Scandalous Box Set

by Layla Valentine

  Blakely sees the truth on my face before I can say anything and screams just as our waitress arrives with our food. She jumps at the sudden outburst, sloshing chocolate milk across the table.

  “I’m sorry. Let me get a towel and—”

  “YOU SLEPT WITH A PRINCE!”

  Our waitress’s eyes go wide, and I try to ignore the fact that the entire restaurant is staring at us. I turn and give her what I hope is an easy smile.

  “No need for a towel,” I say. “Also, sorry my friend is insane. Thanks for the food, it smells great.”

  The woman seems relieved to escape, so she drops the plates on the tabletop and hustles for the kitchen door. Probably to tell her coworkers about the weird table she’s serving. As soon as she’s out of earshot, I snap my head toward Blakely.

  “Can we not announce that to the entire country, please? I think the King and Queen heard you all the way from Sigmaran.”

  Blakely slaps a hand over her mouth and jumps up and down in her seat, unable to contain her excitement. “Holy shit, Jane-Ann. Holy. Shit.”

  I look at the picture again just to be sure, and then turn the phone off and place it face down on the table. This can’t be happening. He was telling the truth. I actually slept with a prince…and then I physically shoved him out of my house…after I called him an asshole. I drop my face into my hands and take a deep breath.

  I hear Blakely slide her phone back across the table and then for the next few minutes, all I hear are the electronic clicks of her keyboard as she types up search after search. Eventually, she lets out a long, low whistle. I can’t help myself. I glance up at her. Her forehead is wrinkled as she scrolls down her screen and shakes her head.

  “Your prince is a busy man. He’s never been photographed with the same woman.” She pauses and leans in to get a better look at one picture. She whistles again. “He is gorgeous, though. I mean, well done, J-A. You have superior taste in men.”

  “He isn’t my prince. He is just a prince.” Saying it out loud feels like acceptance.

  “Don’t feel bad about it. From the looks of things, he isn’t anyone’s prince. He gets around.”

  “So you’ve said.”

  I hate that I’m cranky. I spent one night with Christian. I can’t be jealous over him. I don’t really even know him.

  “Seriously,” Blakely says. “This blog I’m reading has a theory that Christian might be trying to bed every available woman on the island. ‘What will our Prince do when there are no women left for him to woo? Perhaps attempt to conquer the mainland?’”

  I groan. The blogger was probably just desperate for clicks—because if Christian really had a goal like that, he would be the grossest man on planet Earth—but I still feel disgusting. What if that was the reason he came to America? What if he wanted to try and sleep with a woman from every country? I sure made America an easy one to cross off the list. I practically dove into bed with him.

  “I really don’t see why you’re so upset,” Blakely says, still scrolling. “This is going to be a great anecdote. Everyone wants a party story like this. I know one girl who tells everyone she went on a date with the grandson of an ex-president, but this is so much cooler than that.”

  I don’t know how to explain to Blakely that I feel used. That even though Christian and I did not discuss expectations in any capacity, and therefore I shouldn’t have been disappointed when he’d decided to leave, I still hoped he would stick around. Maybe it made me naïve, but I hoped I could have the romance novel treatment just once in my life.

  Rather than being hounded by ex-boyfriends at the bar and being hit on by men with beer bellies while they order custom recliners covered in a camouflage pattern, maybe I could meet a great guy and have a storybook kind of romance. Meeting a prince got me halfway there, but those dreams died the moment he crawled out of my bed at two in the morning.

  “I don’t want cool anecdotes to tell at parties,” I say around a huge bite of pancakes. “I want a nice guy who likes me for more than one night of fun.”

  Blakely frowns and reaches across the table to pat my hand. “I’m sorry, girl. Well, on the bright side, Colby was heartbroken when you left with the Prince last night.”

  “Can we not call him ‘The Prince’? I’d prefer if people didn’t hear about this. It’s embarrassing. And why is a heartbroken Colby the bright side?”

  Blakely widens her eyes like I’m dumb. “Because Colby is obsessed with you. If you want a relationship with a nice guy, he’s a surefire ticket.”

  I grimace.

  “I don’t get your aversion to Colby,” she says, scooping up her baked beans with a triangle of toast. “He’s cute.”

  I nod in agreement and bury my response under a layer of pancakes and syrup. Colby is nice, but he was the first guy I ever dated. I broke up with him because I wanted to experience the world without him, and now that I have, I can’t see going back. Colby is interested in me, and being with him would be easy, but it would also be settling. And after watching my mother and father fight and make up and simply “get through” life together, I can’t imagine that for myself.

  I don’t want to be with someone because they’re good enough. I want to be with someone because they are more than I ever could have imagined. But saying that out loud feels childish. Like wishing on a star or waiting for a fairy godmother.

  “Do you remember when you thought you were pregnant last year?” I ask.

  Blakely’s face goes white and she looks around the diner, making sure no one heard me. Then she leans in and hisses. “Of course, I do. What does that have to do with anything?”

  “You were seeing that really nice dentist from Austin who had perfect teeth and a nice butt.”

  Blakely smiles at the memory. “Yes. I remember that butt.”

