Page 19 of Rogue Prince

When we reach cruising altitude, a pretty young flight attendant asks me what I’d like to eat. She smiles and inclines her head, making sure I have everything I need. Any other day, I’d be flirting with her. I’d probably have her following me to the bedroom and undressed within minutes.

But now…

It just seems so meaningless. Fucking women who see me as nothing more than a prince doesn’t hold the same appeal as it did a week ago.

My secretary, Paul, approaches me with a laptop in hand. He bows low, then gestures to the chair across from mine. He takes a seat when I nod, then opens the laptop and spins it toward me. “Your speech, sir.”

I frown as I stare at the screen, Paul’s gaze burrowing into me. I can feel him watching me, judging me. But when I glance up, he’s not judging me at all. Paul’s staring at his phone and taking notes. Something glimmers on his wrist.

“New watch?”

Paul’s eyes flick to mine a little too quickly, his body stiffening ever so slightly. Then he relaxes and glances at his wrist. He shrugs. “Family heirloom.”

I frown, staring at the stylish leather band and diamond-encrusted face. It doesn’t look like an heirloom. It looks brand new, but why would Paul lie? Shaking my head, I return my attention to the screen. Even though Paul has used one of the fonts that’s easier for me to read, the first paragraph takes me minutes to get through, and I scroll down to see six more. Breaths catch in my throat as I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to stop my heart from racing.

I can usually get through reading. Given enough time, I’d be able to read this speech and make sense of it. But remembering what it says? Or reading it aloud for a group of educated people?

Heat rises up my neck. I can’t do this. Three months I have to do these kinds of speeches. I have to fill out reports and oversee the itinerary for the tour. I have to talk to countless politicians and professionals, and act like I belong here.

I don’t belong here. I’m not like my family—not like other people. This speech…the countless others I’ll have to make…

Jerking my head at my secretary, I point to the screen. “Can you give me a rundown of what it says?”

Paul nods, completely unfazed. “Our first stop is in Ottawa. We’re meeting with the Prime Minister of Canada about trade agreements for resources. They share a border with us in the Arctic, and we’d like to further talks about the new pipeline, as you know.”

I almost laugh. He always says as you know, or as you’re aware, but it’s just Paul being generous. Most of the time, I have no fucking idea what’s going on in these boring meetings and tours.

He nods to the laptop. “What we need to do is open the conversation.” He sounds so sure of himself, and I’m grateful to have him with me. Paul will help me. He’s been by my side for years, dragging me out of countless messes with the press. He’s always been there to pick me up from nights out or drive me home from whatever new bed I’ve rolled out of in the morning. He’s pushed paparazzi back and helped me maintain my privacy—inasmuch as is possible for someone in my position.

Those damn paparazzi always seem to find me, but Paul’s been there to whisk me away from the worst of the pictures. I’m lucky to have him, especially when I have to navigate the next few months of this tour.

Maybe Penelope’s right—I’ve gone too far off the deep end. I thought I was still fulfilling my responsibilities as a member of the royal family with my donations and support of various foundations, but I haven’t kept up to date with trade and politics. Over the past couple of years, I’ve taken a back seat. Stayed in Nord or gone on pleasure trips around the world. I haven’t actually worked, and as a result I have no idea what’s going on in my own country.

This tour…I’m not prepared. I’m not sure I can do it. I thank Paul, dismiss him, and do my best to study the speech.

I know my family thinks I’m a fuck-up. I know I act like a fuck-up most of the time. I party, I drink, I get caught by paparazzi and tabloids every day of the week. My reputation is pretty much solidified as the party boy of Nord.

But that’s not all I am—it’s just what I show to everyone else.

As I read through the speech, I do my best to commit it to memory. I whisper it back to myself, squeezing my eyes shut as I try to repeat the words. I want to do well. I know no one would believe that, but it’s true. I want to be more than the prince who has a new woman on his arm every night. More than the hungover royal whose face is plastered on every tabloid in the kingdom.

I stumble over the words of the speech, opening my eyes again to look at the screen. Gulping, I feel the weight of the royal expectations on my shoulders.

I want to be better…I’m just not sure I can be.

We land in Ottawa a few hours later and are whisked to Parliament Hill, where the Prime Minister meets us himself. I smile, shake his hand for the cameras, letting my eyes drift over to the small group of Nordish members of press to the left of the big group.

Jacinthe watches me, pen perched above her little notepad. She’s wearing a long, dark blazer and straight-legged pants, and for just a moment it feels like there’s no one else here. Just her dark eyes staring at me, dark hair swept in a bun at the nape of her neck, and thin, lithe body. Watching me. Waiting.

Even with dozens of people around, I can feel her every breath. Hear her heartbeat. Smell that sweet scent that clings to her hair.

Tearing my gaze away, I look at the cameras and put on my best smile. The Prime Minister and I pose in the middle of a handshake as shutters click and cameras flash. Then, more formalities. We’re led inside and through to a smaller room, where I’m introduced and brought up to a podium.

I practiced for this. The whole plane ride, I tried. I really did. I went through that speech over, and over, and over again. I made sense of every sentence and tried to commit it to memory.

But now I’m standing in front of a microphone and all those words slip through my mind like sand through a sieve. Behind me, the maple leaf flag stands beside the Nordish one, and the room full of reporters sit in neat rows, waiting.

For me.