The Royal Treatment: A Billionaire Prince Romance Read online

  Then, impossibly because her eyes are closed, little baby Elizabeth reaches out and wraps a tiny hand around my index finger. All five fingers are perfect, and I even note the miniature fingernails and how tightly she grips me. How could everything that makes a human being fit into such a small package? How could she be the perfect blend of Henry and Catherine and still be something more?

  I feel the force of her hand clasped around my finger more than anything else in my life.

  “She apparently likes her uncle,” Catherine muses. She doesn’t know the inner turmoil that’s raging through me right now. Not even Henry knows. No one here does.

  Except for one person. Sure, others may know bits and pieces, and they may have guessed themselves. But only one knows the depths of hell I went through.

  And I lost her nearly fifteen years ago.

  “Excuse me,” I whisper, getting up from my spot on the bed. Elizabeth lets go of my hand without protest or fighting me, and the break in our contact strikes me as well.

  “Ferdie?” Henry asks as I head to the door. I pass by Phillip and Eric who look bewildered, but they make no move to stop me.

  Don’t call me that name, every fiber of my being shouts. I’ve asked you so many times for you assholes not to fucking call me that.

  I grit my teeth, taking that one moment to still my racing heart and glance back at my brother. “I’ll be right back,” I say. I pull out my cell phone and wave it. “I have to make a few calls. Lots of them,” I amend. Anything to escape this hospital room.

  No asks me any more questions as I rush out into the hallway and down the corridor. As a therapist in Dubreva, I have been here many, many times. I’ve always avoided the maternity ward if I can help it, though.

  It takes me a few minutes to find a quiet spot where no one will bother me or question why one of the princes is off by himself. I just need some time to myself, to regain my composure.

  To be the Ferdinand that everyone has come to expect over the past fifteen years.

  I lean my back against the wall, heaving deep breaths through my nose. I still have my cell phone in my hands, and I wonder if I could run an internet search for Lex and see what she’s up to. Inevitably, she has popped up in the news over the years, but I’ve always stopped short of doing my own research.

  She wanted space. I’m giving it to her.

  But fuck…I could really do with one person understanding how hard it is for me to deal with all this right now. Someone to sympathize and tell me that everything will be all right.

  So I slide down the wall, not caring if it rumples my dress shirt and my slacks. If I had thought about it, I would have changed out of my suit for something more comfortable before going to the hospital, but there’s always been a sense of…propriety that I can never seem to shake. Especially since we’re in the public eye so much.

  I believe it’s why everyone thinks I’m distant. That and my clinical detachment when talking with people.

  But it’s not that. It’s not that at all.

  If I were truly a good therapist to my patient-self, I would have done something a long time ago to help, rather than simply treat the symptoms over the years. I’ve ruined friendships and nearly lost my brother in the process.

  I draw one leg up and stretch the other across the floor. I lean my head back against the wall and look up at the ceiling.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper to the air. “Goddammit, I’m so sorry.”

  And nobody else knows it.

  2

  Ferdinand

  My childhood home has always been too large, in my opinion. Hanover Palace’s maze of rooms, hallways, and foyers seemed to stretch on forever when I was younger, and now, it’s even more empty as I’m living here all by myself.

  I took ownership of it when I came back from being stationed overseas. Mother had just died, and Henry went off to Australia to find himself.

  Meanwhile, I can’t seem to find myself no matter what I do.

  Really, as a single man living in a 500-room castle, I should turn it into something else. Or give it up to Henry and Catherine, because there’s at least three of them compared to me. Sure, there are a few servants and the hired help that live here—I insist that they do, because it would be a huge waste of resources for my small country not to have the rooms occupied.

  There’s just something soulless about a castle without a huge family.

  And there’s nowhere near enough people to fully occupy the estate.

  I sit at the end of the five-meter long dining table, cutting into my roast duck. Mrs. Armen, my housekeeper, always insists that I eat a five-course meal every night. Even on nights like these when I want to be alone.

  It’s ridiculous, really, sitting here with a scant meter of the table dressed and set for one person. I’ve always invited the help to eat with me, but I think they’re so intimidated by eating with me that they won’t. Mrs. Armen and her family will sit with me at times, but tonight is not one of those nights.

  She’s working with her teenage son on algebra homework for a test tomorrow and had dinner in the kitchens earlier.

  I swirl my glass of 1951 vintage Australian red wine in honor of Henry’s time in the country before taking a sip. The predominantly Shiraz wine is smooth as it goes down. I want to drink the rest of this bottle of wine, and possibly another bottle, and drown my sorrows in my room.

  It wouldn’t be the first time that I did so, either.

  I exhale through my nose and set the glass down. I’ve learned the hard way that in order to get through some nights, you just have to go through the motions of living.

  Sometimes you pull out of it.

  Sometimes you don’t.

  “You’ve hardly touched your dinner,” Mrs. Armen scolds me as she comes in from the kitchen. She clicks her tongue in disappointment as she sits adjacent to me. I guess she must have just finished homework with her son.

  The corner of my mouth pulls up in a smirk. One of the things I’m so glad about having Mrs. Armen in the house is that she’s completely comfortable around me.

