by Vivian Wood
Royal Fake Fiancé
Vivian Wood
Contents
Author’s Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
About Vivian Wood
Author’s Copyright
Copyright Vivian Wood 2020
May not be replicated or reproduced in any manner without express and written permission from the author. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to author and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Lars
Fifteen Years Earlier
Standing on the highest balcony at the school, I shiver. My eyes trace the jaw dropping beauty of the Swiss Alps. The scene is set dramatically with two nearly vertical cliff faces. Each is snow-capped and soars impossibly high, chilling the dark stone foundations of the school I’m standing on. A waterfall crashes down nearby, providing a perfect frame for the backdrop of more snowy, white peaks.
I sniffle as the wind picks up, bringing with it the season’s first fat flakes of snow. The balcony I’m on is barely three feet deep and a dozen feet long, easily accessible through a thick wooden door. It’s one of a dozen small balconies clinging to the castle’s upper floors; in medieval times, this was probably meant for archers to be able to pop out and fire rapidly.
We’ve been studying castles and the feudal system during history and the castle itself has been rather illustrious.
Too bad that I hate it here.
Bracing myself against the cold, I will myself to stop crying.
Princes don’t cry.
It’s just that this boarding school is very far away from home. I was sent here last month after being kicked out of yet another prep school back in Copenhagen. And it hasn’t been an easy adjustment.
St. Matthew’s is housed in an old castle, drafty in the winter and dark all the time. Back home, I slept in adjoining rooms with my older brother Stellan; here I feel alone nearly all the time.
Not to mention the fact that the kids that attend St. Matthew’s are the dictionary definition of a clique. So far, I only seem to be able to piss off the boys and make the girls turn up their noses.
It really hasn’t been a very good start to the second half of my seventh grade year.
I stare out at the mountains in the distance, I wish I were like their dark, rocky surfaces. Hard, impenetrable, cold. I’m. very much not those things. Instead, I’m slipping away from my pre-algebra class to sneak outside for privacy and bawl like a little baby. If anybody in school found out that I did this regularly, I would be humiliated.
As I grapple with my runaway emotions, the heavy wood door creaks open. One of my classmates sticks her head of bright copper curls out, checking to see if anyone is here.
God, please don’t let her come out here. Please don’t let her see me like this. I wipe my face, waiting for a second.
Then she steps out, looking away toward the majestic waterfall. I suck in a breath and slip away from her, pressing against the building facade. Thank god the building turns ever so slightly and hides my presence.
I watch as the girl steps out, letting the door close behind her and leaning on the dark stone balcony railing. She’s slender and willowy, her skin as fair as cream. She has light colored eyes and an upturned button nose. Her crown of curls spirals down her shoulders, falling almost to her waist. She’s only wearing her uniform: a white button up shirt, a heavy black sweater with the school logo stitched into it, a pleated gray plaid skirt, and thick black tights. I’m wearing my heaviest coat and I’m still freezing. She has to be crazy.
Tilting my head, I try to put a name with her face. Unfortunately I haven’t really learned everyone yet, especially not the people who aren’t popular. My eyes slide over her again, head to toe.
I’m a little surprised at not recognizing this girl, because she is really pretty.
No, pretty isn’t right.
As she raises her eyes to the sky, her lips moving silently, she makes my heart skip a beat. She’s beautiful.
I’m not expecting her to start weeping, though. She murmurs something that I can’t quite hear, dropping her head low. Her face contorts. Her eyes shimmer with tears.
I straighten my head, looking away. She’s clearly expecting privacy. I try to give it to her, although there isn’t much room on the balcony to move.
I inch away from her, shivering. There is a small pebble on the floor, something that I thoughtlessly kick out of my way. She suddenly looks up, her eyes wide.
When she speaks, her breath condenses in the air. “Is someone there?”
Her accent is foreign, perhaps British. Her voice is smooth and light, melodic to my ears.
I freeze. Before I can decide whether or not to call out, she takes a step closer, coming around the sharp point in the facade. Her eyes go wide with alarm.
“What are you doing here?”
She wraps her arms around herself, her words sounding like an accusation.
I straighten my spine, my head cocking. “I could ask you the same question. I was just out here, minding my own business. You are intruding into my space, technically.”
Her eyes narrow as she takes me in. I’m dark haired and scrawny, probably only emphasized by the fact that I’m wearing a huge coat.
“Who are you?” she asks.
My neck heats. “My name is Lars.”
