by Nicole Snow
“What is it? What's wrong?” My heart moves ten times faster than my lips, pure adrenaline in every pulse.
“Your father's growth is cancerous, Miss Warwick. A rare, aggressive cancer. Very difficult to eradicate in this area. Something I've never seen.” He pauses, as if he needs to stoke his bedside manner, to prevent cold scientific fascination from taking over. “I'm very sorry.”
That's it then. Cancer.
What was that word he used again? Aggressive?
I'm devastated.
Or else, I should be. The weird thing is, I just feel numb, standing there underneath the bright white lights overhead while the doctor waits for some kind of reaction.
“How does this change things?” I ask softly.
“He'll need additional treatment, of course. If it were up to me, I'd recommend a full round of chemotherapy immediately after surgery, a regimen we call...”
I'm listening, but all the terminology washes over me. So does the pain, the disappointment, the sad realization our nightmare isn't over. I thought the worst was behind us when dad collapsed during his interview, and I fell into the royal bad boy's arms.
No, it's only beginning. I couldn't be more wrong.
“Let me assure you once again, Miss Warwick, your father is more than welcome to make full use of our facilities and expertise. We have plenty of experience working with American insurance. But just between you and me...” He pauses, looking around, and leans in when he's sure nobody else is around. “I told you this is rare. We have our own research wing, yes, and we're doing well, all things considered. However...we can't make miracles happen. If it were me, I'd go abroad. Opt for something more experimental. Only the best of the best.”
Experimental? Abroad? Obviously, he's used to dealing with billionaire royals who never think twice about their finances. Even more obvious he doesn't have as much experience working with insurance as he let on.
Despite his success, daddy isn't a rich man.
He's done well as a journalist, sure. He's comfortable. But his last divorce took him to the cleaners not so long ago.
He barely has the money for globe trekking and time off if he wants to keep his condo. Let alone for things like experimental treatments abroad.
“I don't know if we can afford it,” I say, trying to stop the anger from creeping into my voice.
Doctor Jameson cocks his head, quickly scratching his nose. He looks at me like I've lost my mind.
I still can't believe it. How a perfectly normal trip, the highlight of dad's career, has turned into this.
“Well, you certainly don't have to decide now, Miss Warwick,” the doctor says reassuringly. “You have time – a little time – before any difficult decisions need to be made. Know that they do need to be decided in a timely manner, though. As soon as you're able, if I'm frank. The quicker you move against this sort of the thing, the better his chances.”
God. The people on this island all seem to have a way with being 'frank.' They're too honest, everybody from Prince Playboy to his subjects, and always in that haughty not-quite-English accent that makes me want to slap them across the face.
You can't get angry, I tell myself. For dad's sake.
“I understand,” I lie, right before a new worry takes over. “Should I tell him the news?”
“No, no, that's my responsibility,” he says, surprise flashing in his eyes. “We'll let him rest awhile longer. I'll make the rounds later today, and inform him when he's awake. Better to get the shock out of the way so both of you can begin running through your options in earnest. I'll bring you more details about the experimental option, if you'd like. Now, if you'll excuse me...”
You have no idea. I'd love to excuse you, Doctor Dick, and this whole stupid, pompous island.
I'd love to excuse my father's cancer, his heartbreak, and these brutal heels still attached to my feet.
Raw emotion paralyzes me while he disappears down the hallway, leaving me alone.
Slumping against the wall, I try to hang onto the anger, the frustration. It's the only thing that's stopping me from breaking down into an ugly crying fit right here.
That's twice as hard to hold back when I realize just how achingly alone I'm about to be. More lonely than I've ever been in my entire life once dad starts to go through treatment.
Not to mention if it doesn't work. If, God forbid...
No, I won't let myself think the rest.
I won't let myself cry.
I definitely won't let the scream I'm holding in out, even though it's tearing me to pieces.
Several people walk past, nurses holding charts, slinging medical jargon back and forth. It's just another day for them, and why shouldn't it be?
They belong in this twisted fairytale kingdom where even the Prince is bad when he isn't playing hero for the cameras.
I want to go home. I want to help dad get well. And then, I never want to hear about Saint Moore or any of the royal assholes running this place ever again.
They've brought nothing but terrible luck into our lives.
When I finally force myself to move, retreating to his room, my right foot is so numb it almost drags across the floor. My heel catches, and I barely stop myself from tripping yet again.
I have to be more careful. I definitely need to pick some better shoes.
There's no Prince waiting for me if I stumble again. And there damned sure isn't a glass slipper at the end of all this suffering. There's no reward, no magic, except my father's survival.
I'll do anything to make sure he's got a fighting chance.
2
Grown Up (Silas)
The women in this club don't fuck around.
When they know I'm watching, they go all in, shaking their tits and asses off. Too bad for them, I'm barely paying attention tonight.
I can't stop thinking about the American girl with the chestnut hair, the mahogany eyes, the hips so round I wanted to smack them when they caught my hand, just to see how they'd bounce.
Of course, even I'm not a big enough bastard to give a girl a spanking after her father's having a fit in front of her.
