Chapter 6

6

ADRIAN

Phillipe's laboratory resembles what you would get if you mixed the sets of a medical drama with those from science fiction movies. Test tubes, burners, a few large machines that do God only knows what, and a large cylindrical rock that almost looks like a petrified egg. I sometimes fear my brother is either trying to raise the dinosaurs ala Jurassic Park or take over the world. Perhaps both.

He glares at me through his safety goggles. At least, I think he is glaring. The thick plastic distorts his eyes so I can't be entirely sure. Shaking his head, he picks up the grinder and finishes…grinding, I suppose.

I'm not sure what he's working on, but I've found it's usually best not to ask.

No matter what Phillipe thinks, I am not hiding in his dungeon. Why would I hide? The press conference went better than expected, considering I let my parents, Jasella, and the country down. Overall, it should bother me more than it does. But I'm not married to Jasella, so I mostly feel…relieved.

And restless.

The lab is vast and since Phillipe already chastised me for pacing, I stroll around the room instead, stopping at a pegboard containing various tools and gadgets. When the grinding stops, I hold up an oddly shaped pair of tongs. "What are these?"

"Stop touching things." He watches until I return the tool to its spot. "And the answer is clear. You like him. Go see him."

"I can't just fly off to America."

Phillipe straightens from his workbench and removes his goggles so he can give me that look. Right.

"I can't just fly off to America again . Happy?"

"I'd be happier if you weren't touching my things and pacing in my work area."

Our parents had the laboratory built so Phillipe could experiment in peace without blowing up the palace. It was probably a dungeon at one point in the distant past. Now? It's a place to indulge a prince who likes experimenting, inventing things, and privacy.

"What would I tell Mother and Father? There's this guy I quite like?—"

"Adrian, they won't care."

"You can't know that." I lean against the giant cooler and cross my arms.

"I can. Their stance on LGBTQ+ issues is clear?—"

I shake my head. "Being accepting and accepting it in your own son—a future king—are two different things."

"They shouldn't be."

I start to respond when my mobile beeps with a text.

"Who's that?"

"Reggie. He needs to speak to me. And it's urgent." I type out a quick reply.

"Perfect. That means I can return to my work."

"Actually—"

A knock at the door interrupts us, and Phillipe scowls. "Seriously, Adrian? This isn't a conference room. Get your own space."

I ignore my brother and let Reginald in. He glances around, his eyes darting from the computer and machine parts to the grinding tool in Phillipe's hand.

"Pardon me, Your Highnesses. Sorry to interrupt."

I wave away his concerns. "What's happened?"

He glances at Phillipe. My brother has returned to his project and is ignoring our conversation. Is Reginald worried about talking in front of him? "A reporter is here. He has a picture and…a source."

Phillipe's head snaps up. "Reporter? Which one?"

Now I understand Reginald's concern and who the reporter is even before he says his name. "Luka Weiss."

Phillipe scowls, his face turning an unhealthy shade of purple.

"Hold on. What picture? What source? This doesn't make any sense. I've done nothing…" My words trail off as Reginald holds up his mobile phone. In the picture, I'm standing close to Isaac and kissing his palm.

"You look like a vagrant," Phillipe says from over my shoulder.

"Thanks." But my focus isn't on my unruly state. Isaac is staring at me in shock, but there's something else in his eyes. Fondness? Desire? The moment between us appears more intimate than it was. Simon was there. Reginald and the other customers were there. And the angle is off—this didn't come from the couple watching us. There was someone else.

It doesn't take a genius to figure it out.

"Weiss followed you."

"We can't know that."

"I can."

My brother is actually a genius. He has the high marks and scores of inventions to prove it.

"What source?" I ask, turning to Reginald. The picture hints at more, but since there is no more, what source could he have? The couple at the diner?

"He didn't say. Just that it was…delicate. He's waiting in the library. Would you like me to send him away?"

Phillipe stares at me like I'm one of his inventions gone wrong. "What did you get up to in America, brother?"

"Nothing. I—" My throat is dry as I swallow my dread. "Can you send me that photo, Reggie? I'll be up shortly to meet with Weiss."

"Of course, Your Highness."

After he leaves, I pace the room. "What could he possibly have?"

"You won't know until you talk to him." Phillipe removes his goggles and his lab coat. He bends down to peer into one of his many shiny gadgets. He tugs on a curl that refuses to stay put.

I have so many questions. "What are you doing?"