  “Well, do you remember how panicked you were that you were going to have to spend the rest of your life with him because of one busted condom?”

  She pinches her lips to one side of her mouth and deflates slightly. “Yes.”

  I cut off a triangle of pancake and point it at her. “That is how I feel about being with Colby. He’s fine to hang around with, but I don’t want to spend my life with him.”

  She winces, but I see understanding flicker in her eyes. “Poor Colby.”

  I snort. “Poor me. I almost had a prince.”

  Blakely taps her phone. “Based on these tabloids, lucky you. Your prince is a serial heartbreaker. Nothing like the leading men in your books.”

  I shrug. “Sometimes the male lead is a mess at the start and then turns things around by the end.”

  Blakely wags her bacon at me. “Don’t waste your life waiting for a man to change. If there’s one thing women in this world need to realize, it’s that movies and romance novels aren’t real. You found your prince and now he’s gone, and where are you?”

  “Hungover and stuffing my face with pancakes?” I hazard a guess.

  “Exactly,” Blakely says. “He isn’t going to ride up on some white horse to save you. The two of you had a good time together and now it is time to take control of things.”

  A surge of enthusiasm bursts through my self-pity. “You’re right. If going home with a prince hasn’t changed anything about my life, then nothing will. I have to take control.”

  “Yeah,” Blakely says around a mouthful of eggs.

  “I need to get serious about my job, so I can afford a house one day.”

  “Yes, girl!”

  “And I need to be done with honky-tonking and try to find a nice guy I can see myself being with long term.”

  “Okay!” Blakely says, her face pinched and unsure as she bobs her head from side to side. “I’m definitely still going to the honky-tonk, but I support your enthusiasm and stand behind this declaration for forward momentum!”

  I raise my glass in a cheers. “That’s good enough for me!”

  She knocks her coffee against my chocolate milk, and we both take a deep drink. Despite my
hangover, part of me wishes I had a stiff drink in my hand. After the last twelve hours, I could really use it.

  Chapter 8

  Christian

  By the time I land back in Sigmaran, I can’t understand what inspired me to fly halfway around the world. I’ve had one shower in the last forty-eight hours, and I feel like the tin cans that get dragged around behind a car after a wedding.

  When I turn my phone on, I have another text from my father telling me to message him when I land. I dismiss it without responding. I also have a message from my brother Erikson.

  You are so screwed.

  Ahh, who wouldn’t want brothers? They are always there to support you when the going gets tough.

  I pocket my phone and wish I hadn’t left the chauffeur’s cap back at the honky-tonk in Texas. Somehow, word leaked that I’d taken an impromptu trip across the pond, and I know there will be photographers waiting to catch me in all of my greasy, exhausted glory.

  Everyone on the plane remained relatively low-key about my presence, especially since Father booked me a first-class ticket, but my walk through the airport is not as understated. Security are waiting for me at the gate, so I march through the airport with a small army of muscled men trailing behind me. And as soon as we walk into the lobby, photographers descend.

  “Where were you, Prince Christian?”

  “Do you have a secret American girlfriend?”

  “Is it true you spent the evening in a Texas…honky-tonk?”

  I pray none of them find out about Jane-Ann. I’d like her to remain my little secret. Something I can remember fondly without the taint of the press. Though, what do I know? Maybe Jane-Ann has finally looked me up and is now realizing the prince act was not an act at all. Maybe she’s getting powdered for an exclusive interview about our night together.

  I shove the thought down. Jane-Ann wouldn’t do that. I only knew her for a few hours, but I still feel like I know her. For the few hours we spent together, we were honest with one another. Vulnerable. Even if she didn’t fully believe me at the time. Once she realizes that, I have a suspicion our evening together will be as special to her as it will be to me.

  Or for my sake, I sure as hell hope so.

  The palace has never looked so much like a prison.

  A lavish, well-lit prison, but a prison all the same. The gates shutter behind the car as we pull down the long drive toward the house, and when I step through the front doors, two maids close them behind me. It feels like I’m willingly walking into my own dungeon, smiling and thanking the people locking me inside.

  My mother appears at the top of the stairs seconds after my arrival. “Christian. It is so nice to have you home.”

  No mention of why I was away or where I’d gone. Mother’s favorite coping mechanism. Denial, denial, denial.

  “Where’s the King?”

  She purses her lips. “The sitting room. And you know he doesn’t like when you call him that.”

  “I don’t like when he closes down accounts that are in my name and forces me to crawl back home like the prodigal son,” I say with a violent smile on my face. “He is the king, not a dictator. How did he have any say over my accounts?”

  Her jaw clenches, and she shakes her head. “He’s waiting for us.”

  I follow her down long hallways, past rooms we never use, and into a large formal sitting room. Father is sitting in a wing-backed chair like it’s a throne.

  “Christian.” His face is flat, neutral.

  I make a grand bow, bending at the waist.

  In seconds, the usual signs of frustration are creasing his brow and tightening his lips. “Sit down. We need to talk.”

  “So I heard,” I say, dropping down on the sofa, my arm lazing across the back. “It was important enough to pull me out of my vacation.”

