How to Love a Prince (Being Royal #2)

Chapter 1

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.

The shock ripples down my spine in waves, my face hot as I keep staring at my phone. The message is bright against black glass. I watch and wait, as if another, better text will manifest. This has to be an April Fool’s joke misfire—getting started early in January.

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

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.

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.

When I ring him, it goes immediately to voicemail. The coward.

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.

Like how I was the center of his attention at first. Then, Aidan was jealous of all my ex-boyfriends.

And all of my male friends. He would text me constantly if I was out somewhere without him.

And Aidan wouldn’t ever take responsibility when he did something wrong.

I wrote it off as Aidan being generally a poor communicator with everyone.

I text instead.

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 sandy-brown 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, Prince James, a cousin of the future British King, Prince Auggie. So, James, as a fellow royal, is a reliable sort.

My mouth opens as I read on.

“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?”

Obviously, it’s real. Too real. Aidan may have had his issues, but tabloid reveals about me seemed far-fetched. In theory.

“It’s real,” James confirms while my head spins and everything wobbles. The room is too close, and all the oxygen has disappeared from the flat, like someone’s siphoned it all out. “Sorry to say.”

“Right,” I declare. “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 collect my bodyguard, Miles, and 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 versus 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 and wind 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.

Miles stays out of the private dining room, led to his nearby 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, er, plans changed this evening. I’m now expecting Prince James and his guest, Frankie Lee-Smith, instead of Aidan Fitzwilliam. Thank you.” My lips twitch only the slightest amount at the effort of mentioning his name. Like I’m used to kissing poison.

With a tumble of apologies, the staff add a place setting and a chair to the table while I order a Corpse Reviver cocktail 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 on my phone’s browser, and I’m soon rewarded with the exclusive story to match the headline James sent me.

After all, I’m invested in finding out more about “the truth” about me.

It’s terrible.

There’s Aidan, looking bashful and wide-eyed as he, with a liquid tongue, spills a silken pack of lies. Transfixed and horrified, I scroll.

“The Truth” About Danish Prince Theodor: Ex-Boyfriend Tells All in Exclusive!

Aidan Fitzwilliam, entrepreneur, met with Daily News in an exclusive interview, and revealed his difficult relationship with the glamorous—but “troubled”—Prince Theodor of Denmark. Theodor lives in London, operating his creative consultancy business and lifestyle influencing social media channels.

Following the tragic death of Danish King Christian last year after a brief illness, Fitzwilliam, 28, was soon spotted at the grieving prince’s side.

Fitzwilliam selflessly dedicated himself to consoling Prince Theodor, 27, through his terrible loss.

The prince soon lost himself in alcohol, men, and endless events as he failed to cope, Fitzwilliams reports.

“I had no choice but to leave him, after the many affairs. And all the drinking. It was dreadful,” confesses Fitzwilliam, the only beau who has bravely put up with the Danish prince’s antics for more than a handful of dates.

“Theodor would go to endless parties. He has a wandering eye, and he’s a philanderer.

Theodor’s totally unreliable. I don’t know how he’ll amount to anything at this rate. ”

The last straw for Fitzwilliams was Theodor’s “appalling” behavior at the society event of the season in London, the lavish engagement party for Zoe Bourne, 24, and Patrick Delaney, 30.

Prince Theodor hung off singer Zoe Bourne’s fiancé’s every word, the sought-after actor Patrick Delaney.

Theodor and Delaney polished off “bottles of champagne” and “shut the party down,” according to Fitzwilliam, who comforted the tearful Bourne.

“I should have known he would break my heart,” Fitzwilliams lamented to our correspondent Kirstie Le Sauvage-Smith, “since Theo’s the notorious black sheep of his family.

I should have listened to the warnings. But I was entirely caught off guard by his relentless charm offensive.

And now, I’ve been blindsided by Theo’s selfishness, after everything I did for him.

The least he could have done is show up sober to my birthday party.

Yet he was passed out drunk by 8pm. He even had the nerve to tell me he wished he was in Copenhagen when I complained. Rude.”

Fitzwilliams launches his own skincare line, True Glow Radiance, next month, which will be available soon at exclusive boutiques across London. A flagship shop is scheduled to open later this year.

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 I only had one drink before we went out for Aidan’s birthday—I was very far from passed out.

Aidan cleverly omitted the last thing I wanted to do was go to an ostentatious party two months after my father died.

True, I did tell him I wished I were in Copenhagen—because my mother had been in tears on the phone earlier that night, and it felt too soon to celebrate anything after my father’s passing.

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’m hardly selfish. Plus, Patrick Delaney seems a lot queerer than he’s publicly let on—or confessed to his girlfriend when he spilled everything to me, a captive audience over champagne in a private corner.

The product placement is the cherry on top.

When James and Frankie arrive, I get up to exchange hugs with them both, my mind racing.

“Put your phone 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 and gives me a stern look, then reaches for a menu.

Beside him, Frankie’s deep brown eyes crinkle against 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 after Auggie. He was a tough act to follow, but I’m not telling that to anyone. I probably should have taken things more seriously back then. “And I’m too annoying to love, anyway,” I say flippantly. “Too messy.”

“If it makes you feel better,” James says conspiratorially, 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!”

None of this makes me feel the least bit better.

“From Windsor Castle. John told me,” James explains with a nonchalant shrug, peering at me over his menu.

Prince John is James’ younger brother, third and fourth in line to the British throne after Prince Auggie and Princess Anne, their cousins.

James and John are both cut from the same cloth of chaos.

“He saw them at the weekend. Caught them red-handed in the tack room, actually. Bit of a scandal. John 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 again.

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 and had no royal baggage.

But then, Jonathan left me too, breaking my heart because I was foolish enough to fall in serious like with him.

I swear he liked his hounds more than me.

In fact, I know he did. There was a string of men after that, true.

But when I met Aidan, I thought it was for real. Real love.

Real disaster.

I don’t breathe a word of that.

Forget love.

“A bottle of absinthe, please,” James orders, looking at me with something close to pity, when a waiter appears. He knows me too well. “I think we might need it.”