My eyes scan the drunken sluts on the dance floor beneath my private balcony. At least half the two dozen or so girls out there know this place is crawling with cameras I can access anytime. Whenever I'm not looking down on them behind the tinted window like a god.
I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel like one. Comes with the territory when you're born a Prince, heir to a fifteen hundred year old throne, entitled to virtually any prime pussy in the realm, plus a hundred countries over.
They're desperate to please. Delusional. So fucking fake I can practically taste silicon every time I glance at their basketball sized tits.
Their dreams aren't a mystery to me. They think they're next in line to audition for Princess and future Queen. Every one of them out there, from the redhead with the double D's, to the blonde with the perfect ivory skin, thinks she's Cinderella. Think I'm going to drop to my royal knees and propose the morning after my cock fits their magic pussy like a glove.
Doesn't work out that way. Never has, and never will.
Sure, I'm a bastard and a heartbreaker. Took me my first few flings to make peace with that, and most nights I don't give it a second thought. I let my dick lead me on like a magnet to whatever I'm in the mood for, then have my personal valet escort them out of my chamber the next morning, with a free ride home and a bouquet of roses.
The girls who try to show their faces around this club again wind up banned. The ones who try to get close to me in public get a stern talk with my bodyguards.
Most of them listen. Every so often, they go out ugly. Crying, screaming, wailing my name and threatening to sue me penniless from the rooftops.
Every so often, when I see those scenes, I question if it's really worth it. Mostly, I laugh, because I've got ten more girls ready to polish my royal scepter for every one who has a conniption fit.
For all my power, w
ealth, and women, I'm not free. I play by rules most people will never understand.
I've been bound to God, Queen, and country since the day I drew my first breath. If I had to add one more principal, it'd be one and done.
Tonight, for some fucking reason, I'm not feeling it. I can't even settle on a girl who looks enough like Little Miss Warwick.
Why the hell am I fantasizing about an American girl who probably doesn't have a million to her name? Especially after her father went for the throat, before he just went down cold?
I'm still wondering when there's a knock on my door. I turn around, cup my hand across my mouth, and yell like always.
“You already know it's open.”
Victor steps in. My personal valet is about ten years older than me, pushing forty, a transplant to Saint Moore from a distinguished Russian family. He steps up to me, that prim and proper smile on his face, the same one I've seen a thousand times before he's about to drop a load of horseshit in my lap.
“Pardon the interruption, Your Highness. I'm here to tell you that Her Majesty has requested an audience.” He steps aside, making way for me to pass, wanting me to walk with him this instant.
I take my damned time. Sip my thousand Euro glass of scotch slowly, letting the liquid fire bathe my stomach and plate my veins in gold.
“Yeah? What's grandmom doing up at this hour? She's usually turned in before nine.”
Victor clears his throat. “It seems she's heard about what happened during the interview yesterday. It's been all over the press, sire. She's very eagerly awaiting your company so she can discuss –“
“My fucking image, right?” I smile and wink at him, draining the last of my scotch. “Come on, Vic. I already know.”
Pausing, I sigh. Victor shifts uncomfortably. I've busted his balls a million times by now, and he always takes it like a champ, even if he's never sure exactly what to say.
“I hope she realizes I'm trying, Vic. It's not like I gave the guy a stroke when he was lobbing his questions. Didn't have anything to do with the hero shot either. That was all the daughter, racing up there and falling straight into my arms. Don't tell me what the blogs say – I didn't engineer a damned thing.”
Yeah, the jackal's daughter, I think to myself. His very sweet, very pure, very fuckable daughter.
“You know you have my trust, Your Highness,” Vic says, respectful as ever. But his eyes don't agree with his voice.
“Stop looking at me like that. Look, if it wasn't for that fairy tale embrace when I caught her, they'd be throwing a lot more shit in our faces right about now. Grandmom has to understand that, doesn't she?”
Victor straightens, folding his hands across his lap. “It's certainly not my place to say, sire. I have a car waiting to take you to the palace. At your convenience, of course.”
Convenience my ass. I let my glass drop loudly on the wooden stand in the corner. Then I grab my gray jacket, the one with the purple and gold lapel. It's shaped like our national symbol, the double-headed eagle holding the crown jewels in his talons.
I'm wishing I could summon that mythical SOB to swoop down for a day or two, and give the chattering class something else to fixate on instead of Prince Playboy's latest antics.
Victor moves behind me, a subtle offer to help me slip my jacket on, as if I'm too damned drunk to do it myself.
I step forward angrily, out of his reach. I'm sober, and I'm damned sure old enough to dress myself. I haven't let the attendants anywhere near my body since I was eight years old. Mom was still around then, able to order her servants to have me up and dressed by nine o'clock sharp every day.
“I'm ready. Let's get this over with.”
“Right behind you, Your Highness.” He really is. Vic trails me like a loyal, if annoying dog the whole way out, radioing to my entourage for the usual security checks before we reach our ride.
This isn't the way I wanted my night off to go. I wanted to forget today's circus.
The pussy and scotch will have to wait. Duty calls, as long as my veins are soaked in royal blood.
