The Pitfalls of Dating a Prince (Love in the Limelight #2)

1. Nick

Chapter one

Nick

Two Years Later

M y mother sits, her spine rigid, staring straight ahead as she twists her wedding band round and round her fourth finger.

Alex, my older brother, paces the length of the private waiting room, pausing occasionally to scrape his fingers through his hair.

My little sister, nestled into her husband’s side, sits quietly, wiping away the errant tear that falls.

My body hums with nervous energy, yet I sit still as a statue in the uncomfortable chair, praying that my father will survive.

Because if he dies, everything will change.

Sometime later, a man in scrubs pushes open the door and strides into the room with a slight smile. That upturn of the doctor's lips provides an immediate sense of relief.

“He suffered a myocardial infarction, but we've gotten His Majesty stabilized for now.”

“He’ll be alright, then?” My mother inquires, her voice clear and steady. However, her hands are knotted together so tightly that her knuckles have turned white making her faint sunspots appear more prominent.

If she noticed that, she’d hate it. My mother places great importance on appearances. Over the years that she has served as Queen Consort, she’s cultivated an infallible persona of near perfection. Sunspots and aging don’t align with infallibility.

“His condition remains critical, but if King Christian survives the night, his chance of survival is good."

The doctor's words act as a release valve for the pressure in the room. When he leaves, much of our underlying tension departs with him. He's given us a modicum of hope.

Conversation picks up. Nothing of importance, mostly small talk, but it's refreshingly normal and a welcome distraction.

“You know, if this had to happen, I’m glad it's happening in the middle of the night,” I remark to Alex when he gives up his pacing to stretch out onto the seat nearest me.

He tilts his head and raises an eyebrow.

Explaining, I say, “It gives us the rest of the night to come up with a communications strategy before we have to release a statement in the morning.”

Alex’s brow smooths. “You mean to tell me you were actually listening to some of the press secretary’s lectures you’ve received over the years?”

I roll my eyes. Of the three siblings, my rebellious nature and playboy ways have earned me far more lectures than Ellie and Alex combined. “I can’t help it if the media prefers me.”

Alex elbows me and mutters, “Shut up, you tosser. Besides, we already have plans in place for this type of situation."

A bit later, the door creaks open as my father’s closest advisor steps into the room, quietly shutting the door behind him.

Gerald’s eyes bounce around the drafty room.

For a fraction of a second, they meet my mother’s gaze before settling on me.

“Prince Nicholai, your father has requested to see you.”

Baffled glances flit between our family members.

Why does the k ing want to see me?

For much of my life, I’ve been mostly left to my own devices while my father’s attention has been focused squarely on my older brother, the crown prince. While Father is incapacitated, the duty of running the monarchy will fall to Alex and Mother, not me. I’m the spare, not the heir, after all.

I push back my chair and stride from the room, my long legs eating up the hospital corridor quickly as Gerald scrambles to catch up with me.

“Any idea what he wants with me?” I ask quietly, as I pause outside the door to my father’s hospital suite. The suffocating smell of antiseptic cleansers and the incessant beeping of machines assault my senses.

“None,” Gerald replies with a shake of his head. He grabs my arm before I push open the door. “But Prince Nicholai, I must warn you. King Christian is not well. Prepare yourself.”

When I assess Gerald’s solemn countenance, the dire gravity of the situation hits me anew. Despite surviving the heart attack, my father's health remains precarious. Taking a deep breath, I push back my shoulders and stand tall.

But when I step into the room, I falter.

My father has always possessed a larger-than-life persona.

His tall stature, booming voice, and charismatic personality made him seem invincible to me as a child, so it’s difficult to reconcile the frail, ghastly pale man lying in the hospital bed with the man who helped raise me.

“Nicholai, come sit, my son," my father says, his voice scratchy, his words garbled and thick in his throat.

Since my father would hate to be the subject of my pity, I pause to knock back the heavy emotions threatening to overcome me. Taking a seat next to his bed, I sit quietly, waiting for him to speak again.

