her say Leo. It’s my guilty pleasure—imagining her pink tongue pressing against the back of her teeth when she starts my name and her pouty lips making an O on the last syllable.

I always call her at night, just before bed. After she answers my questions and tells me about the fresh flowers delivered to her shop that day, I get off the phone. Then I get off by fantasizing about all the ways I could make her scream my name.

I’m a little obsessed with Tessa, and I don’t know why. It’s not like she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met. She’s not the smartest, wealthiest, or most powerful either.

But Tessa gets to me in a way that no other woman ever has. I spend way too much time thinking about her, wondering what she’s doing, wondering if maybe she’s thinking about me too. 

“Perhaps you and Miss Lulach should do a media tour,” my father suggests. “Nothing demanding, just a few interviews.”

“For what purpose?” I ask, though I already know the answer.

“If you tell people about your experience, it will encourage more living donation.”

“That’s true,” I agree. “But the real goal would be improving my numbers.”

Before my father can reply, my mother chimes in: “I think a media tour with Miss Lulach is an excellent idea.”

I glance at her with raised eyebrows. She isn’t as calculating or manipulative as my father, and her comment surprises me.

“You do?”

My mother nods. “It’s a win-win. You get a popularity boost, and people who need transplants will benefit from a bigger pool of donors.”

“It’s not a win-win for her,” I counter. “Can you imagine how much her life would be disrupted once the media found out she was the recipient of my liver?”

My father waves his right hand nonchalantly, and the sapphire signet ring on his finger catches the early-morning sunlight. “It would blow over soon enough.”

“Perhaps we should invite Miss Lulach to Helios for afternoon tea and broach the subject then,” my mother says. 

I don’t want my parents to gang up on Tessa and steamroll her into doing something that makes her uncomfortable, and I know that’s exactly what will happen if she comes to tea. I also know that neither my father nor my mother is going to let go of the media tour idea.

Shaking my head, quite vigorously, I say, “No. I’ll do it. I’ll talk to Miss Lulach.”