Chapter 6
Friends! I’m reporting to you from within the palace, where I’m shadowing none other than everyone’s favorite royal rogue, Prince Max. That’s right, I’m now officially a guest of His Majesty the King.
Call a prince a man-child and suddenly I’m living in the lap of regal luxury.
Who knew?
So, what have I been up to? First order of events was a tour of the palace, given by none other than Prince McHottie Junior himself, Max.
I'll be honest, I expected the usual royal dog-and-pony show. You know, this is where my great-great-grandfather received dignitaries, delivered with all the enthusiasm of someone reading the tax code.
What I got might have started out that way, but then it took a turn for the interesting.
The Max who showed me the state rooms was perfectly polite, perfectly distant, and perfectly bored, probably wishing he was on a private island somewhere, sipping champagne and downing caviar.
So far, so predictable.
But then we hit the kitchens, the staff quarters, places where actual humans keep this marble monument functioning. Suddenly, I wasn't looking at the same man anymore.
He became someone else instead.
He remembered that a footman’s grandson was playing on a soccer team. The palace chef practically glowed with genuine maternal fondness when she saw him.
Darlings, I nearly got whiplash from the change in this man.
We all know he’s dashingly handsome. We all know he has a zest for life that makes even a confetti cannon seem understated. But which is the real Prince Max?
I have a month to figure it out. A month of unprecedented access to unravel the mystery that is Prince Maximilien.
Lucky, lucky me.
Stay tuned. This is going to get interesting.
Yours always,
Fabiana Fontaine xx
#SpoiledOrSincere
#RogueRoyal
#RoyalConundrum
Max
Here's the thing about me. I’ve never responded well to being forced into doing something I don’t want to do.
Call it a last-born thing, or whatever you like, but I don’t deal well with being hemmed in.
Having attended boarding school and later, entering the Royal Air Force after I graduated from Cambridge, I've had enough of being told what to do to last a lifetime.
And now I’ve been told to play nice with a woman I despise. What’s worse, she’s a woman who’s reporting on my every move.
Don’t get me wrong, I get it. My parents are trying to change the perception of me that has hung around my neck like a bad smell since I first hit the headlines as a 15-year-old who had no idea that drinking vodka neat would make me quite as drunk as I ended up being.
On a rooftop.
In January.
Na?ve? Sure. But then no one ever said 15-year-old boys are known for their smart choices.
My whole group of friends had thought it was a great idea at the time. What could go wrong, they asked? Try one of my mates falling off and breaking a leg for starters, and then the press finding out about it—which made zero percent difference to my mates, and one hundred percent difference to me.
It was the beginning of my “choices” becoming headline news, and soon enough the press expected me to mess up, which I did, rather too often.
A few years later, Fabiana Fontaine arrived on the scene, a journalist who somehow gets the inside track on everything I do. And she loves name-calling. McHottie Junior, Mad Max, himbo, and her most recent jibe, man-child.
The public laps it up, and I’ve had more trending hashtags than Father has rules carved into stone, and that man sure loves his rules.
It's only 9:17 AM, and we've been stuck in a conference room, which I’ve rapidly concluded was designed to make uncomfortable situations even more excruciating. Despite the padded seating and rich mahogany of the table, it’s like this the conversation is on repeat.
And that repeat? An endless discussion about my so-called “public image rehabilitation.”
Apparently, the woman who’s been talking for years about how vapid and ridiculous I am is the one who’s going to resurrect my image.
The irony of the situation is not lost on me.
When Fabiana steps out of the room to take a call, I let out a breath. It’s just me, Ronan, and Pippa Chen, the palace’s concession to modern times, who was hired to help “connect with younger demographics.”
Ronan shuffles through his papers. His controlled demeanor hasn’t slipped once during today’s torture, which is more than I can say for mine.
“Remember, sir,” he says, adjusting his glasses. “We want to maintain an air of dignified cooperation here. Admittedly, Ms. Fontaine is sharp-tongued—”
“Aka rude,” I interject.
“The key is not to let her, shall we say, get under your skin,” he says.
I harrumph. Too late for that.
“It's not as though she's the first journalist I've ever dealt with. I’m sure I can handle her.”
“But she is the first journalist who's made 'man-child Max' a trending hashtag,” Pippa adds helpfully.
My jaw tightens. “Hmm.”
“I like her,” Pippa declares.
Of course she does. Pippa’s so oblivious to people’s hidden agendas, she’d happily invite Darth Vader and his entire army of stormtroopers to brunch for a nice chat.