I see the moment that she realizes who I am; something clicks and there is a second of acknowledgement in her clear blue eyes.
“Ah. You’re the prince.”
My expression sours. “Yes. Go ahead, make your jokes.”
Her eyebrows rise. “I’m sorry?”
I turn away, looking out toward the mountains. “You heard me. That’s what I’ve heard from everyone in this school so far. So go ahead, question my lineage. Talk about how my parents planned well when they decided to have me. My brother is the heir, I’m just the spare.”
I spit on the ground, bracing for whatever she is about to say. My angry breath leaves me mouth in distinct huffs. I’m certain that she’s about to tear into me, tell me I barely qualify to be a prince.
“It’s my second week here.”
My eyebrows rise; I look over at her, thrown off by her words. “What?”
She shivers, wiping her nose on her sleeve. “I’m new here. If the other children tease you, they certainly don’t share it with me.” Her mouth twists. “Haven�
�t you heard? I’m a scholarship student. A charity case. In the pecking order, you definitely come above me.”
My mouth opens. I’m not quite sure what to make of this little spitfire. She huffs a laugh, turning away.
“Great, now you too. Everybody at this school looks down on me because I am not a titled heir with a huge fortune. Even the teachers look at me with pity.”
She says it with such anger and conviction, her hands balling into fists.
I pull a face. “I wasn’t thinking that.”
She frowns. “You weren’t?”
I shake my head. “I wasn’t. I was just wondering two things.”
She looks uncertain. “What?”
I exhale, feeling a little shaky. “First, I was wondering if you were ever going to tell me your name.”
Two spots of bright pink appear in the apples of her cheeks. “I’m Pippa. Pippa Welch.”
I step forward, holding out my hand. She looks at me for a second, as if she’s trying to decide whether I’m serious or not. Then she takes a couple of steps, taking my hand. I shiver as electricity washes over my skin.
From this close, I can make out the freckles that span the bridge of her nose.
I give her the tiniest smile. “It’s nice to meet you, Pippa.”
She sniffs, taking her hand back and shivering again. “What was the other thing that you were wondering?”
My smile broadens. “I was wondering if you wanted to head inside.” I pause, scrunching up one side of my face. “I have a hot plate and some cocoa in my room. It’s contraband, obviously—“
She cuts in. “I’m freezing. So yes, cocoa sounds nice.” She turns around, moving toward the door. “Where is your room?”
I blush. It just now occurs to me that I have invited her to my room and… well, she’s a girl.
A pretty girl.
“It’s in the east wing,” I say, following her.
She looks back at me, wrinkling her nose as she pulls the heavy wooden door open. “I’ve never snuck into a boy’s room, much less a prince.”
Just now, I have a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach. Pippa’s eyes sparkle mischievously. I clear my throat, trying to come up with a proper response to that.
“I won’t tell if you won’t,” I end up saying.
She wrinkles her nose, amused, and tosses her upper curls as she heads inside. And I follow her, feeling my whole world shift on its axis.
It takes me a few hours to realize what the feeling fluttering around my stomach is: stupid, blind, complete love.
God help me.
Lars
Modern Times
I sit at the far end of a dimly lit, crowded cocktail bar, drumming my fingers on the counter and looking at my watch. It’s getting late, well past midnight.
Pippa was supposed to meet me here at exactly twelve.
The bar is noisy. The patrons are talking and laughing over the sophisticated notes of jazz in the background.
Any minute, I expect to see Pippa: tall, lithe, and redheaded. From this distance, I’ll be able to see the two spots in the apples of her cheeks as she rushes toward me, dressed in some sort of a flowy designer gown. Her eyes are this almost electric shade of teal. When she looks at you, her gaze seems to pin you in place.
But only if she’s here, of course. I glance at my watch again with a sigh.
We’ve been best friends for long enough that I expect her usual tardiness. Pippa is exceptionally late though, even by her standards.
I look down at my whiskey and soda in its glass tumbler. I’m up at the crack of dawn every single day to train for the one thing I’ve wanted since I was seven years old: to be a member of the National Space Institute’s next class of astronauts.
I know it’s a crazy goal. You have to be the best of the best and the brightest of bright to be accepted to the program. You have to have a ridiculous, impossible to maintain physique and your mind must be sharp enough to cut.
I’ve got that part down. The only thing that might hold me back, funnily enough, is my title. See, I’m not the heir… but I am supposed to be waiting in the wings in case anything happens to King Stellan.
I’m not much of the wait and see what happens type, but that’s neither here nor there.
