Walter pursed his lips. “It seems her luck ran out. Before last month, only the small holdings had been impacted. I’d just learned the full extent of things yesterday.”
Ash’s mouth dropped open a fraction. He’d been close to his parents. His mother and father had been doting and involved in his life from the very beginning until their last moments. Moments when they’d managed to text their love to their only son before their deaths.
Yet, on such a seemingly normal morning, a horrible habit of theirs had been brought into the light—one he’d never known about. They’d obliterated his inheritance. That was no way to show love.
“Are there any properties remaining which haven’t been gambled away?” Ash asked.
The queen gripped the arms of her chair.
“The Winter Palace is all that remains. Of course, with no income to support the family. . .” Walter fidgeted in his chair. There was quite a bit more fist clenching.
Ash didn’t need to hear anything else. “We won’t be able to operate it.” It took a tremendous amount of money to maintain a palace. He had no idea how much. Still, the salaries of the staff, upkeep for its many rooms, and feeding and housing everyone cost money.
“Are you saying we’re going to lose the palace? Lose our home?” Grandmother asked.
“Oh, no, Majesty.” Walter thrust his palms toward Grandmother, as though to halt any confusion. “The mortgage was paid in the 1700s. The palace remains in the Crown Estate. In addition, the royal family is tax exempt, so you won’t need to pay taxes.
“Your family has typically spent eighty-five thousand florins per year on the upkeep of the Winter Palace, however. This year, that money is no longer available.”
Weariness washed over Ash. What had his parents been thinking? “So, we won’t lose our home, it will just slowly fall apart around us.” He didn’t possess the ability to fix so much as a dim light bulb. This did not bode well.
Walter pursed his lips, but then brightened. “If you were to sell the palace to the Florican Historical Society, they would maintain the premises. They have been offering to buy it for, oh, going on ten years. You could probably negotiate so you could live here indefinitely. You’d be a big tourist draw. The proceeds from the sale of the property might help flush your accounts.”
“Would you like to be a big tourist draw in your own home?” Ash asked, hating the sound of it.
“I suppose not.” Walter shook his head, his face seeming more worn out than when he’d first arrived. His long night catching up with him, perhaps.
“This will bring utter shame and ruin down on our family,” the queen said. “You mustn’t breathe a word of this to anyone. Do you understand me?”
“Of course, Majesty. I would never.” Walter actually crossed his heart. If it had been under any other conditions, Ash might have laughed out loud.
“We’ll figure something out. Some way to save the palace, Grandmother.” Ash had no idea what that would be, but he had to think of something.
Walter frowned, his mouth pursed. “I beg your pardon, Highness, but unless you are intent on getting a job, there may not be a way.”
“A job! I’m entirely too old for such matters.” Grandmother drew herself up, cocking an eyebrow.
“That’s a good idea, actually,” Ash said. There had to be something he could do to bring in extra income.
“You want me to work like a commoner?” Grandmother asked. “All of the calm from my morning yoga is now gone. Thank you very much, Asher.”
Ash took his grandmother’s hand. “Not you, me. Remember all of my university studies? The courses I took in graphic design? I could find a job doing that type of work online.”
The queen shook her head. “What if they find out it’s you? We’d never live this down.”
“This is our home we’re talking about—our family’s history. Don’t tell me you’d be willing to let that all go?” Ash asked. “I can do something to help fix this.” And for the first time in at least a month, excitement coursed through him.
“You could really keep this a secret?” The queen’s face seemed hopeful
“Yes. I believe I could.” Adrenaline zinged in Ash’s veins. He’d never imagined getting a job. His new circumstances, however, might grant him the opportunity to know what it was like to earn a living—he was . . . intrigued.
“That’s settled. We must hire someone to write your résumé at once.” The queen tapped her foot, making the already skittish Walter jump.
Ash shook his head. “No, Grandmother. We’re paupers now. I have a better idea.” He pulled out his phone. “Google.”
CHAPTER TWO
Asher
Three Months Later . . .
Ash’s cell phone let out a loud, annoying chime which made him want to toss the thing over the balcony. He swiped at his eyes. It’d been one insanely long night. If the ding was anything to go by, it wasn’t over.
Tugging the phone from his pocket, he read the text. It was from Bailey, of course. She’d been sending them every ten minutes for the past twenty-four hours.
Bailey, his boss—what a strange concept—had given him a new assignment last week. He’d come up with several new typeface designs, but none of them worked. Bailey had rejected each, in turn, explaining they weren’t quite right.
He scanned his notifications.
Beautiful design! It’s not there yet. Think ancient, almost royal. Can you do that?
Royal? She wanted him to think royal? Asher snorted. Oh, if she had any idea.
He pulled the small notebook from the pocket of his bathrobe, slowly flipping through his designs for each letter of the alphabet. Some people might find font design to be intimidating, tedious even. Asher, on the other hand, quite enjoyed it. Designing fonts had been his hobby for quite some time, until it became his occupation. He loved the way the curve of a single letter’s stem could set a tone. Typeface could make a language scream ominous or cast it as lighthearted, or even romantic.