  “You ran away,” Father snarls. “Vacations require planning. You bought the first ticket out and found another dingy bar full of riffraff to hole up with.”

  My mother moves across the room to place a hand on his shoulder. Her presence has always steadied him, but not enough. She is the bucket on a sinking ship, managing to bail some water, but the ship is going down either way.

  Jane-Ann’s blond braids and heart-shaped face creep into my mind. She isn’t riffraff. Though I know my father would disagree.

  “What your father is trying to say,” Mother says, “is that your actions affect more than just you.”

  “Did I miss an important meeting with one of the hundreds of charities we support? Once my accounts are unfrozen, I’ll send them an apology check. They won’t mind.”

  “Your brothers have been acting out,” Father says sharply, ignoring me. “Jory and Niles have refused to attend their lessons without force since you’ve been gone, and Erikson has begun speaking to us…”

  His voice fades away, and I know what he wanted to say.

  “The way I speak to you?” I ask.

  His jaw clenches. It was a slip. A crack in his armor. An admission that despite how much he pretends otherwise, it is important to him that his sons respect him. He’d hoped I was a bad egg, but with Erikson beginning to push back, it seems the rebellious streak could be a trend.

  “It upsets your mother,” he adds quickly, placing a hand over my mother’s, which is still on his shoulder. “You have upset your mother.”

  The guilt slides over my skin without sinking in. I’m too used to it by now. The way my family uses one another to manipulate the others. I’m supposed to do my duty for the sake of my brothers, for my mother’s nerves, for my father’s peace of mind. No mention of my own feelings, of what I want.

  “To be frank, I’m not too pleased with you all, either,” I say calmly. “Placing a deadline on my personal life is unacceptable.”

  Father is on his feet in a heartbeat, and I flinch back into my seat only because I’m surprised the old man is still so spry.

  “What is unacceptable is running away from your responsibilities and deserting your family and your country.”

  “I was gone less than three days.” I sigh, focusing on the oil portrait hanging above the fireplace.

  The painting is of my great-great-grandfather and his wife. A woman who is not biologically related to me. My great-great-grandmother died shortly after bearing her children, and the king remarried within the year. I’ve never seen a portrait of her, and her name isn’t written anywhere except in connection with her children. Almost as if she had shown a weakness by dying young, and everyone hoped they could hide it away. I’m positive my father has considered a similar strategy with me. Perhaps, he should have left me in America.

  He takes a step to the side as if he wants to pace, but then clicks his heels together and stands directly ahead of me, focused like the muzzle of a gun finding its target.

  “It shows a weakness. It gives our people room to doubt the strength of our family. It gives our enemies room to doubt your loyalty to this country.”

  “Enemies?” I scoff, rolling my eyes.

  “The independence of our island is not a joke,” he snaps, straining on an invisible leash, desperate to attack. “There are those who would like to see us fall so our land could be claimed and repurposed. You know this, and yet you act as though it is a joke.”

  I do not take the freedom of our island lightly, but I cannot view those who would wish to use our ports for their own benefit as our enemies. They are not readying their ships to storm our shores, even though I’m sure that is how my father likes to imagine it.

  “Does this conversation have a purpose?” I sigh. “I could do with a nap.”

  He stares at me for a second, unspoken words filling the space between us, warming the room until sweat dampens my palms. Finally, he turns and sits back down in his chair, my mother resting on the arm like a decoration. When he says nothing, my mother clears her throat and settles her hands in her lap.

  “While you were away, we came to a decision about the future of this family,” she says. “And
we reached out to your father’s friend, Fredrik Andersson.”

  “The baron?” I ask, looking to my father for any kind of reaction. The last I knew, he believed Fredrik Andersson was a snake with aspirations to ascend the royal ladder.

  “Yes, the baron. His daughter, Lady Freyja, is going to be in Sigmaran for the next several months, and we have offered her a room and your company.”

  My mother says it all so quickly, so casually, that I almost miss the implications. Almost. My fists tighten until my knuckles ache.

  “I assume you would like me to be more than her tour guide.”

  Mother moves across the room in a few quiet steps and sits next to me on the couch, her hand on my knee. “Lady Freyja is a lovely woman who comes from a good family. She is very interested in spending time with you, and your father and I believe it is time we push you toward your future.”

  I know Lady Freyja. Not well, but enough to know I do not wish to know her better. We’ve crossed paths at different parties over the years, and she was unfailingly snobbish and vapid. Her interest in a person extended only as far as they were useful to her, and I knew her interest in meeting me was no different.

  “I am capable of finding my own path.” The words sound like a plea, and I hate it, but I also know my usual sullen indifference will do little to sway the situation.

  Father snorts. “Your path took you halfway across the world. Your path has you single at thirty, stumbling drunk out of nightclubs.”

  “Ranell,” Mother warns, her voice feather soft. She turns back to me. “She will be here in a few days.”

  I stand up, hands shoved in my pockets. “I won’t see her.”

  “You damn well will,” Father shouts, shooting out of his chair.

  We are standing ten feet apart, but it feels like he’s right in my face. I can almost feel the heat of his breath.

  Mother stays seated, one of her ankles delicately tucked beneath her other leg. “There will be consequences should you refuse.”