He messes with his hair a few moments more and sighs. "That asshat Weiss has been trying to destroy our family for years. I am not letting you go in there alone."

"Do you think he's going to take our picture?"

"What? No." His cheeks turn pink, and he drops his hands. "Do you want my help or not?"

I laugh at his scowl. "Come on, then."

Luka Weiss stands as we enter the library, his gaze darting to my brother before returning to me. The man is a menace. The type of journalist I detest. Always digging. Trying to find the most sensational angle. After what happened a few years ago, I'm surprised he dares to show his face in the palace. Or the country.

My stomach twists uncomfortably. He must have something. But what?

"Your Highnesses," he says, with a slight bow of his head that I don't believe for a moment.

"Enough pleasantries. What is your?—"

I place a hand on my brother's arm and his mouth snaps shut. Their feud, if that's what it can be called, has been going on for years. Bringing Phillipe in might not have been the best idea. I motion Weiss toward the seating area. A white baroque settee and matching chairs surround a dark cherry coffee table with Chinese mother-of-pearl inlay. The table was a gift from a foreign ambassador. I've never given any of it much thought. The furniture is beautiful but not the most comfortable. Would Isaac find it pretentious? I push those thoughts aside as I join my brother on the settee across from the reporter. "How can we help you, Mr. Weiss?"

"I'm here to help you," he begins, and Phillipe scoffs.

My stomach is a ball of knots. I need answers now. And to keep my brother from harming a member of the press. "You followed me to America. Why?"

His sharp intake of breath tells me he doesn't expect my direct approach, but Weiss recovers quickly. His features smooth out as he adjusts his glasses. He's ridiculously handsome. Not that he does anything for me. But I have no doubt he uses his charm and good looks to his advantage. "A prince taking off on his wedding day is newsworthy."

"It was before the wedding day. And it's none of your business."

His smile exposes his dimples. "The country deserves to know."

I could argue that I don't belong to them, but it would get us nowhere. "How did you know?—"

Phillipe clears his throat. It's a signal. One I need to heed. How doesn't matter. Not now. "Mr. Weiss, you have five minutes to get to the point of this meeting before my brother and I march you out of the palace. That's four more than I want to give you, so start talking."

Weiss straightens in the chair and nods. His charming, easygoing demeanor vanishes. "I have a source willing to tell all."

I wave my hands about. "There's nothing to tell. That picture misrepresents my relationship with Isaac."

"Adrian," Phillipe says in a warning voice.

I shake my head. How do I always manage to say the wrong thing? "I mean, there is no relationship. I met the man that day. You want to write about me deserting my bride? Have at it. Running around America as a vagabond? Go for it…but leave Isaac out of it."

"Good God, Adrian," Phillipe says, clamping his hand on my arm. "Stop talking."

I grip my shaking hands in my lap. If I throw up, will that be newsworthy?

Phillipe glances at the antique clock on the wall. "You have three minutes left."

"It's simple, really. I have a source who has a story to tell. I want the exclusive." He clears his throat, glancing at Phillipe and away. "I don't actually need your cooperation—I wanted to give you a chance to respond. And…my source has a request…"

"Who is your source?" I ask, unable to remain silent any longer.

"Normally, I wouldn't say. It's important in building trust not to reveal?—"

"Oh, for God's sake, Luka," Phillipe says, with a frustrated growl, "just tell us."

Weiss and I both stare at my brother. Since when have they been on a first-name basis? The journalist recovers quickly. "In this case, I need to reveal my source for you to understand." He gives my brother a look I can't decipher and then turns to me. "Her name is Jane Brandt."

Phillipe furrows his brow and shoots me a confused look. "Who?"

I have no idea, but I don't ask. It's clear Weiss is going to tell us.

"Jane Brandt," Weiss repeats, "Isaac Brandt's ex-wife. And Simon's mother."

My parents are in the main study. It's their favorite place to relax. The furniture is still grand but well-worn. My mother sits in a large leather chair, reading the paper and sipping her tea. My father perches in front of a round table, putting together a jigsaw puzzle of the world.

I clear my throat. "I need to return to America."

Silence.

I shift from the balls of my feet to my heels and back. Then stop when I realize I'm squirming. "There's this…person…" I trail off, losing my courage at the last minute.

"Oh, Adrian." Mother snaps her newspaper and peers over it. "You can't run off with an American girl."