When Ash had discovered his family’s financial situation, he’d applied for a job and posted a mostly true résumé. The experience part was true. He had completed three graphic design degrees online over the past five years, so he knew what he was doing. It was his name he’d had to lie about.
Asher Tiberius Hawthorne Tarrington, Crown Prince of Florico wasn’t a name designed to avoid raising suspicion.
He’d applied instead using the name Jenson—Jenson Keats, to be precise—and he’d gotten the job.
Ash had been working for Bailey Parker, owner and president of Bailey Parker Designs. She did the designs, he, the typefaces.
For the first time in his life, he felt normal. He’d held a job just as any working man might have. The door to his bedroom still revolved, just not as often.
Another ding.
Think old and ancient but new and vibrant. Am I making any sense at all?
The text she’d just sent was typical Bailey. Heavy on the instruction, but light on the details. It was exasperating. Yet, when he created something she loved, which was often, she rewarded his efforts well. All of that money went back into his family’s accounts.
In addition, he’d designed a series of typefaces for Typophile Market, an online font site. At $299 for a full type package, it was easy money. Especially since The Market geared their advertising toward corporate graphic designers. Ash created new content whenever he could, so the site gave him a steady stream of revenue. A drop in a very large bucket compared to what his inheritance used to be, but it was a start.
A knock sounded on the door. He pocketed his phone. “Come in, Jenson.”
It was a daily miracle that Jenson stayed with him. Ash was glad he had, for he had never learned how to do his own laundry. The staff had always taken care of things. Those days were in the past. Now it was mostly Jenson, who’d seemed determined to do as much as possible.
He’d even loaned Ash his name.
When Ash was small, Jenson had seemed an im
passable force of protection, helping to shield Ash from the real world. He noted the gray forming in Jenson’s sandy hair at the temples, the slight paunch he’d picked up, and the way his shoulders hunched, just barely, but enough to be noticeable.
“Did you forget the ribbon cutting at the new elementary school is in an hour and one quarter’s time?” Jenson cringed as he asked the question.
“Of course I’ve forgotten. Don’t suppose I could go dressed like this?” Asher straightened the collar on his bathrobe and cocked an eyebrow. “You’ve heard of casual Fridays?”
Jenson didn’t bother to suppress a smile. “Certainly, sir, and no doubt the female population and a great portion of the males would welcome such a wardrobe choice. The Queen, however? Another matter entirely.”
Asher frowned, the expression sinking into his soul. “Ah, yes. I’d forgotten. Best not disappoint.”
Ash strode into his closet. It had once been filled with so many designer suits, he could’ve gone years without wearing one twice. Since Walter’s news, he’d auctioned off quite a bit of his wardrobe and even a few art pieces around the palace to bide them time. There would be no more new suits for quite awhile. He needed to pay the servants’ salaries, Jenson’s among them, as well as for a new roof on one portion of the palace.
He deliberately avoided Jenson’s eye as he returned, handing over the suit. “Sir . . .” Jenson’s voice had that tentative ring to it as he removed a crisp, white shirt from a hanger and held it out for Asher to slide his arm into.
“I don’t like that tone of voice, Jenson. It’s the same voice Father used to give me before he launched into one of his lectures.” Asher dropped his robe, standing only in boxers. Jenson helped him into the shirt.
“The Historical Society’s offer was extremely generous. If you’d only consider it—”
Ash locked his jaw. “Consider their offer, really? And then watch my childhood home slip from my grasp? You know how hard I’ve worked to hold onto this drafty old shack.”
As he said that, he scanned the room, taking in the rich, velvet window hangings in golds and blues, the warm tones of the wood paneling and hardwood floors, the heavy furniture as familiar to him as his own reflection, like the large four-poster bed which had once been his parents’. His eye was drawn to the French doors leading to a balcony that overlooked his family’s kingdom.
It didn’t matter that he wasn’t in charge yet. It didn’t matter that he was a figurehead now, or that he wouldn’t really govern. He was the crown prince and these were his people. Someday, he would be king.
Though becoming king had never been a dream of Ash’s, it mattered. Duty mattered. That was something which had been drilled into him since birth. It was a part of him.
“I can’t give up our home. Imagine what it would do to Grandmother.”
Jenson turned away. For several moments, he seemed focused on Ash’s large monitor—on the typeface designs for Bailey. “You’ve been working so hard, maintaining a dual identity, if you will. You must consider yourself for a change.”
“I don’t have time to consider myself. There’s too much at stake.” Ash’s words came out harsher than he’d intended. “I appreciate your concern. The Historical Society is the last resort.” That time, it was Ash’s turn to cringe.
“Very well, sir. As you wish.”
Ash’s phone dinged three more times, but he didn’t answer. Instead, he left it on his desk.
“Good day, Jenson,” he said, positioning his tie. “I’m sorry, old friend. I know you only have my best interests at heart.”
Without another word, Ash straightened his shoulders and stalked out the door. He had an elementary school to christen.
CHAPTER THREE
Bailey
It was just after one a.m. when Bailey leaned back into her curvy desk chair. Back, back, back and . . . her world tilted as the chair tipped. Before she knew what had happened, she was laying on the floor, the chair beside her. Duncan, her golden doodle, and the sole representative of her entire love life, raised his head, forced himself to his feet, and trotted over to give her one long lick across the forehead.
