Prince's Secret Baby

by Riley Rollins

  Ashley and I exchange furtive glances in the backseat of the van. We're both exhausted and apprehensive.

  "Ready for this?" I say, a half-whisper.

  She nods. "I can't believe we're actually here, Taylor," she says, winking at me. I nod at her, silently thanking her for protecting my real identity.

  The driver and the other porter get out of the van and start unloading our luggage. We step out into the brisk dawn. It's already hot out even though the sun is barely up.

  As we're taking in our surroundings, an old man emerges from the shack. He's hobbled and weathered, as if the shack has been cooking him like an oven for the last four decades. That's probably not far from the truth.

  At first I think he's Transylvanian, but then he starts speaking to the driver with a distinctive North Molvanian accent, the exotic and unmistakable twang coming through.

  Well… no instant biological attraction so far. That's for sure.

  He looks at us and speaks in broken English. "We go now. Under."

  The floor inside the shack is dirt, and in the center of the room is a steel staircase leading down into the ground. Ashley and I share nervous glances. Nobody told us about any underground tunnels. I pray that this is legit and we're not being kidnapped forever in this old guy's underground cellar.

  The two porters go first, carrying our luggage down the staircase. Their boots clang on the metal steps on the way down, and the old man motions for us to follow.

  Below ground, the tunnel is long, straight, clean, and lit on both sides by hanging work lamps. The ceiling is low, though, and my head nearly touches the roof. There are reinforced steel tunnel supports about every ten feet.

  "Wow," Ashley whispers. "This is incredible."

  We walk for nearly ten minutes before we see the exit on the other end. The North Molvanian side of the passage is sealed by a thick, heavy slab of steel that resembles a bank vault door.

  The two porters step aside and the old man maneuvers around us in the tunnel. He raps his knuckles on the door six times. The metal clang sends a chill through my spine. The handle starts to spin, and the door opens.

  There are two men on the other side. Their faces are dark and foreign, a strange mixture of what appears to be Arab and Asian ancestry. Their eyes are haunting, and… wow, they're actually pretty handsome. There's something intriguing about them. It's like the exotic appeal of a Frenchman or a Swede, only much stronger. It's a little bizarre.

  Shit. I wonder if the Crown Prince Nikolai actually would have this effect on me, despite how much I hate him. I think back to the pictures I've seen, a face carved from marble, shoulders thick and burly. In photos he looks… kind of perfect. Now, part of me wants to see if he measures up in real life.

  It doesn't matter, though. I'll never get within 100 miles of him.

  The old man steps aside and motions for us to ascend. I take a deep breath and glance sideways at Ashley. Then I climb the stairs.

  Before I can get a glimpse of the room's interior, the guards grab my arms and yank me up. They wrench my hands behind my back and I feel handcuffs being slapped on my wrists.

  This isn't supposed to happen.

  I start to scream, and then Ashley starts to scream. I look behind me, and there's a guard handcuffing her too.

  Then, a burlap sack is shoved over my head from behind, and I see only blackness.

  2

  When someone finally pulls the sack off my head, I'm in a small, sterile interrogation room with bolted-down furniture and a one-way mirror on the wall. It's a tiny, claustrophobic space. The walls seem to lean inward, creeping, trying to devour me.

  Two tall North Molvanian men in suits stand in the room, one with a full head of hair and beard, the other bald and clean shaven. The bald one holds the sack that covered my head.

  "Miss Duval," he says, staring blankly into my face.

  My heart beats hard inside my chest, threatening to bash its way out onto the table in front of me. How do these men know my name?

  "Who?" I feign ignorance.

  The bald man sighs as he steps toward me. "Don't lie to us, Jenna," he says, his distinctive accent echoing softly against the walls. "Your friend told us everything." Despite the accent, his English is nearly perfect.

  I swallow hard. Ashley wouldn't do that. But what if they forced her to rat me out? What if they hurt her?

  "You're crazy," I say, but the confidence in my voice is fake. "My name is Taylor Westwood."

  In my head, I'm freaking out.

