I set Jessica up in the Royal Suite at the Northern Crown, which is only about a half mile from the palace. If it were up to me, I’d bring her directly to my father’s council chamber and introduce her to him right now—there’s no way he could deny how smart, beautiful and incredible she is—but I know that even if Jessica was an angel who descended directly from heaven, the conversation would still be tense.
As it stands, the household staff gives me sympathetic looks as I make my way through the palace to my rooms. Goddamn sympathy.
My stylist—who is similar to the valets on that show Downton Abbey in that he’s always on hand to coordinate my wardrobe and run any errands that Nate doesn’t—is waiting for me when I get there.
“Your highness,” he starts out, “I’ve laid out three options for the meeting with your father, and—”
I hold up a hand, cutting him off. “First off, hello, Phillip.”
His face turns red, and he inclines his head. “Good afternoon, your highness.”
“Secondly, how do you know I’ve scheduled a meeting with my father?”
“I—,” Phillip is so uptight that I like to fuck around with him a little whenever possible. Also, I’m exhausted from the transcontinental flight and already irritated about this meeting.
“I have, in fact, not scheduled a meeting with my father. I will be meeting him shortly at my convenience.” I know even as I say the words that Phillip, the moment my back is turned, will alert my father’s staff that I intend to meet with him. Such is the way of royal life. “In the meantime, I need to wash up.” I scan the three charcoal suits he’s carefully arranged on the bed. The only difference between the trio of suits is the accompanying tie color. “The red tie will do.”
Twenty minutes later, clean-shaven and dressed with Phillip left to his own devices in my rooms, I’m standing outside the oversized mahogany door to my father’s council chamber.
And twenty minutes after that, I’m still standing there, getting angrier by the second. I start to pace, exasperated.
He’s making me wait on purpose.
I’m about to turn on my heel and leave when the door swings open and Marcus stands in the doorway, his frame rigid and eyes sternly assessing me, his lips pressed together in a tight line.
“Alexander,” he says coolly, stepping back to let me in. “So nice of you to join us.”
“Shut it, Marcus,” I hiss at him in a low voice once the door is closed.
“Alexander,” my father says from behind his desk, his voice steady and steely. “Take a seat.”
I cross the office in five strides and sit calmly in one of the two chairs poised in front of my father’s desk. Marcus remains standing just to the right of my father, his arms crossed over his chest.
Don’t they make a pretty picture?
My father sighs and slips off his reading glasses. “Alexander,” he says, and looks across the table at me as if he’s weighing his words carefully. “Why don’t you explain to us what…inspired you to take an unscheduled vacation without alerting me or your brother? We’ve had to engage in significant public relations efforts to recast your trip as one sanctioned by the palace.”
I turn my attention to Marcus, shooting him a look of unguarded spite, then turn back to my father. “I should begin by saying that my affairs are none of Marcus’s concern.”
The King of Saintland sighs again, folding his hands together on the top of his desk as if to keep from reaching across the table and slapping me. “Go on.”
I bite back another crack at Marcus—it’s not going to help me make any headway when it comes to Jessica—and take a deep breath. “I took issue with the way the two of you were directing my time and efforts toward maintaining Saintland’s political security. There are many things I’m happy to do when it comes to—.”
“But why, Alexander? You could have discussed it with us in advance.”
Shaking my head, I give my father an incredulous look. “And the two of you would have allowed me free reign over my time in the States?” His long pause answers my question. “That’s what I thought. I went because I needed a break from your ceaseless puppeteering.”
“You ungrateful little bastard,” Marcus spits, coming swiftly around the table to loom over me like some kind of thug from a mafia movie. His perfectly pressed suit and Windsor knot spoil the look, but his face contorts purple with rage. “Your highest duty is to honor our father and King. You should be bending over backward to beg his forgiveness right now, and you sit there like—.”