by Alyssa Cole
“Are the allegations true?” someone called out.
“Of course, they’re not true,” Johan said with a calm he didn’t feel one bit. He flashed a charming smile. “Okay, press conference over.”
A ripple of laughter passed through the assembled journalists.
“The reports are completely false and I am open to an independent investigation to prove so. Thank you.”
“The latest polls show that the public has lost significant confidence in the von Braustein name, and that your recent actions may have cemented the end of the monarchy.” Well, the guy from the Looking Glass was getting right to it. “What are your thoughts?”
“Thoughts? If I’m solely responsible for the downfall of a kingdom that is hundreds of years old, I hope they at least use a good selfie of me in the history books.”
More laughter. Good.
Another journalist raised their hand. “Do you have any explanation as to why you were hiding monetary transactions using a shell company?”
“I wasn’t hiding them,” Johan said. “I wasn’t publicizing them, but most people don’t. And I had good reason for that.”
He smiled, even though he thought he might be sick. Johan had always been okay with the performances he’d had to put on. They’d never been him. But with Nya, and now with this, he was having to reveal parts of himself that he’d wanted to keep hidden. Personal things. The only things that separated Johan from Jo-Jo.
At this point, he wished he had been engaging in criminal activity.
“The accounts and the secrecy are connected to something private and unrelated to the royal family, which is why I didn’t feel a need to share them.”
“A trust fund for your secret children?” another reporter called out, and Greta had had enough.
She leaned toward her mic. “Charity. That is what the funds are used for.”
Johan looked around at the reporters, taking in the disappointment clear on some of their faces as silence filled the room. He pulled the mic back over to himself. “It’s a network of charities I’ve been funding that I didn’t want linked with me or my more unsavory undertakings,” he added. “Many of you here have reported on me for years, so you understand that my name isn’t exactly associated with respectability.”
“Are you serious, man?” Krebs asked. “Like, helping kids and stuff?”
“Yes. Greta has posted all the necessary disclosures on my website and will be providing you with the link. Everything you need will be there. Merci!”
He stood, ignoring as they clamored for more information.
He’d almost made it to the door when Phillipe’s voice rang out, breaking with emotion. “Are you saying that you’ve secretly been carrying on your mother’s legacy?”
A hush fell over the assembled journalists. Mentioning his mother to him had been verboten, an unspoken rule, but one that most of the journalists who knew him had respected. Anyone who didn’t immediately lost access to him.
Johan didn’t force a smile—it was enough not to grimace. “Thank you, everyone. Any further questions will be answered in my memoirs, set to be published fifty years after I die.”
He winked, though it was a lackluster one, and walked casually out of the room, even though he badly wanted to run.
He tried not to think as he strode past the security guards and down the hallway that led back to a private wing of the palace.
He could vaguely make out the shapes of people around him, but all of his attention was focused on the riot of emotion inside of him. His heartbeat filled his ears, but he heard Lukas’s voice from the parlor, where he’d left him with his tutor.
“It looks like you charmed them as usual,” his brother called out. “Social media is blowing up with news of how wonderful you are.”
Johan gritted his teeth and kept walking. He hated this. Everyone talking about his good deeds. Everyone making him out to be some kind of saint, like his mother had been. He had wanted to keep that small part of her, that most important aspect of her legacy, to himself, and now it would be splashed everywhere for people to speculate on. The charities would fall under scrutiny, and their statuses might be affected.
But he had to be okay because none of this was Nya’s fault, and he was about to take her to the opera.
He stopped. Took a deep breath. Thought of how awful Nya’s night would be if he allowed himself to freak out.
That was the thing with emotions—they were like gremlins. You let one cute harmless one in, nurtured it, and soon a bunch of uninvited ones hatched, making a mess of things.
“How did it go?”
Johan inhaled deeply, schooled his face to a neutral expression, and turned to Nya’s voice. For a moment, all his anxiety and turmoil were pushed to the background because he could think of nothing but her.
“You look . . .”
“‘Damn girl’?” she said, holding up her hands with a grin. “I know.”
A beautiful floral African print top with matching bottom. Off the shoulders. Frills. BARE STOMACH. THIGH SLIT. Johan’s brain rapidly cataloged these things, but mostly he looked at her radiant smile and forgot his worries. They would be there when Nya was gone.
Soon.
He helped her into her coat, his fingertips brushing her bare shoulders.
“I saw the press conference,” she said. “Maybe we can go in through the opera’s back entrance. Your father told me there’s a special one that leads straight to the royal box.”
“Are you sure? If ever you wanted to shock the world”—he looked down at her outfit before helping her button her coat—“tonight would be a good time to do it.”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” she said as they walked out to the SUV that would take them to the theater. “I don’t think I want to live to shock people. Like you said before, I can’t hurt my father without hurting myself, really. I can only do what I think will make me happy. And tonight, that’s being with you, whether anyone sees it or not.”