  Enough to pluck the roll off my plate and start eating it. She can be very formal at times, and at others, she can be very…informal.

  “Well,” I mutter amusedly as I push my plate toward her. “You’re more than welcome to it.”

  “It’s a waste of food,” she says, raising an eyebrow. “And I’ve already had dinner with my son.” A slender woman in her mid-fifties with hair graying at her temples, Mrs. Armen can send the other hired help into a panic with her harsh words, yet she’s taken on a motherly role with me.

  “I guess I have to eat it then,” I say dryly.

  She gives a slow nod. “You do. It would be a shame not to. You’d hurt Christian’s feelings.”

  My private chef Christian always equates his self-worth to how well his food is received. He is a perfectionist to the point of obsession, which is probably why he’s considered one of the finest chefs in Dubreva.

  And that is probably why his paycheck is so exorbitant. Then again, I’m keeping him to myself. It’s one of my few indulgences.

  I guess that is pretty indulgent, all things considered.

  I roll my eyes playfully as I pick up my knife and fork and start to slice off another piece of duck. Mrs. Armen watches me like a hawk as I pop it into my mouth and chew.

  She sits back finally, satisfied. “Good. Now I won’t have to keep Christian from threatening to quit.”

  “He wouldn’t quit,” I mutter.

  “You don’t know how much stake he puts into every meal.”

  I hold up a piece of duck. “This is not steak, Mrs. Armen.”

  She scoots the plate over toward her side of the table, picks up an asparagus and starts eating. Not even Mrs. Armen can resist Christian’s food for very long. That is usually the case with me, but I don’t have much of an appetite right now.

  It’s like I feel empty inside, but I don’t have the energy or the willpower to fill it up
with anything. Almost like I deserve this emptiness.

  “You’re really missing out on this delicious food, Ferdinand,” she tells me. “And you only ever do this if there’s something weighing heavily on your mind.” She meets my eyes. “What is wrong?”

  I let out a sigh and put my utensils down. “Just been a long day.” I comb a hand through my hair, mussing it lightly. “I’m not feeling very well. I think.”

  Mrs. Armen regards me for a long moment, chewing on her asparagus thoughtfully. “I saw Henry post a picture of his daughter to his social media today,” she says. “That baby is sweet.”

  My chest tightens at her words. “Yes, she is,” I agree truthfully. “Perfect in every way.”

  “Who would have thought?” She shifts in her chair and crosses her arms. “Who would have thought that Henry would be the first of you to settle down?”

  “I can hardly believe it myself.” I pick up my Shiraz again and raise it in a mock toast before taking another sip. “It’s...definitely a surprise.”

  “A change for the better.”

  “Right,” I say dryly.

  “Is that what’s going on with you?” She raises an eyebrow. “That Henry is at this point of life instead of you?”

  I lick my lips and stare at a spot above my plate. “Yes.” The single word leaves my mouth and I feel the tiniest bit better having said it out loud. Admitting that there is something wrong with me. Admitting that I’m not fine and haven’t been since I was eighteen.

  She nods. “Thought so. You ever think about speaking to a therapist about it?”

  “Mrs. Armen, I am a therapist.”

  She pats my knee. “And just because you are one, you think you’re invincible and don’t need help. But, Ferdinand, if you need it, please talk to someone.”

  I’m about to shake my head, but she gives me a stern look.

  “You need to take care of yourself, Ferdinand,” she says. “I worry about you.”

  That makes two of us, but I just give her a wan smile. “I’ll think about it,” I say to appease her.

  She looks skeptical, and I know that my housekeeper can see through my bullshit. And she always has. I can be a bit of a prick otherwise.

  “Good,” Mrs. Armen says. She heaves herself to her feet. “Now I know for a fact that Christian was making tiramisu. And I want a piece, too.”

  “You realize that tiramisu has thirty grams of fat per serving, don’t you?” I call after her.

  “And life is short, Ferdinand.” She waggles her finger at me. “Don’t you forget it.”

  I shake my head as she leaves through the dining hall doors. And I’m alone once again. I sigh and sit back, looking out the darkened window.

  I wonder what Lex is doing now. If she’s still torn up by the events from fifteen years ago like me.

  3

  Alexandra

  Long ago, I was to be married to royalty.

  Twice.

  Two different princes at two different times.

  The first prince was because his mother deemed me a fine match for her son, the crown prince. Luckily, it never proceeded beyond that because we were never attracted to each other.

  The other prince, I had been secretly engaged to. And I threw his ring back in his face when things became too hard. When my heart was broken beyond repair.

  Through sickness and in health, those were supposed to be our vows. And we were together until a death made us part.

  We both lived through it. Our love did not.

  I swirl my champagne in my flute, looking at the bubbles as they float to the top. There’s something serene about champagne. Especially when there’s the flurry of an evening charity ball around you.

  I touch my lips to the glass and take a dainty sip. Rubbing elbows with America’s elite in Washington D.C. always needs some sort of social lubrication, and I have been running pretty low in that regard all night. There is a pineapple sitting in the middle of the spread of hors d'oeuvres. The classic sign of hospitality in a situation where everyone wants something from someone else. At these kinds of events, there’s always plenty of schmoozing, plenty of ass-kissing, and plenty of whispers about what everyone else is wearing. And who everyone else is screwing.