At any rate, I’m trying not to drink too much while I am still training.
Draining the last drops of whiskey, I push my glass away. When the bartender comes by, asking if I want another drink, I shake my head. He nods and replaces my drink with a glass of water. I sigh, looking around the bar again.
That's when I notice a couple of girls looking my way. As a member of Denmark's royal family, I'm used to getting those stares. The ones people give you when they can't quite place you at first…
If I were my brother Stellan, the King of Denmark, I would be too famous to even lurk in this dark corner of the bar. But as second in line to the throne, people are much slower to recognize me.
I glance over at the girls again, trying to decide if they recognize me as Prince Lars or the just think I'm some guy in the bar that's attractive. They bow their heads together, giggling softly. I really hope that it is the latter of the two and that the girls are just flirting with me.
That would be optimal, because I’m seriously done with being royal at this moment.
After a moment, both girls approach me. I cast my gaze over them, my stomach starting to sink. Normally if there are girls that think I'm attractive in a bar, they don't come right up to me and tell me about it. No, I'm pretty sure that their approach means that they have figured out who I am.
I raise my hand to the bartender, signaling that I do want another whiskey soda. I’ll hurt tomorrow because of it, but so be it.
One of the girls is a pretty ash blonde. She leads the way over to me while her friend slinks behind her, a more timid brunette. The blonde smiles as she tucks her hair behind her ear, gesturing to show that she means no harm.
“Excuse me, you wouldn't happen to be Prince Lars, would you?"
I exhale slowly, looking her up and down. She is very young, probably only eighteen, but her tiny black dress shows off her cleavage and her supermodel legs. I spin in my chair, favoring her and her friend with a smirk. "Who is asking?"
Both of the girls blush an enchanting pink. The blonde speaks for both of them. "I'm Anya and this is Katya.”
I toy with the rim of my glass, looking at them. So young, so sweet, so innocent…
It happens the same manner that it always happens.
The rational, thinking half of my brain switches off. And the base, impulsive half of my brain turns on instead. One minute, I’m thinking of Greene’s latest article on string theory. The next minute, I’m thinking of the way this pretty blonde’s tongue will feel as she uses it to tease my cock.
It happens so quickly, between breaths. There’s nothing I can do to stop it, not that I particularly want to.
Biting my lip, I lean forward with an inviting smirk.
“You’ve found me out,” I say. I tilt my head to the side, eyeing both of the girls up and down. “Aren’t you two clever?”
Both of them flush an alluring dark pink. The blonde ducks her head. “We were wondering why you are here at the bar all alone. Do you want some company?"
My smirk deepens. I know just how good looking I am. I know that I’m a prince. I hold all the cards here.
“I wouldn't say no to that offer."
The seats on either side of me are unoccupied and the girls slide onto the leather stools, the blonde on my left and the brunette on my right. This isn’t the first time that this exact thing has happened. I sit back, raising my hand to signal the bartender.
“Let me get you both a drink,” I say.
The blonde smiles widely at me while her brunette friend looks on, still red as a beet. While the bartender makes them a couple of fruity cocktails, I sit back and take in the blonde’s cleavage and short, tight skirt.
“Are you two in school somewhere
?” I ask.
The blonde is in the middle of sipping her drink so the brunette clears her throat. “We’re in our first semester at the Copenhagen Academy of Fashion. Do you know it?”
I dip my head in a nod. “Ja. My friend Pippa went there for a year.”
The blonde arches a brow. “Your friend probably dropped out because it’s hard.”
I frown at the way she used the word friend to mean… something else. I sip my water, feeling myself check out of the conversation. Looking bored, I shrug. “She left to pursue journalism, if that’s what you mean.”
The brunette cuts in, giving her friend a sharp glance. “I’m sure that Anya didn’t mean anything by that. We are both having the damndest time with our course loads, that’s all.”
Anya shoots her friend an irritated glance. “Thanks, Katya. But really, who wants to talk about our boring lives? You’re a real, live prince. What is that like?”
I find myself checking my watch, wondering when Pippa will be here. “What part, exactly?”
My eyes are already roving the bar, looking for something more interesting than these two can offer. I know exactly how the rest of this conversation will go, down to the moment when the blonde leans in and whispers that we should leave together. I’m not against it, and certainly I have no problem with women expressing their sexuality.
Quite the opposite, actually.
It would just be nice if one of these women did something surprising for a change. Something more stimulating than batting their eyelashes and subtly toying with their hair.
