Chapter 2 Friend Zone
Friend Zone
MARC
Noah sinks a three-point shot over my outstretched hand and jogs backward, taunting. “When did you get old?”
“Do you know what time it is in Seong? I should be asleep.” I roll my neck and pass the basketball to a teammate before posting up under the basket. Thor Brosemann, Ella’s usual security detail, shoulder-checks his guard and drills the ball into my hands. I roll it in for a soft layup.
It’s not enough to win.
“Your crown,” I say, lobbing a towel at Noah’s head at the end of the game.
He rubs it over his hair as the others—an under-butler, a couple of guys from palace security, and a pastry chef—make their way to the showers. Amidst the distant clink of weight machines and classic rock, I wipe my face with the edge of my tank top and sink onto a bench.
“Are you going to give me your report?” Noah asks, throwing back a swig of water.
He’s not only my best friend but my future king. The noble families of Sondmark are still required to take an oath of allegiance to the monarch, and I, as the current holder of the van Heyden title, will bear the sword of state when Noah is crowned. When he asks a question, I have to answer.
I flick the rubber lip of the water bottle. Open. Closed. Open. Closed. “It’s worse than the press reports show.”
My words are a meager portion of the truth and a line forms in my brow until I work out why. For months, I have been reporting my daily observations to another member of the House of Wolffe. They belong to her.
“The press is reporting significant progress,” Noah prods.
I lift my shoulder and repeat the words of my government report.
“Urban centers are beginning to take shape. Farther out, we established temporary shelters and a reliable supply chain for food and other necessities, but Seong has a lot of people scattered in upland villages. Even in the capital, it’s one step forward and two steps back.
Inflation is rampant, and it’s hard to get anything but shelf-stable food. ”
His tone sharpens. “Is there a risk of famine?”
I shake my head. “Without regular shipments, maybe there would be.”
Noah tosses the ball between his palms. “Glad to be back?”
“Of course.”
My answer is brisk and certain but my thoughts stir with complexity.
I close my eyes, blocking out the opulence of the palace gym, trying to tap into the single-mindedness I woke up with every day in Seong.
Most of the time was spent getting supplies to outlying islands and organizing donations.
During what were supposed to be periods of rest, I donned a hard hat, work gloves, and face mask, clearing villages of rubble and debris.
I open my eyes to the painted ceiling depicting the old Sondish myth of the Dragonslayer and the Maiden, the apple-cheeked girl nestled in the curl of a scaly tail. The knight, clad in his requisite armor and carrying his requisite sword, is left to handle the beast on his own.
I am here, but there is another me still in Seong. Still living the story of aftershocks and refugees returning to ancestral villages. Still living the story of a whole country being stretched and stretched until everyone has a place to spread a sleeping mat.
This is Sondmark, I remind myself, where the prime minister is calling for stricter immigration controls, afraid that I will be a bridge between my mother’s homeland—a place that is stamped on the shape of my eyes and the warmth of my skin—and the country of my birth.
Vailys.
“I don’t know how you did it,” Noah says.
“With my favorite chainsaw,” I answer.
Noah palms the ball. “You didn’t have to return.”
“I can’t neglect my business any longer, and Alix is about to be married.” I smother a yawn as jetlag has its way. “She needs to step back from helping so much with the estate.”
Though I am a hereditary peer of Sondmark, I learned about duty from my mother.
My father’s greatest love was himself, followed closely by every illicit drug known to man. When he met my mother, a Seongan student and model, I’m convinced that her primary appeal for him was how much she would shock the family.
After he popped off to that great ayahuasca afterparty in the sky, everyone expected my mother—Amma—to auction off the collection of family portraits by Oppeger the Younger and retreat with her regrettably half-Asian children to London or Singapore to live off the fumes of the van Heyden fortune.
Instead, the trophy wife dug in her heels and kept Lindenholm afloat, transforming it within ten years into a brand of organic agricultural goods.
It drives Noah crazy that the Crown Estates haven’t quite caught up in terms of quality, even if they dwarf us in market share.
Because my mother devoted herself to Lindenholm, I was able to grow my startup, Han Heyden from an idea scribbled on a legal pad in a Stanford dorm room to the thriving tech company that now forms the backbone of Handsel’s reputation as the Silicon Sea.
“Amma wants to relocate to Seong,” I say. “I can’t count on anyone else to shoulder my responsibilities, and it’s time to get serious.”
Noah gives an approving nod. “You know your duty.”
“I thought you knew yours,” I smile, “but I hear you’re still chasing models.”
“I have a type.” Noah breathes a silent, bitter laugh.
I’m not the only one holding back. My oldest friend still won’t talk about the moment almost three years ago when he revealed what his type was.
We had run out to Outingen Huis after he returned from an assignment abroad and spent the day riding over fields, ending up on the beach with a bonfire.
One beer had turned into two, and then three.
After a few reckless years, he was finally beginning to understand that there would be no true escape from being the next king. For me, my father’s drug-fueled stumble from the cliffs of sobriety was my own personal cautionary tale. We weren’t there to get drunk.
I had asked a question I’d been holding on to, waiting for the right time to deploy, annoyed that I couldn’t seem to just toss it out. “What’s Ella up to these days?”
I felt myself hold my breath, waiting for his answer.
He stared at his hands so long that I was about to repeat the question. Then, “There are people we can’t be with.”
I closed up tighter than a spinster’s night robe and a response squeezed from my throat. “A crown prince can date anyone he wants.”
“Not anyone.” He tossed his beer aside and it landed with a thunk into the soft sand. “Your sister.” He snapped his fingers like he was trying to remember her name. “Alix. I can’t date her.”
