Chapter 2
Harald
I sit silently, observing the conversation between my father and Prime Minister Carl Hansen.
The man's voice is grating as he drones on about economic turbulence and recessions, his nervous energy palpable.
I can see the sheen of sweat on his brow, the way his fingers fidget with the papers in front of him.
It's a stark contrast to my father's stern, unmoving figure.
“Your Majesty, as you can see from these projections, the country is set to go into a recession if we do not act decisively to address this economic turbulence in the markets,” Hansen says, adjusting his round-framed glasses as he looks toward my father, King Magnus.
I glance up at my father, his weathered face a mask of indifference.
Even with his stoic demeanor, I can tell he's as disinterested in this conversation as I am.
These meetings with the Prime Minister are little more than a formality, a routine that seems pointless given our role as figureheads in this constitutional monarchy.
Yet, here we are, listening to Hansen prattle on about issues he should be handling himself.
“Carl, you know as well as I do that I cannot provide you guidance on how to resolve this matter,” my father says, his voice laced with a hint of exasperation.
“Your Majesty, I understand your position, yet I felt I should still speak with you about this,” Hansen replies, his gaze flicking nervously between my father and me.
Hansen is a short man, his suit straining against his frame, the thinning hair on his head doing little to conceal the sweat beading on his scalp.
He was elected as the best of the worst options, and it shows.
He's indecisive, his mannerisms reflecting his uncertainty.
It's a stark contrast to my father's resolute demeanor, his clear stances, and sparing words.
“I have every expectation that you and your government will handle this crisis with ease. You have my utmost confidence,” my father says, signaling the end of the discussion.
“Now if you don’t mind, my son and I need to depart.
We have a prior engagement at a charitable event and it wouldn’t be polite to be late. ”
As we stand, Hansen quickly shakes my father's hand, then turns to me. I rush to my feet, extending my hand. His handshake is as weak as his leadership, his palm damp with nervous perspiration. I can't help but grimace, pulling my hand away as quickly as politely possible.
"I strongly suspect that man will not be Prime Minister for much longer," my father says, turning toward me as we walk through the marble-lined halls of Amalienborg Palace, his footsteps echoing authoritatively with each step.
"He does seem to be lacking, not that there is anything we can do about it," I agree, carefully measuring my words.
Part of being modern royalty is having the lesson beaten into you that you cannot interfere with politics or have an opinion, but at the same time it's not hard to see the man is not suited for the role.
Hansen's nervous energy and constant need for guidance make that painfully obvious.
"Hmm, no we cannot. Regardless, we have other matters to attend to where we can affect change. Have you prepared your speech for tonight's fundraiser?" His stern gaze fixes on me, searching for any sign of weakness or unpreparedness.
I nod, keeping my face carefully neutral. It's often better to say the bare minimum around my father, or it gives him ammunition to use against you later. I've learned this lesson the hard way over the years.
"Good, see to it that you impress them. You're my heir, and you need to make a suitable impression on them." My father is all business as usual, and doesn't mince his words. His tone carries that familiar undercurrent of disappointment that I've grown accustomed to.
Having given his orders, he walks away leaving me alone momentarily, his perfectly polished shoes clicking against the floor.
That's quite typical for him, it's always all about the family business and personal relationships come second.
My father has always treated myself and my sister like we were his employees, more than his children.
Nordic men are also not known to be the most emotional at the best of times, stoic and all that.
At least, that's what he told me growing up every time I showed my emotions in public and received a scolding for it.
The memory of those harsh reprimands still makes me wince.
The family business really is just showing up to charitable fundraisers, saying a few nice words, then sitting there while random strangers fawn over you. My father has done it all his life, and now I am expected to do the same, another link in the chain of royal obligation.
"Are you alright, your Royal Highness?" my private secretary, Erik, asks briefly looking up from his desk as I enter my residence area of the palace. His concerned expression tells me he's noticed my troubled mood.