Bailey blinked and scratched Duncan behind the ears. “Thanks, Boy. I must have fallen asleep.” Using Duncan as leverage, Bailey got to her feet and righted her chair. She checked her phone. Still nothing more from Jenson.
The project seemed to stump him. She couldn’t say why. Hopefully, he understood what she’d said about thinking royal. If he didn’t come up with something soon, she’d be screwed.
She couldn’t explain it, but she’d come to rely on his type designs to inspire her. Without them, she wasn’t sure where to start on the project. Inspiration hadn’t been forthcoming.
She needed the client, too. Bailey Parker Designs was on the cusp of getting some serious attention in the graphic design world. The last thing she wanted was to lose the attention. Picking up the phone, she fired off two more texts.
Does that make sense?
We can do a video call if it would help?
Bailey stared at the phone, focusing on the two messages she’d sent as if it would make him respond faster. After about a minute and a half of that, she tossed the phone down on her bed, gray standing out against white. Everything was white in her studio apartment—the walls, the bedding, the furniture, even the floors and ceilings. Bailey liked it. It made her feel as though she’d chosen to live in the clouds. Beyond that, it made all of the pops of color she’d strategically placed about the space stand out more.
The brightest piece, without a doubt, was the small, framed picture on her desk. Her dad would’ve gotten on her case if he’d seen it, but she didn’t care. Having a photograph of Prince Asher, her country’s future sovereign, on her desk made her feel as though she were in her bedroom back in Florico.
The latest letter from Dad caught her eye. She picked it up. Hesitating, she stared at it a moment, scanning the handwriting. Then she opened her second desk drawer and rested it inside with the others, unopened.
Swallowing hard, she stared out her window, where rain poured down over the already partially flooded New York streets. She loved the big city, particularly her apartment in Riverdale. The fourteen-hundred dollar a month rent, however, she could do without. The previous month, she’d had to take on extra design work to make rent. But she’d gone to school in NYC, graduated there, and liked it.
She’d created a life for herself. What did it matter if her life only included her and Duncan? It was still hers. There was nothing for her back in Florico, no matter how much she missed it.
The only thing Bailey needed to do was make a commitment to leave her apartment. To make friends and meet new people. Somehow, it seemed like a bigger challenge than winning even the toughest client.
Her eyes slid closed and she forced herself to keep moving. It was time for more coffee. No doubt.
Strange that Jenson hadn’t responded right away. They’d been texting for hours. If he delivered on his end, she could meet the client’s deadline, she was sure of it.
The client was Windsor—the spa where everyone got treated like royalty. Ugh. Cheesy. Everything she’d designed for them seemed horrible—in her mind.
She glanced at the text they’d sent yesterday.
Do you think you’ll still meet our deadline?
Bailey had always prided herself on never missing a deadline in her life. She wasn’t about to change. She’d fired off a quick reply.
Absolutely.
The room in front of her swam as she blinked weariness from her eyes. She had to finish work on the Windsor project while she waited for Jenson, but she wouldn’t win over clients half-asleep. Her phone dinged.
Yes, I think I get it now. Give me a couple of hours. Have to run out for a thing.
Bailey sighed. She could deal with a couple of hours. If Jenson said he would get his work done, he would. She’d learned an awful lot about him over the course of the past three months. Another ding.
> Worst cookies ever eaten?
She grinned. It was a little game they’d started playing one day when both of them had been creatively blocked. She tapped her answer.
Chocolate chip . . . zucchini
Blah. Came his reply. God awful. Mine were carrot meringue. Gotta run.
A smile still clung to her lips as she crossed the room to her large bed with its fluffy, white bedding and collapsed on top of the mattress face-first.
She could be creative later, but right then, . . . sleep.
CHAPTER FOUR
Asher
The crowd was remarkably large for an elementary school dedication. Normally, one or two people would show up. Instead, there were fifty in attendance, at least. Maybe three dozen more if you counted the paparazzi outside the school gates. Fortunately, they were not allowed in because of the school’s security policy.
He’d been asked to wear his crown for the occasion and the faded gold crown bore down on his head. It sent his skull pounding the way a hangover might. A constant, insistent throbbing traveled down the base of his neck and settled in every vertebra.
“Prince Asher, Prince Asher.”
There was a tug on his trouser leg, and he glanced down and into the face of a small boy. Asher couldn’t place his age. He’d never been very good at that sort of thing. The boy seemed very young—perhaps just starting school.
Ash didn’t need to work to form a warm smile for the boy. “Yes, young man. What can I do for you?”
The boy’s face broke into a matching grin. “Will you sign my backpack, please? It’s the Mutant TJ Ninja Turtles,” he said, mixing up the name and pronouncing the word “turtles” like “tortols.” He held out his backpack and a Sharpie to Ash, who accepted both.
“Of course. It would be my honor.” Popping the marker lid, he prepared to sign his appallingly long name with a flourish. Instead, he switched it to HRH Prince Ash. “Does this work?”
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