Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
“How on earth are you going to find a husband if you don’t put in a solid effort, Theo?
” James chides me over a video call the next day.
I stand in my workout clothes in my kitchen as I guzzle down water after running as hard as I could on the treadmill, like that would restore some order in my world.
Cardio for the cure. Yet I couldn’t outrun my brain despite my best effort.
“Husband?” I sputter. “Who said anything about finding a husband?” I frown at James and hop up to sit on the counter. “This was about PR spin to reform my reputation.”
“Semantics.” James rolls his eyes and peers at me intently as if he’s manifesting a bigger, more ridiculous scheme. “Also, you need a husband. Like a referee.”
“James, honestly. I don’t need a husband. That won’t help.”
“You absolutely do.” James looks thoughtfully at me and rubs his jaw. “So maybe you didn’t click with Martin. How about Douglas, then? Maybe having more in common—”
“For the record, I don’t know or love these strangers.”
“That’s the brilliant part. You don’t need to.”
My frown deepens. “If I ever got married, it would absolutely be for love.”
“Royals have married for allegiances—and only allegiances—for centuries. Why, it’s a time-honored tradition.
You’d be honoring your ancestors.” James looks entirely aghast. He’s pacing some royal room in his royal residence, resplendent with lush fabrics and lavish wallpaper behind him.
“Surely they must mean something to you.”
“A tradition I don’t care to repeat.”
“Theo, Theo. You simply must get into the spirit of this. The Danes are counting on you. And your future kingdom.”
I give him an ominous look. “I’m doomed. No fake date—or fake husband—can cure this situation, believe me.”
James shakes his head. The corners of his mouth turn down. “You haven’t even tried, darling. How is it going to work unless you go all in on the plan? Who doesn’t love a marriage of convenience? Maybe I read things wrong. Maybe you want a fake wife instead?”
“I did try! Didn’t you catch the coverage from last night? And—I’m into men.”
“I know. And I saw what I saw,” James acknowledges before his expression shifts from disappointment to troubled.
“A fine start. However, I also heard the debrief about your dinner date from Martin via Frankie. I can’t believe you went home early after dinner.
Now, that sort of thing will very much tarnish your reputation. ”
“Does Martin think I’m some kind of loser? I can’t blame him if he does.”
He tsks. “No, he doesn’t. Although Martin apparently said you seemed out of sorts. Preoccupied.”
“Well, it’s reasonable to be preoccupied, given recent circumstances,” I protest, my face warming. “Wouldn’t you be in my situation? There’s a lot going on, in my defense.”
James smiles broadly, waving a hand. “For starters, I would never be in your situation. Explain this all to me again so I understand. Which, by the way, I’m frankly appalled you didn’t tell me you were going to Greece to see him.
I’ve been waiting very patiently for you to fill me in on the lead to Greece, but I think you have no intention of doing so.
” He looks incredibly disappointed in me again.
I wave him off. “I went for work. Nothing happened with Stefanos. Or the yacht. I mean, yes, a yacht was sunk. His yacht. Could have happened to anyone. It was an accident.”
James muses, “I know you, Theo. Yachts don’t sink themselves. And you’re a chaos demon.”
“We ran into a reef, okay? If you’re going to be all nosy about it. God.”
“With the Greek royals’ yacht. Polyps, remember?”
I wince, glancing away, and downing the rest of the water from the bottle. Maybe that will wash James away. Or at least cleanse the palate. “Don’t remind me. Yes, with the Greek royals’ yacht.”
“And how did you end up taking the fall for the yacht debacle?”
“It’s complicated. Like everything else.”
James gives me a knowing look. “Getting it on while underway is risky business. Also, sinking any number of yachts doesn’t get you out of the line of succession, old thing.”
“We were not getting it on. Believe me. And I wasn’t on a yacht or with Stefanos or on a yacht with Stefanos on the off chance it would get me disinherited. Just so we’re clear.”
James still looks unconvinced but doesn’t press further, undoubtedly having already moved on to the next thing to make me squirm. “I’ll email you the updated dating schedule, then. Know it, love it, abide by it.”
I narrow my eyes at him. Which, frankly, is the appropriate response. A whole schedule was never something I agreed to. Or a fake husband.
“You’re welcome,” James says with a grin and hangs up, obviously in his element.