"I'm fine, thank you. How much time do we have before this horrible event tonight?"
"By horrible event, I assume you are referring to the fundraiser to save the Black-Browed Albatross?" Erik's pen taps against his notebook as he speaks.
"Yes, that one. What other event could I possibly be referring to?"
"Well I can never be quite sure, your flair for the dramatic makes it difficult to anticipate what you've signed up for today," Erik replied, his usual tone snarky as ever.
"The event is in an hour. We should probably get you ready for it; wouldn't want the Prince to be late as the guest of honor. What ever would your father think?"
Erik has been my private secretary for as long as I can remember, even growing up as a child he was a fixture in the palace as his father served my father and we were childhood friends.
He was officially assigned to me when I was sixteen years old and began making public appearances, and since then he has been the only person I can rely on and turn to for guidance.
He knows me better than anyone, and he knows all the skeletons in my closet as well.
Sometimes I wonder if he knows me better than I know myself.
Erik quickly provides the formal attire I'll be wearing for the evening - a perfectly tailored black suit with all the appropriate medals and ribbons - and excuses himself while I get changed.
Once I've made myself presentable, and Erik has checked me over and made his necessary corrections to my appearance with practiced efficiency, I emerge and head out from the palace into my private vehicle with my driver, Sven, waiting.
"Your Royal Highness, always a pleasure. How are we doing today?" Sven asks, jovial as always, his familiar smile visible in the rear-view mirror.
"I'm being carted off to yet another event where I have to pretend to be happy and interested in a cause for which I know nothing about.
There I'll have to deal with the random well-wishers who want to be seen with the Crown Prince, who will promptly turn around after greeting me and gossip about me.
So great, just peachy you could say." I sink into the leather seat, already exhausted.
"So it's just another Friday then?" Sven says, cackling from the driver's seat, his laughter filling the car's interior.
I sigh to myself, rubbing my temples to relieve the headache I can feel building behind my eyes. I can already tell it's going to be a long night, filled with fake smiles and even faker conversations.
I politely laugh along as the elderly woman regales me with her tale about wine, pretending to be amused by her not-so-subtle bragging about being able to afford thousand-dollar bottles.
She's the widow of some oil magnate, and the charity organizers clearly invited her hoping she'll write a substantial cheque.
She's just one of many similar guests; looking around the room, I can count the number of non-billionaires on one hand and still have fingers left over.
Desperate for an escape, I excuse myself from her monologue about vintage wines, catching Erik's eye across the crowded ballroom and subtly gesturing for him to rescue me.
"How much longer do we need to stay before it's considered polite to leave?" I whisper to him when he arrives at my side.
"Not enjoying yourself, I take it?" he asks, though he knows the answer.
I fix him with a look that I hope conveys exactly how much I'm not enjoying myself.
He sighs, resignation clear in his expression. "You need to stay until after you've made your speech, then we can quietly make our way out of here."
"This speech had better come soon," I grumble under my breath, tugging at my too-tight collar.
"It would appear you're in luck then," Erik replies, his eyes focused on the stage.
I turn to see the event host has taken her place behind the microphone, and the elegant chatter of the room dies down as she begins to speak.
"Ladies and Gentleman, I would like to thank you all for attending this year's gala event.
" The audience offers polite applause before falling silent again.
"As you are all aware, we are here tonight to bring light to the endangered status of the Black-Browed Albatross, and to raise funds to aid in protecting them.
I have the distinct pleasure to introduce tonight's guest of honor, his Royal Highness Crown Prince Harald. "
She turns toward me with an expectant smile, gesturing for me to join her. I plaster on my best royal smile - the one I've practiced countless times in mirrors - and make my way to the stage, shaking her hand and murmuring thanks before taking my position at the microphone.
This is always the worst part of these events. Despite years of practice and countless hours of etiquette training beaten into me since childhood, public speaking still makes my palms sweat and my heart race.