“I've been following her for years. She’s smart and got some really good ideas. Her social media strategy is absolutely brilliant. Have you seen her hashtags?” Pippa enthuses.
“I’m rather too familiar with her hashtags,” I grind out.
But Pippa is on a roll about Fabiana. “She understands how to create authentic engagement without sacrificing journalistic integrity. Her reels and TikToks are—"
“I’m not doing TikToks,” I warn.
“Why not?” Pippa asks.
I lift an eyebrow. “The King and Queen wouldn’t approve, as Princess Amelia will attest.”
“I say let’s hear her out,” Pippa declares, and Ronan and I share a look that says let’s not.
The truth is, yesterday's palace tour with Fabiana left me strangely unsettled. She’s exactly how she comes across in her articles. Sharp, sarcastic, and thoroughly unimpressed by me. What I hadn't expected was the way her green eyes flashed when she was teasing me about “Queen Bertha”.
Or the attractive curve of her cheek when she pulled her lips into a smile.
Or the way she held herself with a quiet confidence, even when Timmy showed his distrust of her.
And then there was the time I leaned closer to her to tell her about Chef Margot, and I caught a hint of her scent. Something soft and sweet and completely disarming.
It was…inconvenient.
Of course I knew she was an attractive woman. I’m not blind. But it’s one thing to know someone is attractive; it’s quite another to feel it in their presence.
And I did feel it. I felt it in her quips, in the way she looked at me, in the way she moved.
Dang it! Developing a thing for my arch-nemesis? Terrible, terrible timing, particularly when we’re about to embark on a full month together.
Because as pretty as she is, as alluring as her scent may be, I refuse to be seduced by her womanly charms. Fabiana Fontaine is the enemy, and I must keep her at arm’s length.
The door flies open, and Fabiana steps back into the room, her signature ponytail swinging, her face flushed, rendering he even more attractive.
Get it together, Max.
“Sorry about that,” she says as she lowers herself onto the chair opposite me. “Where were we?”
“You were telling us about your brilliant social media strategy,” Pippa says eagerly.
“That’s right. I was suggesting how you could drag the monarchy into the twenty-first century,” she says.
Ronan's eyebrows climb toward his hairline. “That's one way to frame our objectives, Ms. Fontaine.”
“You might have noticed that in the interests of saving time, I prefer directness, Mr. Clementine.” She glances around the room, her eyes landing on mine, and utterly against my will, my belly does something that seems suspiciously like a flip.
Settle it down, Max. She’s the enemy, remember?
Pippa practically vibrates with excitement. “Directness is fantastic!”
Ronan slides a thick wad of paper across the table to Fabiana. “I suggest we put a pin in the whole TikTok idea for now. I've prepared an outline for the documentary series we believe will effectively showcase His Royal Highness in a comprehensive light. If you’d care to take a look?”
She eyes the document as though it were an incendiary device in need of expert detonation. “With all due respect, Mr. Clementine, I believe TV documentary formats have about as much relevance today as a coop of carrier pigeons. Except for David Beckham’s series, that is.”
So, she’s got a thing for Beckham, has she?
And if that’s a small stab of jealousy I feel, I’m not going to give it the time of day.
Ronan's impassive face tightens. “Ms. Fontaine, while we appreciate innovative thinking, the dignity inherent in royal representation must be considered.”
Fabiana wastes no time in pouncing on his words. “My point exactly! Isn’t it time to try something new? Something fresh? And besides, dignity doesn't trend.”
I find myself leaning forward despite my best intentions. "What exactly are you proposing, Ms. Fontaine?"
She turns those impossibly green eyes on me once more and I will my belly not to repeat its preposterous flip.
Fail.
Geez.
“I'm proposing we meet your audience where they actually are, sir. YouTube vlogs, Instagram reels, TikTok videos. Footage that shows who you really are instead of the carefully curated version your PR team has been peddling for generations.”
Ronan scoffs. “You’re suggesting His Royal Highness becomes a social media influencer?” His lip curls in disgust as though Fabiana has just suggested we use eBay to auction off the crown jewels.
“No. I want to turn him into a relatable human being,” Fabiana replies with a smile that could cut glass.
Pippa nods enthusiastically. She’s drunk Fabiana’s Kool-Aid and is coming back for a refill. “The engagement rates on authentic content are absolutely amazing compared with traditional media. Gen Z in particular responds to unfiltered content.”