I smiled against the lip of my bottle. “I already gave Alix the talk about you.”
“Deal.” Noah didn’t slur but his words were overprecise. “If I can’t date your sister, you can’t date any of mine.” He grabbed my hand and shook it, sealing the contract before I could read the fine print.
He went on, staring hard at the sky. “Employees are off-limits, too.”
“Obviously. I’m not going to start pinching your maids.”
“Can’t call them maids,” he corrected. “Housekeeping staff. I didn’t mean them.”
“Do you mean what’s-her-name? Vrouw Tiele?” His mother would go through the roof if she thought either of us were chasing her administrative personnel. The power imbalances alone were enough to make me keep my distance even if I was ever tempted by the terrifyingly self-composed secretary.
“Caroline,” he clarified. Her name was as soft as the bonfire hissing against the damp sand and his gaze shifted to the flames. He must have been silent for a full minute before he added, “Promise me you won’t date her.”
“Noah—”
“Promise.”
“Yeah. She’s not my type.”
With that, he got to his feet, tossed his shirt aside and ran into the dark waves.
He never said a word about it again, but that was the night I discovered that, as surely as Karlswagon rolls through the night sky, every model since then was just for show.
Noah bounces the ball between his knees, catching it, spinning it. “You’ve got a type too,” he says. My stomach clenches but he goes on, “I read about your dating scandal.”
I lift my eyes to the dragon and the maiden, shaking my head with a measure of relief.
The stupid peculiarity of Seongan celebrity culture is that it’s a scandal that a grown man of more than thirty summers is dating at all.
The scandal is amplified by the fact that the girl in question is a member of BLUSH, the biggest pop group to come out of East Asia.
“Is there any truth to it?”
“We did some volunteer work and went to a few fundraisers,” I say, grabbing the ball out of his hands and sinking it into the basket.
“There’s something you’re hiding,” he answers.
“When you’re ready to tell me whichever chain-smoking model you’re ready to make my next queen, I’ll tell you about Jang Mi.”
I roll the ball from my fingers and toss it to him. He takes my spot, but the ball dings off the rim. “S.”
“Speaking of fundraisers… Tell me how to thank your sister. Ella drove a lot of donations to Seongan relief.” I am trying too hard to sound casual, and I throw an unforgivably wild ball, missing an easy jump shot.
He makes a layup. “She had me call in a lawyer to work out the tax implications. Her single-mindedness has been driving our mother insane.”
I follow him, but the ball rebounds off the rim with a thunk.
“S,” he says, grinning.
“She didn’t just cut a check. She rounded up well-connected friends to spread the message—and then there were all those social media posts…
” Her help extended to sending late-night texts back and forth with her brother’s oldest friend, listening to my worries, offering practical suggestions for broadening our media reach.
Noah wants to know how I spent my time in Seong? I know.
I clear my throat and check the heavy locks on the area in my mind designated “Friend Zone”. I simply want to make sure Ella gets credit with a family that never seems to give her enough. “I owe her one.”
Noah stands at the free throw line and it swishes the ball through the net. “Yeah? Can I call in a favor?”
“You’re not Ella,” I say, dribbling the ball to the line. My mind flinches away from thinking about all the ways his sister is different.
“It’s for Ella.”
“Ask.” I position my throw, square up. I dribble and adjust my grip.
“How do I put this?” Noah wonders. “She’s struggling.”
The ball stills in my hands. “Is she still mad?”
“Hey,” Noah breaks my concentration. I look up. “What makes you say that?”
I blink and I’m back there, crawling into my bed at the end of every day, scrolling through her messages.
Ella: *covert picture of Noah in front of a slideshow* Can you talk him out of being SO excited to discuss venison harvesting on the Crown lands? *Bambi emoji, skull emoji, vomit emoji*
Ella: I got you a chainsaw. (An entire shipping container of chainsaws, tbh, and enough petrol to power them for a year.) Yours is hot pink. Happy birthday!
Ella: *edit of NGO directors skipping down the street tossing money out of their baskets* Hope tomorrow goes well! I’m praying.
Ella: Merry Christmas! Don’t ask about Freja. I saw that photo of Amma in muddy overalls and red lipstick when she met the U.N. aid envoy. Was he checking her out?
I blink and the memories retreat. “Of course she’s mad,” I answer, rolling the ball in my grip. “Her twin got married without her.”
Noah laces his fingers behind his head. “Freja is the only thing she’ll admit being mad about.
” He glances over to a couple of the housekeeping staff doing pilates and drops his voice.
“Things are bad. Mama and Père are still—” He makes a slicing motion with his hand.
“All our sisters are pairing off. She and I are the last survivors, and there’s a lot of pressure on the both of us. ”
I dribble the ball. Keep my knees soft. Stay loose. I feel it in my chest—the way it tightens when I think she’s sad or hurt or worried. “What am I supposed to do about it?” I aim, bouncing on my toes.
“She’s been relieved of official duties this spring in order to be your sister’s maid of honor.”
Hell. Flamen hell. I need to keep my distance. “Can you afford that?”
“I don’t think we can afford not to. It’s not a punishment, but my sister has always been a loose cannon and I’ve never seen her so upset. In this state, she could do anything—run off with a footman, start a revolution—and my family doesn’t need another PR crisis right now.”
My grip on the ball hardens. “What does this favor involve?”
“Nothing much. Since you’ll be so close, you can keep an eye on her for me—keep her out of trouble…” He grins. “Maybe let us know when to pack her off to a nunnery.”
A favorite Wolffe family solution. I dribble, every nerve in my body screaming for rest. It’s more than jetlag. Maybe I’m coming down with something.
“What do you say?” he prods. “Be her big brother?”