  He grits his teeth and slams his closed fist on the table, shaking the entire room. "Don't lie," he growls. He looks ready to reach down my throat and rip my beating heart right out of my chest. With my hands bound behind me, I wouldn't be able to stop him.

  The bearded man makes a calming gesture with his hands. His demeanor is completely opposite the angry bald man, but something tells me he's also dangerous. It's a classic good cop, bad cop routine.

  "Look. My partner has a temper. But we can help you. Be honest with us."

  I glare at him. "Why are you doing this? What did you do with Ashley?"

  "We know you're a reporter," says the bald one, ignoring my questions.

  I steel myself, trying to prevent my expression from giving anything away. But I fear that it doesn't matter. I'm bluffing. They're not. EDGE trained me to deal with nosy authorities, but they didn't prepare me for questioning by the North Molvanian secret police.

  "Final chance," the bald one says. He stares at me menacingly.

  I swallow hard. Damn. They don't even need a confession to lock me away for good. There's no choice but to cooperate.

  "Okay," I say slowly. "I'm Jenna Duval."

  They question me for another hour, and I answer all their questions. I'm a reporter. I came here undercover. Yes, I'm an American. No, Ashley isn't involved.

  I try to keep a straight face, but I'm terrified.

  When we're done, they lead me out of the building and into a vehicle outside. The air is surprisingly cool and refreshing against my skin, and I can smell the lush North Molvanian forest. It's the smell of freedom and openness, and it's a cruel contrast to the oppression of the people and the shackles that bind my hands behind my back.

  I sleep in a jail cell that night.

  The courtroom is everything I'd expect from a North Molvanian government facility. The walls look like wood, but it's not real wood, it's wallpaper, and it's peeling off the plaster wall. The air is stale like a cabbage cellar. It's set up like an American courtroom, but the furniture all looks straight out of the 1960s. I guess that's the way of things here. Half-assing everything, to keep as much cash as possible in the royal family's pockets.

  The people aren't exactly a priority in this regime.

  At first, the courtroom is empty except for me and the guards. Then the judge enters from the side. He's older and looks tired. Probably stress from a lifetime of handing down crooked verdicts.

  He takes a seat and bangs his gavel. Purely for show, apparently. I don't think the guards care much for proper judicial procedure.

  "The court convenes to process the case of the Crown versus Jenna Duval."

  I sit behind the defendant table, staring at the judge. Although I'm more terrified than ever, I know it's no use begging or groveling. I'm just hoping they won't off me right away. A dead American girl isn't worth nearly as much as a live, healthy one. That's a much better bargaining chip.

  I hope they see things the same way.

  "The evidence presented establishes the defendant as an American spy. Do you wish to speak?"

  "Yes," I say. "I'm a reporter. Not a spy."

  The judge nods, but he doesn't otherwise react. "Noted." He looks back down at his papers. "In addition, the evidence establishes that the defendant has conspired against the crown to commit an act of sabotage upon His Royal Majesty."

  Oh, right. In the chaos of the last couple days, I hadn't been thinking much about His Royal Majesty, the Crown Prince Nik
olai. His Majesty who's probably in a hot tub full of naked women at this very moment, completely indifferent to the crimes and atrocities occurring in his kingdom.

  "Do you wish to speak?"

  "I'm not here to sabotage anything. Reporting isn't sabotage."

  "Noted." The judge shuffles his papers. "The court has heard the defendant's claims. All evidence has been considered and evaluated fairly and thoroughly. By the sigil of the crown, His Royal Majesty, the 19th district court of the state of the Northern Democratic Republic of North Molvania hereby pronounces the defendant guilty on all counts."

  Anger and fear surge inside of me. "This is a farce," I belt out. "A five minute trial? Where's the jury? Due process of law? The right to a fair trial?"

  Even as the words come out of my mouth, I know I'm being an idiot. I know exactly how the legal system works in North Molvania, and I just got a first-hand taste of it. I knew the risks and now I'm paying the price.

  I feel tears welling in my eyes but I fight them back. They have to be videotaping this entire thing, and I don't want the world to see me crying. I want them to remember me as the girl who fought 'til the end.