A jet black luxury SUV waits on the curb. There's one brief glimpse at the subjects lined up near the entrance, waiting to get in. The bouncers have orders to pat them down thoroughly, making sure the girls who pass my looks test also aren't packing anything nasty like drugs or weapons.
The palace was scandalized enough when Victor found a joint in my room after my twentieth birthday party. He told me he'd keep it to himself, but I knew who had his true loyalty: the unbearably perfect, larger-than-life woman I'm on my way to see right now.
Hell, I stopped smoking completely after that. Nothing's worth risking another week at rehab in the lowlands. Sure, the scenery is gorgeous, but it doesn't make up for the distinct shortage of women, booze, and bright, shiny lights.
All the things engraved on my heart and soul.
It's a short hop through the capital to our royal palace. The light nighttime traffic clears the streets when they see my motorcade coming. Outside, I watch the people sitting off to the side in their cars, a few stragglers waiting on the streets.
They wave. They put their hands over their hearts. Every so often, they shoot me the middle finger.
This division in the kingdom is what it's all about, what's gotten Her Majesty so nervous.
Grandmom wants me to shape up before she croaks, and the people are looking at King Silas. We both know Prince Hung will be done for then, but his memory will live on.
They'll be forced to decide whether they want me wearing the crown, or if they're going to use their votes to abolish centuries of wealth, guts, and glory.
“Right this way, Your Highness.” A man opens the door for me.
I step out, moving quickly through the line of guards to the back entrance. The lights in the palace are always so subdued; soft, gold, and otherworldly. It smells like a damned museum, and the décor matches one, too.
Whether I'm a lock for the throne one day or not, I can't imagine living here again. I'm walking swiftly down the long hallway, portraits of our ancestors towering down at me, glaring.
I can recognize my face in some of theirs. We all share the same vibrant blue eyes. I won't be caught dead in their furry robes and heavy gold jewelry, outside formal ceremonies, but it never fails to creep me out how easily I'd look exactly like my ancestors with just a change in wardrobe.
Victor leads me to the big three hundred year old door with palace scenery hand carved into it, stopping in front of it. Great.
It's the royal reception hall, a place she must've chosen to really make her damned point. It takes two men just to open the heavy door, revealing the chandelier, the amber and gold walls, and the huge fireplace inside.
The whole atmosphere takes on a different quality. Like it's somehow absorbed a piece of the royalty, billionaires, and Presidents who have stepped inside it across the centuries. Creaking, yawning, and ominous, the big doors smack the walls when they finally come to rest.
There, on her burgundy chair in the center, sits Her Majesty. Grandmom looks like a living ornament, holding up her monocle with one white gloved hand, her evening crown perched in her thick white wig.
“Come in,” she says simply, the only person left alive who can take that commanding tone with me.
I step inside and wait for the doors to close, taking the leather chair she motions to, perfectly positioned several feet away from her.
“How are you this evening, Your Majesty?” I ask, pretending I give a shit.
“Unwell. Have you seen what's been going through the news today?” She knows I have, but it's not really a question.
It's an early warning before her claws really come out and she tears into me for fucking up the throne's reputation yet again.
Her valet, Patricia, walks up like it's all been rehearsed, and gently pushes a tabloid into the Queen's hand. “Special issue, Your Majesty.”
“Swept off her feet! Shocking new conquest for Prince Silas after American gi
rl falls into his arms?” Hearing her reading the headline sounds...ridiculous.
Christ. I want to bust out laughing, but thinking about the Warwick girl helps me hold it in. The tabloid shows my hand on her ass – that perfect ass – the girl's chocolate eyes beaming into mine like she can't wait to taste my lips.
“Come on, we both know what happened,” I say, straightening up in my seat, hoping like hell I can stop thinking about that precious ass so I won't have to hide an erection from my royal grandmother. “It'll burn itself out like it always does. You know how these things work, Your Majesty. They'll be onto something else next week.”
“I only know one thing,” she says sternly, giving me that sour look I know so well, lowering her monocle. “This – this, Silas – has got to stop.”
Her white gloved hand crumples the tabloid in half and slaps it against her knee. It barely makes a sound against the thick, flowing fabric she wears.
“I'm all over it. Victor told me this morning that they're being treated at the royal hospital. I ordered the very best for them. Way more than that jackass really deserves after his line of questioning.”
Jackass? Shit.
I know I've slipped up in her presence – again – but I act like it doesn't faze me. Honestly, why the hell should it?
A little coarse language is the least of grandmom's worries, judging by the anger tugging at the lines on her face, a look that could give the Medusa a run for her snakes.
“You, Prince, are not on top of anything. Nothing that truly matters, anyway,” she says, glaring. “Perhaps you're on top of your drinks, your parties, your greedy little tarts who don't have a drop of royal blood in their veins. Let me be perfectly clear, grandson – I've had it with the drama.”
Her Majesty stands up, folds her arms, and twists that invisible dagger she just put through my guts deep. I'm taken aback. She's been cold and pissed off before, but never like this.
This isn't grandmom talking to me. This is Queen Marina Bearington the Fifth, preserver of the kingdom, holder of billions in wealth and millions of hearts.
