My great-grandmother had a framed quote in her hallway I never gave much thought to until recently.

Today is the first day of the rest of your life.

I get what it means now. It’s the reason I’m clutching my resignation letter in my hand. It’s why I’m trembling as I walk toward the closed door of Frank’s office.

I’m not sure what I’m going to do next, only that I’m done with being a celebrity reporter—if anyone can really even call me that. It seems like too nice a way to describe my job. Scum-of-the-earth-paparazzi-tabloid-filth probably describes what I’ve been doing for the past five years a hell of a lot better.

But not anymore. I want to be able to look at myself in the mirror again without feeling disgusted. I want to feel some amount of pride about what I’m doing with my life.

And covering the royal family of Montovia for as long as I have… Well, it wasn’t the reason I went to journalism school.

This job—running around, documenting the antics of Prince Leopold and his family—was supposed to be temporary. It was supposed to be a means to an end—not the end. And after what happened at the Montovian state dinner a few weeks ago, I knew I had to be done with this life, even if it meant never working in journalism again.

Not that this is really journalism.

I had a chance to do something meaningful. I wrote those articles about Eleanor Parker’s past—and they were the best stories I’d ever written. I suppose if she hadn’t been involved with Prince Leopold, nothing about her story would have mattered. She was an ordinary doctor, working for a charity clinic owned by the Royal Family before she met him. And if it hadn’t been for Leo’s tendency to have scandal follow him everywhere, I might never have met her at all. I suppose I should be thankful for everything that happened to her—she became a good friend and gave me the opportunity of a lifetime with her story.

Except no one noticed. Well, no one except Frank, but his boss only cares about newsstand sales, not about how well-written the articles inside the issue are. And everyone knows stories about the current scandals of the royal family will outsell stories about some nobody—no matter how salacious that nobody’s stories are.

I groan to myself as I stare at the closed door. I could have made a difference. I could have done so much more to change things, but instead I fell into the same trap everyone else did. I looked for stories that would sell magazines instead of writing about things that actually matter.

I can freelance, I tell myself. Not that there are many papers out there that will buy freelance articles from a former tabloid reporter. But maybe I can try.

It might be better to leave this industry for good, anyway. My roommate said she could get me hired on at the coffee shop where she works, so I know I won’t go hungry. And maybe I can start that novel I’ve always wanted to write. Maybe I can use some of the ridiculous things I’ve witnessed chasing the royals over the past several years and turn those stories into fiction. Someone might want to read a book like that. Maybe.

I groan again and look down at the resignation letter in my hand. My stomach twists on itself knowing what I’m about to do—how I’m about to give up my livelihood for no reason other than my morals—but I know it’s the right thing. I can’t live like this any longer.

I knock on the door and Frank grumbles for me to come in.

I open the door and barely take a step into the room when my eyes widen—and I’m not sure if it’s shock or horror I’m feeling as my stomach falls to my toes.

His Royal Highness, Prince Andrew, eldest son of the Montovian Royal Family and heir to the throne, stands and stares at me. He extends a hand, but my brain has jumbled and I can’t think of what I’m supposed to do in this situation.

I can only stand there—my mouth is probably opening and closing like a fish pulled out of water. My heart is thudding so loudly in my ears I can’t hear what either of the men is saying.

I stare at him—Prince Andrew. It’s been two weeks since the state dinner—and I can still almost feel the warmth of his hand pressed against my back as we danced. It had been my dream to speak with him one-on-one. Out of everyone in his family, he’d always intrigued me most. And he turned out to be a major asshole. But goddamn if he doesn’t make me feel things I haven’t felt in a really long time. Fuck if his blue eyes don’t burn into my soul in a way that…

Stop.

I grit my teeth together and turn to Frank. He’s been my boss since I started at Celebrity Spark Magazine, right after I graduated from college. My classmates had all had a horrible time trying to find paying jobs, but I thought I had lucked out. I had landed a well-paying job that was going to pay me to travel. I guess I hadn’t realized then how dirty it was going to make me feel, writing about the royal family—to try to break a scandalous story about them before anyone else. It was almost fun when I first started, and Prince Leo did his share of flirting with me—hell, he’s flirted with every female reporter he’s ever encountered, I’m sure. But Andrew—he’s a different story. There’s never a story with him. He’s as uptight as they come—at least, that’s what he wants people to think. I’ve always been able to sense there’s something with him, though. And it was never Leo I was attracted to—it was always Andrew. There’s something so mysterious about him—something simmering under the surface he’s trying so desperately to hide.

But I never had the chance to speak to him until the state dinner a few weeks ago. And when I did, I was positive there was something he was hiding. But he had me unceremoniously tossed out—and not just tossed out of the dinner. He had me deported. The fucker. He’s not worth a single word of acknowledgement after the way he treated me that night.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, Frank.” I hold my resignation letter out to him.

Andrew pulls his hand back—I guess he’s figured out I’m not about to take it, but I don’t even glance up to see if there’s some amount of remorse for how he’s treated me or not.

Frank’s mouth falls open and his brow furrows. He takes the letter from my hand. “Victoria—”

“I quit.”

He sets the letter down without opening it and motions for me to take a seat in one of the chairs on the other side of his desk.

Andrew sits back down in the seat he must have occupied before I came in.

