Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
I was not prepared for my arrival at the Athens airport.
Lost in my bittersweet feelings on the short flight to Athens and the heady taste of Stefanos, which lingers, it didn’t occur to me to check out social media. Or even the local news headlines. Too late.
Which, as I enter the terminal with Miles close, even away from the main concourse at this early hour, I realize immediately had been another big mistake on my part.
Inside, people record me with their phones, capturing my dazed expression.
There’s no end to the open stares. People murmur.
Airport security does their best to whiz me through their secret passages as a VIP and to my connecting London flight.
But I keep getting looks from the escorts, too, as if to confirm I’m a grade A fool.
A last glance at my phone before I put it on airplane mode at the gate shows the prince group chat that Auggie started last year sparking to life in all its chaotic glory.
James, 5:18 a.m.:
“Princes Behaving Badly” is a tabloid headline in London today
Fuck. Trust James to catch the news already, even if it is a ridiculous hour in London.
He probably has a million news alerts set up, which is the fast track to madness.
Or this debacle is already blowing up in London, and it’s caught his attention even on a night out, which sounds like my future ruin calling.
It also means the news will be hitting Denmark about now too if the story about the yacht sinking’s reached London.
Theo, 5:20 a.m.:
Shouldn’t you be sleeping?
James, 5:21 a.m.:
I haven’t been to bed, it’s early yet. Where are you? Out sinking more ships?
Theo, 5:23 a.m.:
Very funny. On my way back home to London and boarding my flight
James, 5:24 a.m.:
Let me know when you land. Buckle up for a ride old thing
Theo, 5:25 a.m.:
Thanks for the warning, I think
Great. This all sounds terrible. I groan.
Also, Auggie and John are on this chat, and who knows what they’ll think about this news?
Auggie, at least, is a more reasonable sort.
Probably the most reasonable out of the four of us.
Maybe he’ll have some good insight on what to do.
Otherwise, the world’s obviously upended when James is being sensible and warning me.
Because what the fuck would James consider chaos in his world?
Before I have a chance to wonder what exactly James might mean about what’s happening in the media, someone comes to escort me onto the plane.
Hurriedly, I swipe my phone into flight mode as we walk and try to put everything out of my mind for the next few hours.
I’ll be in the air, and there’s nothing I can do about the bad press till I reach London, I tell myself firmly.
Making myself draw in a steadying breath, I give a broad smile at the air steward who shows me to my seat, like I have no worries at all in the world.
Because, if anything else, I’m good at make-believe.
Which is why I don’t dare think about kissing Stefanos or what that felt like or what it might have led to if we—I—hadn’t sunk the yacht.
Instead of following that line of thought, I put on my royal game face, the one I save for public events—all suave charm—and push myself aside.
Despite everything, I actually fall asleep on the plane after the air stewards stop fussing over me, after assurances I’m well taken care of and I don’t need anything else. They give me a blanket, and I shut my eyes.
There are strange dreams of the sea and sinking yachts, and I’m partly aware it’s not real, but the dread is still overwhelming, and then suddenly, I’m a king on a sinking boat and alone, and my father is still dead. And I don’t know what to do.
I only wake up gasping with the pressure changes in my ears as we descend to London. They pop. I force myself to drink more water in an effort to wake up and shake off the bad dreams, which have become a habit I don’t really care for.
I’ve arranged for the VIP service to navigate me through Heathrow, and my escort meets Miles and me at the airbridge once off the plane.
Even with the fast-tracking through formalities and no checked bag, I still get a few double takes.
Including a long, quiet appraisal by the customs agent that brings relentless heat to my face.
It’s that familiar look—when I know that they know what I’ve done wrong.
I give her another one of my charming smiles as she clears me.
I text James on the drive to my flat. At least the chauffeur keeps to himself, and I search my name online.
And there are photos that I wish I hadn’t seen, because living through it once was bad enough. There are presumably millions of people seeing this—including my family. It’s beyond embarrassing.
There are pictures of Stefanos and me in matching orange life jackets, waiting on board the sinking yacht to cross over onto the other boat that rescued us, wide-eyed in the wintry weather.
Then, there are more pictures of us huddled in blankets, looking frozen and pale.
The only good news here is that there’s nothing lewd or untoward to work with, but the picture of the sinking yacht says everything.
And one thing I know for sure is that this definitely isn’t the kind of press coverage that either the Greek or Danish royals dream of or want.
Even if James insists the free publicity is worth it—definitely not the helpful kind, as far as I’m concerned, and if only I could opt out.
I sink deep into the leather seat. Social media gossip sites are full of theories and speculation about what happened.
A trend through them all is that this had to be my fault, given my tattered reputation, that I must have led Prince Stefanos astray with my wild party lifestyle, leading to inevitable disaster.
One media outlet states it’s a continuation of my affair with Stefanos that Aidan complained about.
I frown. Mostly, though, they blame me for being reckless and causing the disaster.
I guess that’s one way to take responsibility.
And it hits me—Mamma’s got to have seen this, along with Freja, most likely, or Freja will see very soon if she hasn’t yet. Even in America.
Shutting my eyes, I instead think of how it felt to finally have Stefanos so close.
The scent of his sandalwood cologne and his fresh shampoo.
The radiating heat of his body. The crush of his mouth on mine.
The couple of days together that now feel like a hazy dream, the best kind—before the yacht sank.
And I won’t be able to see Stefanos again.