Johan let her words cascade over him. She equated him with happiness. There was no way to suppress that joy. There was no room for his fears when he knew she’d pushed hers aside for him. Worry would always be there—always—but for just a few hours maybe he could manage to enjoy his time with Nya.
“I think I’ll try this ‘being happy’ you speak of,” he said, slipping into the backseat after handing her in.
They made their way to the theater’s side entrance for the royal box, with Nya showing delighted surprise at the long hallway decorated with framed photos of famous performers who’d graced the stage. They passed through the foyer, a parlor with a bar and bartender, grabbing a few snacks before making their way to their seats. The box wasn’t huge, because the theater wasn’t huge, but it was much bigger than the others.
All eyes turned upward when they stepped into the box with its plush red carpeting and gold gilded seats, and Johan felt the atmosphere in the theater change. He’d been focusing on being happy, on having Nya close, but then he remembered why he hated being on display in the opera house, and why he’d resisted when Greta had mentioned the show.
“By the way.” He leaned over once they’d taken their seats. “I love Rusalka. But it always makes me cry, so I hate seeing it in public. If I run off during certain portions, don’t mind me.”
He expected her to laugh and shake her head, but her gaze softened. “Why does it make you cry?”
“The sense of loss in the music. The idea of being so close to happiness and losing it all.” He shrugged.
“My shoulders are bare, but if you want to cry, these frills are very absorbent,” she said, plucking at her top. “You can pretend you’re being outrageous, and no one but me will know. But if you don’t want to hide, I don’t think anyone would judge you for that.”
“Crying is not very Bad Boy Jo-Jo,” he said, adjusting his bow tie.
“Well, I’m not with Bad Boy Jo-Jo, am I? And I don’t want to be. I’m with Johan, who sleeps with an evi
l-looking teddy bear and cries at the opera.”
She knew about Bulgom? And she hadn’t said anything?
She rested her hand on his leg and gave it a squeeze. “I don’t think Dvořák created this music so that men would run out of the theater instead of allowing themselves to feel it.”
Something in Johan’s chest loosened, and he grabbed her hand and kissed it. “I don’t think I’m ready to give these people that part of myself. But”—Johan’s heart beat faster—“I would give it to you.”
Nya reached up and brushed his hair behind his ear, happiness in her eyes, and then someone shouted “Kiss!” from the seats below and he remembered that hundreds of people were staring at them.
He scowled toward the audience, but Nya kissed his cheek softly, which drew some hoots and applause from the usually staid opera crowd, and then the lights dimmed and they took their seats. Nya held his hand, and didn’t let it go through the first act, and though Johan’s heart felt full to bursting with emotion, he wasn’t sure if it was from the music or from her.
When the curtain closed for the intermission, everyone began to stand, but then the star of the show stepped onto the stage, microphone in hand.
“Hello, everyone. I know this is a bit unorthodox, but we just had to make sure that we got to give a very special thank-you to someone.”
Johan froze in his seat because he had one of his bad feelings.
“This evening, a list of private charities funded by Prince Jo-Jo was released.”
Oh god, no.
“And one of those charities is the Liechtienbourg Fund for the Musical Arts, which allows young people from lower income backgrounds to train with the masters of their art. I am one of the beneficiaries of that program, and I just needed to say thank you. Thank you for caring, and your mother would be so proud of you.”
The audience broke into applause. They stood in their seats and turned to him—and all of those gazes, all of the clapping, reminded him that his secret had been revealed. It was only a matter of time before people found out everything about the charities, before the image he had worked so hard to cultivate was trampled.
Johan had lost the reins of his own image; he had lost the one thing he had control over in his life. Worse, now people would bring up his mother all the time. It would be okay, they would rationalize, because they were saying nice things. Now every good thing he did would be a reason to bring her up and if he did anything scandalous . . . when he lost Nya . . .
He stood and grinned and waved as inside of him he screamed at the unfairness of a life that would let you hold nothing sacred, no matter how much you offered in its stead.
“I’ll be back,” he whispered smoothly to Nya when the ovation was finally over. “You don’t have to come with me.”
He marched into the foyer, closing the door soundly.
“Would you like a drink?” the bartender asked.
“Actually, just some privacy.” He gave the man a rakish look.
“Got it.” The man winked and quickly left the room, and Johan locked the door behind him. He stalked over to the bar and grabbed a bottle of whiskey, but didn’t twist off the cap.
So many worries swirled in his head, he wasn’t even sure why he was upset. But he was. And he needed to pull himself together. He’d promised Nya one night of happiness and he couldn’t even give her that, it seemed.
He laughed darkly as he realized that he’d taken the fairy-tale bait, convinced himself it wouldn’t be so very bad, and this was the beginning of the despair. The thought of what else was to come had him still clutching the bar, even as the orchestra tuned up.
He’d go back out once he collected his thoughts. He was always able to pull himself together, to hide all those vulnerabilities that he’d been told made him weak. He’d go back to Nya after a few minutes more, smiling and pretending everything was fine.
