Chapter One
Never trust an Aidan. With all due respect to the Aidans out there—and there’s inevitably bound to be a few decent ones as statistical outliers—Aidan Fitzwilliam definitely doesn’t make the cut. He’s what gives the other Aidans out there a bad rap.
Somebody told me once that it would be best if we could break up with someone before we dated them. To see how they act. To truly see what sort of person they really are deep down.
The shock ripples down my spine in waves, my face hot as I keep staring at my phone. As if another, better text will manifest. This has to be an April Fool’s joke misfire—in March.
A prank fail.
Tonight in my Mayfair flat, I scowl at the text, white-knuckling my phone. I’m at the entry, ready to leave, dressed for a night out—dressed, in fact, to meet Aidan. Date night and all that to celebrate our six-month anniversary. Frankly, I look amazing.
The text is still there.
i can’t see you anymore theo i fell in love with someone else
sorry x
If someone can’t be arsed to break up with you in person, a stream-of-consciousness text has got to be way down on the list of fallback options.
Turns out Aidan is a bit of an arsehat. Or a lot of an arsehat. The signs were there. The problem being I tend to ignore all the red flags. I fell for him anyway. Or, quite possibly, because of the red flags.
When I ring him, it goes immediately to voicemail. The coward.
This is some exquisite bullshit. I don’t believe you x
No reply comes. Not five minutes later. Not ten minutes later.
Ghosted. At least for now.
Screwing up my face as I run my hand through my hair, I slump before I catch my reflection in the hallway mirror.
My honey-blond hair falls back into place in its usual waves.
I’m in a Prada single-breasted wool mohair suit, slim fit, for crying out loud, and a shirt so white it cuts.
Killer look. And my fingernails are painted in a rainbow, a different color for each finger.
My titanium hoop earrings catch the light.
I could call it a night and go back to bed and stream something terrible for hours and wait for Aidan to come back to his senses.
Which is when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I fumble and nearly drop my phone in my race to see the message from Aidan.
Except it’s not from Aidan.
It’s a screenshot from one of the tabloid rags from one of my friends, James Windsor. Who, as a fellow royal, is a reliable sort. My mouth opens as I read.
The Truth About Prince Theodor: Ex-Boyfriend Tells All in Exclusive!
The headline is followed by a photo of Aidan and me last month at a fashion show, front row, dressed to kill. We’re caught laughing, holding hands, Aidan leaning into me, all dusky-eyed smolder.
“What the actual fuck?” I erupt when the phone rings at the same time.
“Before you google yourself,” James begins in a droll voice, “I’m staging an intervention. Don’t do it.”
“It’s supposed to be our anniversary, the fucker! Is this even real?”
“Real,” James confirms while my head spins. “Sorry to say.”
“Right. Well. We’re going out. Sexy Fish. Bring Frankie. Tell the tabloids I’m dating both of you.”
“You need a reso—” James’ laughter rings over the line.
“Got one. Anniversary, remember? What’s another person? 8:00 p.m.” I hang up, proverbial smoke coming out of my ears. One last check in the mirror, mussing up my hair just so, and I’m on my way.
Conveniently, Sexy Fish isn’t far from my flat.
No need to call for a car service or to drive.
Instead, I walk down Piccadilly Street like I own it, turning north onto Berkeley Street, with the shadows of my security nearby.
It’s dark and crisp and drizzly out. My wool overcoat provides some buffer against the chill, thin leather gloves protecting against the occasional gust of wind as I walk down the street.
Showing uncharacteristic self-restraint, I keep from doing an internet search on myself on the way over, partly because I have to deal with the umbrella situation as I walk, partly because it’s cold to stand around googling oneself shamelessly in the street, and partly because I’ll have time when I reach the restaurant while I wait for James and Frankie to turn up.
When I walk into the restaurant, warmth hits me like a wall, and a shudder of some suppressed emotion I don’t want to examine too closely rips through me again. But I give my famous grin to cover up as I’m smoothly whisked to my table.
“We’re so pleased you’re here. Your table is ready. This way, Prince Theodor.” The impeccably coiffed hostess in her black dress takes me to the private dining room I’ve booked for my anniversary dinner date.
“May I have one more chair, please?” I nod at the table set for two in a moody, intimate room painted deep maroon. “And I suppose another place setting, if it’s not too much of a bother?”
