1. Luca

CHAPTER 1

LUCA

M y father and I emerge from the hotel into a mob of screaming fans. Women shove pens and photos in my face, pleading for autographs. Phones come out, a dozen of them probably streaming directly to social media.

Smiles stretch across the women’s faces, eyes wide with anticipation. My father’s security guards surge forward, forming a human barrier between us and the manic crowd.

“Luca, look here!” One voice rises above the others, hoarse from the exertion.

I turn to see a flurry of red hair, a young woman waving a glossy photo of me. I nod at her, scribble my signature on the photograph. Her giddy squeal slices through the city noise.

The concrete beneath my feet vibrates, echoing the rhythm of life in New York. I inhale deeply; car exhaust fumes and the smell of pretzels mix with the lingering scent of rain on the sidewalk.

Even though I’ve been to the city numerous times, I’ve never truly seen it, and I’m hoping that this trip will be an exception. That is, if I manage to slip away from my father for a bit.

“Prince Luca.” A young woman bounces up and down. “Sign my arm?”

“We need to go,” my father, the king of Werdenfeld, points out.

“One minute.” I flash him a quick smile, doing my best to be diplomatic. The whole reason we’re in NYC is to foster our relationship with the United States. So why is he rushing me?

If I just push past these women without at least spending a few minutes with them, it’ll look bad. I’ll probably find myself in an article tomorrow about how much of a jerk I am.

“Where on your arm?” I ask the girl.

She quickly pulls up her sleeve, revealing a slender arm, pale and freckled. I take the pen she offers me, scribbling my name hastily. The ink stings my nostrils with its sharp smell, but my polite smile never wavers.

“Thank you!” she squeals, clutching her arm close to her chest as though it’s a precious artifact.

“All right. We need to move, now,” my father insists, his voice stern and impatient.

Jostling people part like a sea as he strides along the path our security team has created for us. A curl of anxiety twists in my stomach. The crowd is getting more excited, and I can’t just leave them.

“Please,” another girl begs. “One more?”

I glance at the rapidly disappearing figure of my father and try not to sigh. “One more.”

After her, though, I sign another autograph. Take another picture.

There’s an odd comfort in the chaos. The burden of always trying to maintain a good image seems to lighten temporarily among these eager faces. At least I’m making someone happy, even though it is just with a picture or a quick side hug.

Eventually, I have to pull away from their reaching hands and their shouts and climb into the black SUV that’s waiting.

“We love you, Prince Luca!” one of the girls screams after me.

As the door slams shut, cutting off the shrieks, Father turns to me. “Don’t let those girls distract you, Luca. You must focus on your duties.”

I roll my eyes. “No one can distract me from my princely responsibilities, Father — for that to happen at all, I would need to have true responsibilities, and at thirty years old you still haven’t given me any.”

He frowns, the lines on his forehead deepening. “This is not a game. You are representing Werdenfeld. That is your responsibility.”

“I know.” I frown back at him. “That’s exactly why I stopped to sign autographs. It’s important that we give off good impressions everywhere.”

“As long as it doesn’t distract from proper behavior.” He’s looking at his phone — not me — probably going over talking points his publicist has sent him for today’s press conference.

I stare out the window as we drive, the city sliding by in a blur. Skyscrapers tower around us as the car weaves through traffic. We pull up to the press meeting, a nondescript office building. This time, there are no women waiting outside to catch a peek of me.

But there are certainly reporters inside. Many, many reporters, all crammed together in one room.

As we walk into it, Father whispers, “Stand up straight. Don’t speak unless spoken to directly.”

I resist the urge to slouch and shove my hands in my pockets. We step on stage and sit behind a long table. Blinding lights glare as reporters start shouting questions. I tune them out, thinking about the vacation I’m missing with my friends in order to sit here and look pleasant.

When my father asked me to shadow him on this trip, I didn’t even think of saying no. One day the crown will be mine, and so I know how important it is that I watch the current king in action.

But I wish he would let me do more than just hang behind him like a puppet. I have things to say as well, things to contribute.

The press conference drags on. Father answers question after question in his usual diplomatic way. I stifle a yawn.

Finally, a reporter shouts right at me. “Prince Luca! What are your thoughts on taking on more royal duties?”

It’s like he’s read my mind.

Father shoots me a warning look, but I can’t resist. After our conversation in the car, I feel like starting a little trouble.

“Well, I’d love to spend more time yachting in the Mediterranean, but duty calls.”

A few reporters chuckle, while Father’s expression hardens. I probably shouldn’t have said that, but the temptation was too great. If I’m not going to be adding anything to our time in New York, why shouldn’t I be on vacation with my friends?

After what seems like an eternity, the press conference ends. We exit the building, the roar of the city enveloping us once more.

The moment we’re in the back of the SUV, its tinted windows hiding us from view, Father turns to me, anger etched on his face. “That was completely inappropriate. You are not taking this seriously.”

I open my mouth to respond, but he cuts me off.

“You have an interview this afternoon. I expect you to represent our family properly.”

My eyes widen in surprise. “An interview? With who?”

This is out of left field. He never lets me take interviews. And after what I just said back there, I’m surprised he’s still letting this upcoming one happen.

Father continues staring straight ahead. “A reporter from The Morning Star . Her name is Hailey Warren.”

“And when exactly was this interview scheduled?” I try to keep my voice even.

“It’s been on your calendar for weeks,” he replies tersely. “Honestly, Luca, you need to be more responsible.”

I bite my tongue to stop a sharp retort. Arguing will only make things worse. But an interview, today? I rack my brain, but I have no memory of this meeting on my schedule. Still, I know better than to question Father right now. I’ve already stirred the pot enough as it is.

I gaze out the window as we speed through the city, sunshine glinting off the impossibly tall buildings. My thoughts drift to my friends, no doubt having the time of their lives clubbing and sunning on the beach. Yet here I am, trapped in a series of useless formalities.

If my father allowed me to do more for Werdenfeld — sit in on important meetings, organize outreach programs — then it would be different. I would relish my life as a prince. But as it stands right now, I feel completely useless, like I’m just sitting on a shelf awaiting the day that I’ll be taken down and crowned king.

The car eventually pulls up to our hotel. Time to put on my princely persona once again, I suppose. As we exit the vehicle, Father turns to me.

“I expect you to take this seriously,” he says, blue eyes flashing.

I nod, squaring my shoulders. “Of course, Father.”

Looks like duty calls once again. But someday, things will be different. Someday, I’ll be king, and then I’ll be free to do things my own way.