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My mouth is dry. Palms sweat as I grip the edges of the podium, then reach up to adjust the microphone. Shuffling slowly stops, and silence settles over the room. I clear my throat, glancing down at the sheets of paper in front of me.
I see…nothing. The letters jumble, my eyes blur, and panic starts to mount inside me.
Paul coached me for this. He told me the important points I needed to hit. Talk about trade, and partnership, and two economies depending on the rich resources of our countries. It’s not that hard—all I need to do is look at these sheets of paper and read the words on them.
A child could do it. Anyone in this room could do it—and do it better than me.
Seconds tick by, and my panic grows. The room is deathly silent, waiting. Someone coughs, then another person pulls a zipper. It sounds as loud as a gunshot to my ears. The group of reporters collectively holds their breath, watching me. So many eyes on me. So many pencils perched over notepads, ready to judge my failures. So many recorders and cameras pointed at me, prepared to immortalize how badly I’m about to fuck this up.
I was born into the wrong family. I’m not meant to be a prince.
In the crowd of reporters, I see her. Jazz. Still watching me, waiting. Does she expect me to fail, too?
But her head inclines ever so slightly, as if to encourage me. It’s enough to snap me out of my stupor—but I still can’t read the words on that stupid piece of paper. The letters…they make no sense. I can’t read the words. I’m a grown man and I can’t even fucking read.
Sucking in a breath, I paint a smile on my face and start talking. I crack a joke—something about maple syrup. The room reacts well. They laugh, and I avoid looking in Jacinthe’s direction. I talk all kinds of shit about our two countries, none of it written on the papers in front of me.
Penelope won’t be happy. Paul will look at me with disappointment in his eyes, but he’ll be too well-trained and too used to my antics to say anything truly critical.
At some point in my rambling, barely-sensical speech, I mention trade relationships and the strong bond between our two countries. Then I thank them for their time and retreat off the dais, taking more pictures with the Prime Minister. More wide, fake smiles. More laughter that doesn’t reach my eyes.
Unable to resist, I let my eyes drift to the back of the room. Jazz is staring at me, lips pinched, one eyebrow arched. She’s not impressed.
The man beside her, a Nordish reporter with dirty blond hair, slings his arm around the back of her chair and whispers something in her ear. I bristle, tension ratcheting in my body. He’s close to her. Too close. His nose almost brushing the shell of her ear. She can probably feel his breath on her neck.
I…I…
I want to murder him. I want to wrench his arm out of his socket and throw him off the tour. I want to break every bone in his body and warn him to never, ever get close to Jazz again.
I blink, shocked at my own reaction. What. The. Fuck?
Jazz turns to glance at him, smiling, then says something that makes them both chuckle. A dagger embeds itself in my chest. Whispering to my security team, I’m led to a bathroom where I lock myself inside, leaning against the door as I curse myself.
My first task of these three months—failed. The first stop on the tour, and I couldn’t even manage to make a simple speech. I had to go off-script, and I’m sure I’ll be getting an earful about it from Penelope.
It’s not my sister I’m thinking about, though. It’s an ebony-haired beauty who was laughing, leaning her shoulder against another man. A smart, successful man who also happened to not be me.
They were probably laughing at me. At my failure as a royal. My pathetic attempt at a speech. Laughing about how much fun they’ll have ripping me apart in the press.
I exit the bathroom and ask to be taken to my hotel. From there, I raid the suite’s bar for every bottle of alcohol I can find and get changed, then make my way down to the lobby to catch a cab. I need to get out. Get a drink. Get away from all these prying eyes, these cameras, these people who know nothing about me yet act like they do.
There’s an itch under my skin, like a million ants crawling through my veins. I can’t breathe properly. I need a drink, or a fuck, or some way to take my mind off my own fucking uselessness.
The cab stops outside a swanky-looking bar. I pay, then let the doors swallow me up into the darkness of the room beyond.
9
Jazz
“If the next three months are as much a train wreck as that speech was, you’ll have enough material for years.” Will’s arm is slung across the back of my chair, his mouth near my ear.
I purse my lips into a smile. “Didn’t know you had such a vicious streak in you, Broderick.”
He laughs, leaning closer. “Killer instinct, Crawley. That’s why I went for you.”
A blush rises up my cheeks. I find myself looking at him, noticing the little specks of gold in his clear blue eyes. He’s handsome. He’d be a much better option than lusting after Prince Silas—but inside, I feel none of the heat that I did in the airplane. Will Broderick shares my views on the monarchy. He’s tall and broad and handsome, but…there’s something missing.
Hours after Prince Silas came to see me on the plane, the place on my leg where his ankle touched still feels different from the rest of my body. Even the spot on my lower back where he splayed his hand at that Halloween party feels heavier, somehow. It’s like my body remembers every single way he’s ever touched me.