Her eyes widen ever so slightly. “Did we make an error—”
“Not at all. My, err, plans changed this evening. I’m now expecting Prince James and his plus-one, Frankie Lee-Smith, instead of Aidan Fitzwilliam. Thank you.” My lips twitch only the slightest amount at the effort of mentioning his name.
With a tumble of apologies, the staff add a place setting and a chair to the table while I order a Corpse Reviver to tide me over as I wait for my friends.
Because drinking on an empty stomach is a solid plan, especially when I’m being smeared in the press.
Now, seated alone in the room, I call up a search for myself, and I’m soon rewarded with the exclusive story.
It’s terrible.
There’s Aidan, looking bashful and wide-eyed as he, with a liquid tongue, spills a silken pack of lies.
“I had no choice but to leave him, after the affairs. And all of the drinking. It was dreadful,” confesses Aidan Fitzwilliam, the only beau that has bravely put up with the Danish prince’s antics for more than a handful of dates.
“He would go to endless parties, has a wandering eye, a philanderer. Theodor’s totally unreliable. ”
Well, shit. All Aidan’s missing is that I’m a lousy lover and I ran over his beloved pet. I abruptly put my phone face down on the table with a loud thump and suck back an inelegant breath.
The fucker. I’m hardly that bad.
And there were no affairs, despite his regular suspicions. True, I’m a flirt, but I’m outgoing, and I like people. People often get caught in my vibe. Is that really a crime? I can be a bit messy at times, but I swear that’s also my biggest asset.
Stung, I fidget with my phone on the table until James and Frankie arrive. I get up to exchange hugs with them both.
“Put that away,” James says sternly after a solid hug. He shakes his head, light brown hair falling into his eyes as he pushes it away. “It won’t do anything but drive you mad.”
I hesitate, starting to protest. Then, he snatches my phone and tucks it away inside his blazer.
“There. Think of this as a time-out. You’ll thank me later,” James tells me with a voice of authority, then reaches for a menu.
Beside him, Frankie’s deep brown eyes crinkle at the edges of his dark skin. He gives me a wry grin. “Sorry, Theo. It’s a bunch of bollocks.”
James squeezes his hand, nodding emphatically. “Total bollocks.”
“I can’t believe it.” I shake my head in disbelief. Betrayal feels like being filleted like one of the fishes at the raw bar tonight the restaurant is famed for. “Like what the actual fuck? He’s lost it.”
“Theo, you need to stop falling for losers,” James informs me.
“Shame I have impeccably bad taste, then.” Since Auggie. Tough act to follow, but I’m not telling that to anyone. “And I’m too annoying to love, anyway,” I say flippantly. “Too messy.”
“If it makes you feel better,” James says sympathetically, leaning in, “apparently, Aidan fell for a groom.”
“What?” I blink, a frown tugging down the corners of my mouth. There’s running off with another man, then there’s stealing someone’s betrothed. “Whose husband?” I demand. “I want names.”
“Nobody’s husband,” James informs me with a shrug. He waves a hand carelessly. “As in, a stable hand.”
“A stable hand!”
“From Windsor Castle. John told me,” James explains with a nonchalant shrug, peering at me over his menu.
John is James’ younger brother, third and fourth in line to the British throne after Prince Auggie and Princess Anne, their cousins.
“He saw them at the weekend. Caught them red-handed in the tack room, actually. Bit of a scandal. He was going to call you, don’t worry.
But he’s been away in Berlin this week.”
“They have phones in Berlin. I’ve been there.
I know it for a fact,” I say darkly, my face burning as my mind reels, trying to make sense of what I’ve been told.
But none of this makes any sense. It’s all going from bad to worse.
I rub my temples. “And, for the record, no, John calling or not calling doesn’t make me feel any better. ”
Plus, Windsor Castle makes me think of Prince Auggie.
Auggie and I have had a moment or two in said tack room ourselves, once upon a time.
And then, silly me, I blew him off for Jonathan because Jonathan wasn’t a prince.
Then Jonathan left me too, breaking my heart because I was foolish enough to fall in love with him.
I swear he loved his hounds more than me.
In fact, I know he did. There was a string of guys after that, true, but when I met Aidan, I thought it was for real. Real love, again.
Real disaster.
I don’t breathe a word of that.
“A bottle of absinthe, please,” James orders, looking at me with something close to pity, when our orders are taken. He knows me too well. “I think we might need it.”
A bottle of absinthe between us makes for an interesting night. To our credit, we order food to go along with our drinks. It’s late, and we’ve moved on to an exclusive club, and the DJ has the place thumping. I’m removed enough from the earlier shock to get into some dancing.