I make it all the way to Saturday after another fake date, this time with prospect #2, Douglas, on Friday night—far more cringe than fun.
Douglas had the unnerving habit of staring at me without blinking.
In a hypercritical way that reminded me of my grandmother, and not in a good way, who was always critiquing how I looked and acted as a boy.
It would have been enough to give anyone anxiety.
Douglas asked probing personal questions, which were far too much for a first date, and more so as a royal.
Like how many properties I owned, my net worth, the value of my business.
Like I was a walking account he could draw on.
James clearly had some misinformation about Douglas.
When I asked how he knew James, he was entirely cagey.
It’s a miracle we lasted through dinner and I didn’t walk out.
But I’ve been trained to deal with challenging social situations like a hot knife through butter.
At last, I finally break and text Stefanos from the safety of a cocoon of blankets on my sofa.
Hey, wondering how you’re holding up with everything? X
There’s no response, but I suppose it’s only been two minutes of staring at my phone, attempting to manifest a text by sheer force of will.
I retreat into my blankets and stare at the dark phone on the coffee table for a good ten minutes.
Which, fair, I probably wouldn’t respond to me either after what happened.
I’m sure I’m on some Greek blacklist now.
Or Stefanos is off, simply busy living his best life.
With a sigh, I snake my other arm out of my blankets for the remote control and put on a rom-com from the ’90s for distraction. Aspirational, really.
Sometime later, my phone chimes. I sit bolt upright and dive for it, bracing myself for something silly from James or maybe from Freja, and my heart thunders double time in the hopes it’s Stefanos.
It’s not.
I shouldn’t have sold you out Ax
“Motherfucker.”
I wasn’t expecting Aidan, of all people. I shouldn’t have let my guard down for a second, hoping it would be Stefanos. It’s like Aidan has an instinct for how to optimize irritating me to no end. I glower at my phone. Take the high road, I tell myself, and ignore him.
Which is how I find myself texting back a moment later.
I agree. You shouldn’t have
It was a mistake
Yes
I want to apologize I’m sorry
Not accepted
Theo please I miss you can I call now to apologize?
No
And then he stops messaging me, thank God. Once more, I debate blocking Aidan. I do something better. Taking extra precautions, I shut my phone off and do my best to forget about everything except my film.
After watching shows till 3:00 a.m., I at last deem it safe to turn my phone on again before going to bed. No new messages appeared in the night. From either Aidan or Stefanos.
The next day, I wake to the sound of my phone buzzing a notification on the bedside table. Fumbling for the phone, I squint at the screen as I roll onto my back. It’s noon.
And there’s a text back from Stefanos. My heartbeat practically rings in my ears.
Missed your message last night. And I’m okay thanks
Sitting up, I chew my lip.
I can’t stop thinking about what happened. I’m sorry I left you to deal with everything alone
There’s a long pause. Stefanos is probably trying to come up with a polite way to tell me to fuck off. I watch him type and pause for an agonizingly long time, then start typing again.
It’s okay. I asked you to leave, remember?
I wish I was there to help
Which sparks another long episode of watching Stefanos type. I sag against the pillows and wait. Then he stops typing altogether. I slowly let go of the breath I was holding.
No message comes after a few minutes.
Is there anything I can do from here? Is your father still there? Miss you x
Then, there’s nothing at all. For a moment, I sag into the mattress and pillows to let defeat wash over me.
Excellent. I’ve officially blown it with Stefanos. With a groan, I force myself out of bed to start the day. And I do my best to not think obsessively about Stefanos, which definitely doesn’t help my situation. Or his either. It changes nothing.
Get a grip.
Sunday is long. Mamma checks in on me. I run ten kilometers on the treadmill and steam myself after in the shower.
I wash the windows. I do three loads of laundry.
I pace what must be another ten kilometers through my flat.
I try and fail to read my book several times over and instead doomscroll social media, a terrible idea.
I swear off social media for the rest of my life, or at least for the day.
Until I go down a YouTube rabbit hole about the history of the Greek monarchy.
I make an elaborate salmon dinner with steamed veg.
In the midst of putting dishes into the dishwasher, my phone buzzes again. I pounce on it like I have all day with every incoming message—but this time, Stefanos’ name glows bright on the screen.