“Nicholai, your brother will need you. Without an established line of heirs, the country will be rife for discord. There will be a tug-of-war for power, and the pressure for Belgrovinia to become a ceremonial monarchy will increase."

"Father, those pressures always exist—"

"But upon my death, the pressure will increase dramatically.” I open my mouth to argue that his death is not imminent, but my father cuts me off.

His words are halting, and they slow with each sentence he utters.

His face, already ashen, begins to dot with perspiration from exertion.

“Ultimately, the success of the monarchy depends on the continuing support of our people. It’s imperative that our family represents the essence of stability.

We must be worthy of our subjects' loyalty, especially given the upheaval that will surely come in the days following my death.”

My gut churns hearing his second open declaration that his death looms on the horizon.

He pats my cheek. “I haven't told you enough how proud I am of you.

I wish things had been different between us…

" he trails off. "You've always possessed a great amount of fortitude and perseverance.” My father coughs, the sputtering sound blanketing the room, as I watch him fearfully.

Once his coughing subsides, my father wipes the spittle from his mouth and gasps for breath.

“Promise me, Nicholai. Promise me that…”

“Anything, Father.” I grab his hand, voluntarily touching him for the first time in years. Because I, too, wish things had been different between us .

“It’s time to fulfill your duty to your family. Promise me that you will put the needs of the Crown, and especially the needs of your brother, above your own. Alex will need your counsel and your strength to establish himself as a capable and stalwart monarch."

My older brother is my closest friend and ally, so without a second of indecision, I reply, “I promise.”

Two weeks ago, I submitted my final paper for my graduate degree. I was getting dressed to attend a house party with my flatmates.

But then my entire life was upended by a phone call from my older brother ordering me to get to the hospital because my father had suffered a serious heart attack. Like I feared, everything changed that awful night.

In the days following my father’s death, the palace was an ant mound of activity.

Palace officials scurried about, organizing the funeral details, coordinating meetings with the Accession and Privy Councils, and beginning the lengthy process of planning my brother’s coronation.

Because the Belgrovinian laws of succession state that the nation cannot be without a reigning monarch, my brother has already taken the oath to become king, but the official coronation ceremony will take place next year, after an appropriate period of mourning.

As royals, we’re a stoic, resilient bunch.

We’ve been trained since birth to suppress our emotions, and once that habit becomes ingrained, it’s difficult to shake, even in the midst of a family tragedy.

But the cracks and crevices in our facades grow as reality sinks in.

With our nation's citizens, we mourn the loss of our leader, but privately, we mourn the loss of an integral member of our immediate family.

Yes, our king passed away, but my father died.

With the slower days, grief has more time to creep in.

I hate seeing the anguish on my younger sister's face and the fret and worry on my mother's brow.

I hate the feelings of sadness and regret that now color my days.

But mostly, I hate the colossal burden that has been placed upon my older brother's shoulders at the tender age of twenty-eight.

I still cannot believe that my father is dead and that my brother is now king.

I miss my father, and selfishly, I miss the life I led while he was alive.

My life, or rather my future, looks vastly different now than it did mere weeks ago.

It’s as if my life has been separated into two distinct eras—before my father’s death and after.

Before I received the devastating news of my father’s heart attack, my life was relatively normal.

Or as normal as life can be for a prince.

I was a university grad student finishing my MBA.

I had a steady friends-with-benefits arrangement with a woman named Carisa and several other women willing to fill her spot should Carisa and I choose to call it quits.

I was set to travel after graduation, enjoying time off before returning to Belgrovinia to begin my career in international relations and business, rather than as a working royal for the Crown.

As a younger sibling in a royal family, I escaped much of the pressures that my older brother faced while growing up.

My sister, the youngest and frighteningly shy, led a more sheltered life.

Of the three of us, I had the most normal upbringing, though my privileged life is far from what most would consider normal .

To the outside world, I live a charmed life: palatial residences, international travel, top-notch education, and bank accounts with more zeros than you can count.