I look back over at Frank. “I don’t think there’s anything else for me to say. Sorry again for interrupting.” I turn on my heel and take a step toward the door.

“Victoria, sit down for a second.” There’s no question in Frank’s voice—it’s almost a demand.

“Please.” The sound of Andrew’s voice makes me freeze for a moment.

Did he really just ask me to stay?

“Victoria, Prince Andrew is here to request that you do a series of news stories on the royal family. He—”

I spin around to face the two men, interrupting my boss. “I have no further interest in the royal family.” I lift a brow and glare at Andrew. “And after the way I was treated at the state dinner, I don’t believe you would have any interest in having me write anything about your precious family again.”

Andrew stares at me for a moment. “I apologize for my behavior that night, Ms. Simpson. It was a stressful moment, and I could have handled it more appropriately—”

“Go to hell.” I glance over at Frank. “You, too. I just told you that I quit.”

Frank is trying not to smile. He picks up the envelope I handed him a second ago and tears it in half, tossing both pieces into the wastebasket next to his desk. “Listen to what His Highness is offering, Victoria. I think you’ll change your mind.” He winks at me and stands up. He motions to the chair he was just sitting in. “Sit down and hear what he has to offer, Vic. If you still want to quit, I’ll accept your resignation. But I have a feeling you might change your mind.”

I narrow my gaze at him as he walks out of the office, closing the door behind him.

I don’t look over at Andrew before I walk behind the desk and sit down in Frank’s chair. I stare at the coffee-stained, desk-sized calendar covering the surface, unable to make out the chicken-scratch writing that is scribbled in each of the boxes.

“I owe you an apology.”

I lift a brow but still don’t raise my gaze to make eye contact. “Damn right, you do.”

“I apologize.”

I finally look up at him to find him staring back at me. He’s gorgeous—almost too beautiful for words. He’s tall and muscular, which is obvious even through his stiff dress shirt. And his eyes—those deep blue, almost sapphire-like eyes I’m pretty sure I could drown in if I let myself look into them too long.

I try to ignore the electric shock I feel in the center of my chest having him look at me like this—the warm tendrils of something curling around my body, centering low in my belly.

I blink a few times, trying to fight off whatever the hell that was.

“I’m in need of your assistance, Ms. Simpson.” He stares at me again, his blue eyes locked with mine.

I pick up a pencil and tap it on the desk. “I don’t think I can help you, Your Majesty.”

“Your…Highness. My father is His Majesty.” He pauses for a moment. “Actually, you should probably call me Andrew.”

I lift a brow. “I have no intention of calling you anything. After you had me deported, I’m a little surprised that you have the balls to ask me—”

“I said I apologize.” His jaw clenches. “Believe me, Ms. Simpson, this is not an easy thing for me to do.”

I search his eyes for a moment—I’m not sure what I’m looking for, exactly, other than a reason to refuse him. But the humiliation of being tossed out of a country for no real reason seems to be more than enough. “I accept your apology, Your Highness.” I motion with my hand toward the door. “There are many other reporters here who are equally—hell, probably more qualified than me to write whatever bullshit story you want written. As a matter of fact, it might be best if you have Frank—”

“You. It has to be you.” I swear I see him gulp, which makes no sense at all. He draws in a long breath. “For reasons I can’t explain to you just yet.”

“Sorry, Your Highness. I don’t do mysteries. You can either lay your cards on the table, or you can get the hell out of my office.”

He taps a finger on the edge of the desk. “This is not your office.”

“Whatever.” I glare at him for a moment. “I also just resigned—”

“A resignation which you will rescind when you hear my offer.” He frowns and stares at me for a moment. “My mother pointed out to me that you had an opportunity to exploit your visit a few weeks ago. That you had more than enough material to write a salacious story involving the royal family. She went on and on about how you could have told the sordid tale of my brother’s affair with Lady Karina, about her pregnancy. How you could have written of what happened with her at the State Dinner the night you were there. And that you did not…”

I lift a brow and pause for a moment, carefully considering my words. “It’s a little hard to exploit anything when you’re being escorted out of a country by armed guards.”

He doesn’t flinch. “I’ve already apologized for that. Twice.”

“Once. And barely.”

He presses his lips into a line. “I’m very sorry for my poor behavior that night, Ms. Simpson. Can you ever forgive me?”

I shake my head. “What do you want?”

He pauses for another moment, staring at me. “A news story is about to break regarding the royal family. Several stories, actually.”

I shrug. “So?”

He nods, his eyes never leaving mine. “So, we… I should say that I…” He clears his throat. “I am requesting your presence in Montovia.”

I splay my hands on the desk in front of me. “Sorry, Your Highness, that’s not what I do. It’s not what anyone here does—we write celebrity gossip. We try to dig up dirt on famous people before anyone else does. We—”

“I’m well aware of what your magazine does. I’m… That is to say, my mother was quite impressed with the reporting you did on Elle’s story. The way you wrote it… She—we all appreciated the way you wrote about Elle’s scandal without making her look like a mockery. Without making the royal family look—”

“You’re saying you want to give me a story—something that someone else is about to dig up on you—and you want me to write it so that you don’t come out looking like an asshole. Does that about cover it?”

His jaw clenches again and he stares at me for a long moment. “Yes, Ms. Simpson. That about covers it.”