When I pause long enough to go to the bar and get some water, I bump unsteadily into someone. “Sorry,” I manage, clapping a hand on the person’s shoulder in apology.
The man turns around, frowning, mouth open to complain. Then his eyes widen in recognition beneath a tumble of dark, wavy hair.
Of course he’s hot.
Not being a Windsor usually has its advantages in London. Less royal baggage. I’ve lived in London for years now, away from Denmark. Less recognition here. Except I’m hardly being subtle tonight. I want to be seen.
Let them photograph me. I insist.
I want Aidan to know what he’s missing. He’ll be sorry then, him and his wretched groom.
Except it doesn’t make things any better, and then it dawns on me I’ve been staring openly at a gorgeous man, with olive skin and black hair and blue eyes.
Which, I’ve got to say, is a stunning combination known to do a number on me.
He’s mesmerizing. I gawp like a tourist. Usually I’m a shade more coy, to my credit, but I’ve had a lot to drink, and my filter is off.
“Prince Theodor?” He has an accent that I can’t quite place. Totally hot, though.
“Guilty,” I say flippantly, recovering in an artful facade of manners. I run a hand through my hair. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to crash into you. Terribly rude. Would you like me to get you a drink to make up for it? Please.”
“No need. Already have one.” He holds up his cocktail, complete with little umbrella. His eyes dance. “You don’t know who I am?”
“Right.” If I hadn’t been busy staring at his face like I was trying to etch it into my memory for all time, I would have maybe looked at his hand with its drink. “To be honest, I barely know who I am right now.”
“Fair.” The grin he gives is spectacular, easy, almost familiar. His white teeth match his white shirt. I shiver. “I can see why you might want to forget tonight. Bad luck about the news.”
Now, he looks sympathetic. My face burns.
God, has everyone seen my embarrassment coming before I did? Like I want to forget this stranger. The probability is at around nil. Around us, the bass thumps on, and people laugh and carry on around the bar where we stand in the shifting lights from the dance floor, all purple and pink and blue.
And then, everything comes crashing down again as his words belatedly register in my brain. My mouth hangs slightly open. So much for finding the evening’s prospect. He’s murdered my opening.
“Ouch, man.” My suaveness has gone right out the door of the club and died on the Soho street. Probably by drowning in a well-trodden puddle.
“Sorry.” He looks contrite. Then he searches my eyes, with amusement lingering in his. “You really don’t know who I am?”
“How rude, I should have asked your name. I’m sorry, my manners have vanished. Terribly sorry. What’s your name, then?”
He laughs easily, shrugging. “It’s Stefanos. You can call me Stef, though.”
I go back to staring. Something is at last clicking into place through an absinthe-induced fog. No wonder he looks a little familiar. “As in, Prince Stefanos?”
That would be Prince Stefanos of the former Greek monarchy. The Greek Royal Family remains, but in exile outside of Greece, spread across Europe.
“Yes.” Stefanos laughs, bowing his head. There’s something completely charming in the gesture, almost shy. Certainly self-effacing. “And I’m very sorry about the reminder of the tabloids.”
“You re-reminded me,” I complain, but I’m smiling, despite the miserable night he seems to insist on reminding me about, like he’s delighting in a few more twists of the knife.
And despite my best efforts to forget about Aidan.
A stab wound is like that. My gut twinges. Or maybe that’s the drinks protesting.
At any rate, I’m distracted by Stefanos, the moment of his glossy hair like a shampoo commercial as he laughs again, ducking his head down as he breaks my riveted gaze.
“The prince-per-capita rating in this club is off the charts tonight.” I gaze openly at him, leaning ever so slightly in. Yes, hot. Confirmed. The evening’s starting to look better and better at last. Thank fuck.
“Absolutely—”
Then, in turn, someone careens into me, and my flirting is officially canceled.
Because it’s officially messy o’clock at the bar before last call.
And I’m drunk enough to not have my bones left for balance—and I crash hard, drink splashing first, right into Stefanos’s chest.
“Fuck!” I cry out as we attempt to grab each other.
“That’s Prince Theodor!” someone calls.
Lucky me, being recognized in this moment. Probably thanks to my lifestyle social media accounts rather than widespread public fan-personing over the Danish monarchy in London. It’s the last, fleeting thought I have as we fall.
Which is about when people start to snap photos and video.
Then, we land on the floor in a tumble of limbs, ice cubes, and shattered safety glass.