  The judge ignores my protests. "The Royal Crown hereby sentences the accused to twenty years' hard labor in a re-education camp."

  I'm shell-shocked, and everything turns to a blur. Behind me, I hear the guards' footsteps as they step forward to take me away.

  Just 24 hours ago, everything was going according to plan. And now this. I just want to be at home, curled up on my couch, reading a B.B. Hamel book and sipping a coffee. It could even be the world's worst gas station coffee. Even the most horrible day back home now seems like a distant dream.

  But as the guards approach me, there's a commotion outside the doors of the courtroom. Everyone pauses and I strain to see what's happening.

  The door bursts open, and a striking, nearly seven-foot-tall figure sweeps into the room. He's built like a Greek god, and his facial features are exotic, strong, and handsome. His sharp, angular jaw is shadowed with dark stubble, and his coiffured hair sits atop his perfect head.

  I instantly recognize him. The Crown Prince Nikolai.

  Even in the heat of the moment, a twenty-year sentence hanging over my head, it's impossible to look away from him. His eyes draw mine in, deeper and deeper. His entire body beckons with each motion, muscled, powerful, confident, regal. He's even more gorgeous than in photos. And his presence wraps around me, fills me, touches every part of me.

  Every part.

  But why is he here?

  I look back to the judge, who has averted his eyes in deference. "My prince," he says, staring down at his desk.

  I look back over my shoulder to Nikolai.

  "You are the American?" His voice is deep, resonant, and condescending. He spits out the word "American" like a piece of spoiled food.

  "Yes," I stammer.

  He stares into my eyes, unblinking. "You will address me as 'my prince.'"

  What? I bite my tongue, resisting the urge to talk back. My senses are all on high alert. This is so unbelievably weird.

  Nikolai speaks to the judge without breaking our eye contact. His gaze penetrates my soul. It takes everything I've got to meet his stare.

  "The verdict?" demands Nikolai.

  "Guilty, my prince," says the judge in a hushed tone.

  Nikolai stares at me, sizing me up. I'm completely aghast that this is happening. It's gone from bad, to worse, to downright unbelievable.

  "Nullify the verdict," Nikolai commands, his voice booming through the empty room.

  "My prince?" says the judge.

  Nikolai breaks our eye contact to fix his gaze on the judge. It's like the Eye of Sauron locking onto the One Ring. "Nullify it," he says again, audibly irritated. The tone of his voice leaves no doubt that it's an order, not a request.

  "By your command, my prince," mumbles the judge. He picks up a pen and begins to scratch out something on the papers in front of him.

  Nikolai steps away from his entourage, walking down the center aisle of the courtroom toward me. His boots make a deep, thunderous clop against the floor. He must be 300 pounds of pure muscle and towering height. He stops no more than a foot away, so close that I can smell him. My god. It's pure man.

  I'm absolutely furious at myself right now. My body is betraying me. My hormones are backstabbing me.

  It's the Crown Prince, the man I hate. And he's making me go to pieces like a little schoolgirl.

  He looks me up and down, and I feel his gaze briefly linger on my breasts as he brings his eyes back up to mine. My face flushes. "Are you not grateful?" he says, his voice hard and demanding.

  "Grateful for what?" I spit. I instantly regret my tone of voice, but I can't help myself.

  He cocks his head, as if he can't comprehend my response. "Then you wish to rot in a cell."

  I grit my teeth. "No."

  God, he smells good.

  "Yet you do not appreciate my grace and mercy."

  "Grace and mercy?" I say in disbelief. "This is a mockery of justice. No lawyers, no jury. You just changed the law at will."

  He smiles, cocking his head again. "Not so, little pet," he says.

  Little pet? Am I being punked?

  "You have pardons in America. Do you not?"

  "Okay, my prince,'' I say sarcastically. "You have no idea how America works. The president doesn't burst into a courtroom and overturn a judge's verdict on a whim."

  "Little pet," he begins, his voice condescending, but I interrupt him.

  "I am not your 'little pet,'" I say, wrinkling my nose at him.