"No. That's not it at all." I cross my arms. Then uncross them.

Phillipe gives me a look—one that clearly says get on with it so I can get back to my dungeon. I sympathize with him. Running off to my room or another country seems like a fantastic idea.

"Then what is it?" Father takes a sip of tea and returns to his puzzle. The King loves his puzzles.

"I did meet someone." I regulate my breathing as best I can and force the words out. "A man. And I like him."

Mother puts her newspaper down and studies me. I force my feet not to move. My body, not to squirm. "You can't run off with an American boy either. How can you be attached to someone after meeting them once?"

"Really, Catherine?" My father gazes at her fondly. "I fell for you within the first five minutes."

She smiles at him and then sighs. "That is completely different."

"How so?"

"Adrian is a prince. He can't date some American boy." The newspaper is once again up and covering her face.

I clear my throat. "His name is Isaac, Mother. And he's not a boy. In fact, he has a son?—"

Father laughs and then seems to realize I'm serious. His gaze shifts from the puzzle piece in his hand to me. "Really, Adrian? Even for you, this is a bit much."

"Is this about me being—liking a guy?"

"Of course not." Mother frowns. "This is the twenty-first century. The monarchy will go on." She gestures to Phillipe. "We have a spare."

Phillipe sounds like he's choking. "Hold on?—"

"The fact is, a week ago, you were engaged to be married," she continues, talking over my brother. "The wedding was your idea, Adrian."

Is it too late to escape? Or at least, sit down? "I've explained that."

Servants walk in and out of the room as needed, and it's all so familiar. As if I'm not coming out to my parents. "You were in love with Jasella. And now you're…what? In love with this American?"

Mentioning I was never in love with Jasella would do no good. "No…I like him."

Mother puts her paper down and leans forward. That's never good. "You always run away from your problems. This is a pattern."

"It's not?—"

"It isn't even the first time you ran away from home."

Really? "I was five, Mother. And I only went as far as the maze in the gardens."

Father holds a puzzle piece up to the light, shakes his head, and sets it back down. "You packed a bag. That you had Reginald carry." He glances at me, his eyes dancing with humor. I'm glad someone is enjoying this. "And you were going on about geese."

Oh God. It is a pattern. "Look…"

"What about when you were fifteen?" Mother asks.

Are they going through every mistake I've ever made? Quite possibly. "That's not the same thing."

"Everyone was waiting," my father adds unnecessarily. "Weren't they, dear?"

Mother nods. "Quite. And in the end, you couldn't go through with it. As I said, a pattern."

"I don't think you can equate falling in love with jumping off a cliff."

Father shakes his head. "So now he's in love?"

"Yes, Adrian. Do make up your mind. And I disagree. All those books you read compare the two all the time."

This is a thing they do. And it's maddening. "Okay, well yes, but…"

"It was a small cliff," she continues as if what I have to say isn't important. "You were climbing down it, not jumping. And poor Reginald."

"Can we get back to now? Please?"

Mother raises a royal brow. "The point is, Adrian. You have this romantic—or rather—dramatic view of things. And when it doesn't live up to your expectations, things fall apart.

"You act like I've never followed through with anything. I finished uni."

"And how many times did you change your major?"

"At least you try things." Father sets a puzzle piece into place and waves a hand at my brother. "Unlike Phillipe."

"Hold on." Phillipe jumps from his chair. "This is not about me. And it's taking way too long. Yes, Adrian likes this man, but that's not why…not exactly why…he must go back to America. There's a reporter?—"

"Weiss." Mother growls his name. "Something needs to be done about that man."

"Shall we put him in the gallows? Chain him up on the square? This is the twenty-first century. We have a free press. And it's not all his fault."

Is Phillipe defending the guy? "He has pictures of Isaac and me?—"

Mother gasps. "Really, Adrian? You were engaged to Jasella."

The blood rushes from my face. I am guilty. But not of what she thinks. Phillipe, thankfully, has taken charge and is showing them the actual picture. I was engaged at the time, so it's not that much better.

Mother is sighing, and I know that sigh. It's the you've-messed-up-royally sigh. "This doesn't reflect well on you or the monarchy, and those are the choices you made, Adrian. Although poor Jasella…"

"It's worse than that, I'm afraid." I explain what Weiss told us about Jane, Isaac's ex-wife.

Mother straightens and stares at me. "We are not an American soap opera…or the British monarchy. You will fix this, Adrian. Immediately."