Chapter 23
The maiden had watched the fox god for many a moon, watched as he changed into jewelry and fine clothing and sturdy walking sticks. One day she’d had enough and brought him the meal she was supposed to save for her father because no one had ever thought of what the fox desired, and that broke her heart. She’d been punished, but she’d gone to bed happy because that night the bowl had been found on the back step, filled with small yellow flowers.
—From Phokojoe the Trickster God
Nya’s worry grew as the opera resumed and Johan’s seat remained empty. She couldn’t focus on the beautiful set design, or the singer’s haunting voice. She kept seeing that awful look in his eyes before he excused himself; it was the same look he’d worn in the photo she’d accidentally taken of him.
Only a few people in other boxes would be able to see her slip away. She didn’t really care about them, but she did care about the performers who might look up and notice the box was empty. She waited until the audience was applauding the end of the second act’s first song, then made her move.
When she opened the door to the foyer, the bartender was gone, and Johan stood with his back to her, hands clenching the smooth carved walnut edge of the bar.
“Are you all right?” Nya asked, closing the door from the royal box. The opening strains of the next song were beginning outside the door.
“I think I had some bad kuddlefleck before the press conference,” he said lightly, gripping the bar hard. “Nothing to worry about here. You can go back to the box and I’ll be there in a minute.”
“Phoko. Don’t talk to me in that voice.”
“What voice?”
She wrung her hands together. “The one you hide behind. It’s me. Nya.”
He turned smoothly, walking slowly over to her. When she started backing up he kept walking, and when her back pressed against the wall he placed his palms flat on either side of her head.
“You finally did a wall slam,” she said, trying to make him laugh. To drive away the pain in his eyes as he stared down at her. “Now you’ve checked off everything on our fake relationship list.”
“Why did you follow me in here?” he asked. He didn’t seem angry, not with her at least, though his gaze was intense.
“Because I felt like you needed me.” She lifted her hands to the knot of his bow tie, loosening it. “Why are you upset? They were saying good things about you.”
“Because I give these people everything,” he said in a low voice. “Everything. I smile, and I flirt, and I entertain. And it wasn’t enough. It’s never enough.”
She undid the top button of his shirt, tugging at his collar so that he didn’t feel restricted. “Go on.”
“The charity work was the one thing I could do for myself. Without commentary or public opinion or PR spin. And now it’s just more fodder for the tabloids. And they won’t even focus on the right thing! Those organizations are full of people working hard, devoting their lives to helping, and now they’ll be known for being the pet project of a playboy.”
She nodded.
“You’re right to be upset. Whoever released this information took away something very special to you. It’s not fair and . . . it must have been painful, the way they brought up your mother.”
“Life is pain,” he muttered, a hint of self-deprecation in his tone that let her know he was still able to joke despite his upset.
“‘Anyone who says otherwise is selling something.’ Yes, I’ve seen that film, too. Many times. Did you forget the ending?”
He lifted his head to examine her face, then shook his head. “Happily-ever-afters aren’t real.”
“You’re very selective about what lessons you take from classic romance films,” she said, lifting herself on tiptoe and kissing his chin. “I have a solution to this problem, Phoko.”
“What’s that?” his voice was rough, low.
“Don’t think about anyone else. Or anything,” she said. “Just focus on me. Us.”
She kissed his jaw, the corner of his mouth, his stubbled cheek. Her body pressed away from the wall and into his, and she g
rabbed on to his lapels to steady herself.
He leaned his head away from her.
“You don’t have to kiss it better, Nya. I’m a man. I can deal with my emotions on my own.”
That stung, but slightly less because she knew that, in reality, he was mad at himself because he couldn’t.
“Why would you want to do that?” She combed his hair away from his face with her fingers. “I thought we were friends. And I thought . . . I thought you liked our debauchery.”
“I do. But I don’t want you to do something to make me feel better because you’re used to making people feel better.”
She let go of his lapels, leaned back against the wall, and looked up at him.
“I was doing it to make you feel good, not better.” She shook her head in frustration. “Don’t speak to me as if I act without thinking, like I’m some windup girl programmed by my father. I’m not as experienced, but—”
“You keep saying that,” Johan interrupted, leaning his head closer to hers, “but you’re incorrect. I’m definitely not a virgin, but I don’t have experience with this.”
Nya felt that stubborn dream in her heart perk up its ears.
“What is this for you?” Her hands came to his face both to calm him and to hold his gaze to hers. He nuzzled into her hand and sighed, laughing with a resignation that might have hurt her if she didn’t have an inkling of what he was resigning himself to, and why he found it so difficult.
“It’s . . .”
Nya was glad she was holding him, because he did seem to be considering running out of the room rather than answering.
“It’s caring, Nya. It’s caring when I told myself I never would. It’s caring when I know what will happen.”
“You don’t know what will happen,” she said gently. “If you do, we should go play the lottery. I still haven’t found a job.”