  "You are whatever I say you are," he says serenely. His face is absolutely coated in arrogance, and I want to sock him like I did to Chad back at the party. Of course, no matter how mad I am, and no matter how much I can't control my mouth, I'm not actually dumb enough to hit the totalitarian monarch of North Molvania.

  Even if some part of me is really curious to know what it feels like to touch him.

  "Why are you here?" I say. "Why would I possibly be of interest to you?"

  I expect him to reply with some egotistical, arrogant remark. Or something about me being a bargaining chip. But what he says shocks me even more.

  "Because," he says, "I was expecting you. And I knew of your beauty."

  I feel heat building inside me. I have no idea how to handle this situation.

  "I… you… what?" I stammer. Even the judge is perking up, looking at us instead of the papers in front of him. Even he's watching this show unfold.

  "You do not think I know who crosses my borders?"

  I shake my head in disbelief. How could he have known? "You're gonna let me go, right? What about Ashley?"

  "I did not say that." He ignores my question about Ashley.

  My jaw twitches angrily. "I want to see my friend," I say. "And what do you want from me?"

  Nikolai pauses for a moment before chuckling softly to himself. "For you to accompany me to a ball at the royal palace. Tomorrow. I require a date and you would be simply perfect."

  I'm utterly baffled. "Are you kidding me?"

  "Quite the lip on you, woman," he says. "I simply think it a remarkable opportunity to further our countries' diplomatic relations."

  I shake my head in bafflement.

  "And," he says, "I have not yet had the pleasure of dating an American girl."

  My jaw drops. "You can't just 'date me,'" I say. I try to pinch myself, because this has to be a nightmare.

  "You wish to test me?"

  "Dating… is when two normal people like each other."

  "You do not like me?"

  "No," I say, "I don't like you."

  "He scoffs and regards me with disbelief. "Never before have I experienced such insolence."

  I believe him. "Just send me to the camps. Get it over with."

  He laughs quietly. "Your brazenness intrigues me. Call it a date. Or do not. It matters not."

  "What if I re
fuse?" I say. I'm not actually sure why I'm arguing with him, considering the alternative.

  He smiles. "Impossible." He turns to one of the guards in his entourage. "Bring her to the palace." He looks at me, pausing. I see a flash of emotion in his eyes. Is it… sympathy?

  "And arrange for her to see the other girl."

  Without another word, he turns and exits the courtroom with a flourish. I stare at him, my mouth agape, as he leaves, a perfect physical specimen with all the authority in the world.

  I'm a captive in a foreign country, a prince wants to take me to his royal ball… and I'm absolutely furious about it.

  The world has truly turned upside down.

  They put me in another government van and we drive. We're going to the royal palace, I guess. I'm not afforded the privilege of knowing what's happening to me. This time, at least I don't have a burlap sack over my head. I try to clear my mind while I stare at the lush landscape outside. But I sit facing a guard, a younger, harmless-looking guy who keeps trying to catch my eye.

  "Hey," he eventually says. "You of America?"

  I nod yes.

  "What is like?"

  I eye the other guard in the backseat, who's more grizzled looking. He's got to be be the one in charge here. He raises his eyebrow, waiting, an implicit approval for me to speak. He seems curious himself. I'm not sure if I should talk, but I do.

  "Well," I say, "It's big. It's modern. There are huge stores you can go to, and buy anything you want."

  The younger guy's eyes widen. "Chocolates?"

  "Yeah," I say. "And cookies, and cakes, and ice cream."

  His eyes appear on the verge of popping out of his head.

  "What else in America?"

  "We vote for our president," I say, "and we have freedom."

  The younger guy looks excited, but the older guy grunts angrily. "Enough," he says gruffly. The younger one sighs, clearly disappointed. I dare not say anything else.

  Instead, I turn my attention back to the landscape outside. The country is rich with free-roaming wildlife, an ironic contrast to the population living under the government's iron boot. Though, the road is rough and poorly maintained, and every few minutes we pass by a section of forest that's been completely logged and stripped. Areas where they've no doubt mined deposits of precious metals underground.