  I just used the words ass-kissing in my thoughts. I’ve been living in America too long, apparently, if I’m using that phrase easily without thinking about it. Comes from being an ambassador here for the past seven years.

  “How’s it going?”

  I glance up to see my boyfriend, James, looking sexy as ever in his tux as he picks up a champagne flute from a tray as a waiter passes by. He takes a not-as-dainty drink, and I can’t help but smile at him.

  “The usual,” I say with a sigh. “I already had an aide try to feel me up.” James raises a quizzical eyebrow, and I smirk. “I had to politely inform him that the senator from Oregon wouldn’t appreciate that kind of behavior toward his girlfriend. Especially when I told him which senator.”

  “Did he stop?”

  “Oh, he ran away with his tail between his legs.” I take another sip and eye him up and down. “How has it been for you?”

  James lets out a long breath and sighs before taking another drink.

  I chuckle. “That bad, huh?”

  A look of pain crosses James’s face, and he leans closer to me. “It’s all a game to these people.” He leans against the railing and overlooks the ballroom, and I join him, watching the people as they move from group to group. So much fake laughter in these things. So many false promises.

  “It’s like that show with kings and queens trying to gain political favor with each other,” he mutters. He swirls the champagne and frowns down upon it. “And they end up just killing each other.”

  “They never said that politics would be fun, my love,” I tell him gently. “It’s a lot more fun on TV, and I think you’d go far in that show.” I pat his hand. “You’re doing marvelously.”

  And he truly is. As the junior senator from Oregon, he’s already made an impact in his first two years in office. It’s part of what attracted me to him in the first place. A politician who is as honest as he is tall. Who would have ever thought?

  “I just didn’t expect it to be so...political.” He glances over at me as I barely contain my chuckle. “Seriously, Alex,” he says, “how did this not fuck you up from day one?”

  “Well,” I say at length, fighting my own laughter that threatens to bubble up out of me. I set my flute on a high table and take his hands in mine. “Back then, it was my father who was the ambassador, not me.”

  “But you’ve been to these kinds of parties your whole life.” He gives a furtive glance around us, as if people care enough to overhear us. Truth is, they probably do—after all, the press in America love to keep us in the headlines just as much for our relationship as they do for James’s politic standing in Washington. James is shaking up American politics like few before him, but the press loves a young, up-and-coming power couple.

  It’s constantly putting him in the spotlight, and my heart goes out to the man I love. So I straighten his tie. “Just be you, and everything else will work out just fine.” I close my eyes and inhale his scent. James smells the best out of any man I’ve ever met. His cologne matches him perfectly, like it’s tailor-made for him.

  I find myself just basking in it at times. Like right now.

  I open my eyes to see that the corner of the right side of his mouth is pulled up in a smirk. “You think it will?” he asks me.

  I meet his eyes and nod. “Yes,” I tell him as I rap my knuckles on a wooden side table for good luck. “I think it will.”

  I tend to be right about things like this, too. I’ve been in politics my whole life, so I can spot someone who can make great things happen from a mile away. That’s not why I was originally drawn to James, but it’s how I know he’s a good man through and through.

  He kisses me, a light peck on the lips which, for stuffy parties like these, can be consider
ed scandalous. We stay like this for a few moments, just being close together. In his arms, I feel happy. Here, I feel almost full for the first time in fifteen years.

  Almost.

  He squeezes my hand with a reluctant sigh. “I’ll be right back. I have to schmooze some more.”

  “Don’t do too much ass-kissing, my love.” I wink. “Those lips are mine.”

  He chuckles, and I watch as he leaves me. I cross my arms and smile softly to myself as I see my handsome Prince Charming speak to others around the circuit. Magnetic, confident, and beautiful, crowds gather around James.

  He’s a prince in his own right. He fought hard and scrabbled his way to where he is now, after two tours in Afghanistan and working his way through Harvard Law School before getting into politics.

  A good man. And I don’t think the pressures that most politicians buckle under will ever get to him.

  Meanwhile, I’ve had my own pressures this whole time.

  I sigh and pick up another champagne from a waiter and take a sip. This is my third of the night, and I know I need to pace myself if I’m going to keep my wits about me. Because, like James, I need to do my own schmoozing in order to make my own connections.

  I speak with the Secretary of the Interior and her family. The senators from New York and Massachusetts, who are also here. The Chief of Staff for the White House. And a few ambassadors from other countries. I have to remember their names, their families, and ask how their days are going. Conversations that, isolated, I wouldn’t mind having with these people, but it takes a toll having it back to back, and I hate that I have to do it in this setting.

  It comes easily to me because I’ve been doing this since I was eight with my father.

  By the time we sit down to dinner, I’ve spoken to dozens of people, and I’m working on my fifth champagne to get me through it. I’ve lost track of James among the crowd as we all disperse to our tables, which is strange, as I’m supposed to be sitting next to him.