11. Paolo

CHAPTER 11

PAOLO

“ P assport?” the customs officer asks as I step up to the desk.

This seemed like such a good idea yesterday. But today, all I have is questions. What if I get recognized? What if I get thrown out? What if the passport doesn’t work?

I’m kind of hoping that people round here have forgotten about me while I’ve been gone. I doubt I’ll have been forgotten completely, but at least I won’t be front-page headlines anymore, so I won’t be at the front of anyone’s mind. People are remarkably good at not paying attention.

“All right, sir, you’re good to go. Enjoy your stay in Bellamare,” the officer says, pulling me out of my thoughts.

“Thank you,” I breathe, hoping my relief isn’t too obvious. But if the officer notices it, she doesn’t comment.

As I head through the airport, I feel like I could be dancing on clouds. I step out into the daylight and grin. I’m home. I can’t believe this is working.

Despite the fact that it’s summer, I pull my scarf around my face and push my glasses up my nose. Quickly, I flag down a taxi and jump in the back, keeping my sunglasses over my eyes for the whole journey. I can’t get recognized now. I’ve come too far for that.

I give the driver directions to the town just outside our stately home. I don’t want to direct him straight to the house. That would be suspicious. But if I head to the town, I can at least walk up to the palace without too much hassle.

Fortunately, the driver says nothing to me on the journey, so all I do is stare in silence out of the window for forty minutes, watching the green fields go by, making out the ocean in the distance. I’ve missed this place so much more than I realized.

When the driver pulls into the town, I thank him and hand him his fare in cash. Then I jump out, shoving my hands in my pockets as he drives away.

Then I start hiking up to my home.

I didn’t even bring a bag. After a ten-hour flight, that’s starting to look like an oversight now. I guess I was assuming that my parents were just going to let me back in the house so I could pick up all my old stuff again.

That’s assuming that they even still have any of my old stuff. What if they threw it all out with me?

As I approach the door, my heart starts pounding in my chest. Maybe this is a really, really bad idea. It’s not like anyone’s going to want to see me. That’s why they got rid of me in the first place.

I pace back and forth for a while at the door, trying to figure out what I’m going to say to whoever opens it. At least it won’t be my parents. It’s not like the king answers his own front door.

If I’m lucky, it will be one of the staff who used to like me.

If I’m not lucky, it’ll be one of my brothers.

At least if it’s Miguel or Luca, our screaming match will bring someone running.

Finally, I raise my fist and do it. I hammer on the door seven or eight times, not intending to stop until someone comes for me.

When Maria opens the door, I let out a cry of surprise. Her mouth drops open in shock, her hands falling limp at her side. “Prince Paolo?” she asks, almost whispering. “Can it really be you?”

I nod, releasing the breath I’d been holding. I smile. “Yeah, it’s me. I’m home.”

Her face quickly changes from delight to a panicked fury. “Come, come,” she says, ushering me inside. “What on earth are you doing here? By the saints, have you been seen? You’re going to be in such trouble.”

“I know,” I groan, running my hand through my hair. “But I had to come back. I’m a different person now. I promise. I want to do better. I want to pay my respects to Grandfather. I want to prove myself.”

“It’s not me that you have to persuade,” she says, leading me through the house.

I grimace, knowing that she’s right.

“We should hide you,” she says as we step into one of the small, unused rooms near the kitchens.

This stately home is one of those built so many years ago, when servitude was still meant staff running around houses through secret passages so they couldn’t be seen by the aristocracy. We still call those staff servants today, but that’s mostly a linguistic thing now.

In truth, many of these cubbyholes and little passages were just a fun diversion for me and my brothers when we were young. For as long as I’ve been alive, and even longer than that, nobody in this country has subscribed to the notion that servants should go unheard and unseen.

I am damn grateful for the hiding hole now, though.

Maria and I stand there for a while, trying to devise the best way of breaking this news to my parents. Eventually, we decide that we should just come out with it.

I suggest coming in through the side entrance, the personal one, and Maria tells me it would be best to use the front door. She tells me that she will come and welcome me in, as if she’s surprised, and call for my parents.

It’s not my favorite plan in the world, but it does seem better than sneaking around. She shows me out back onto the street through the side entrance, and I walk slowly around to the front door. It’s a huge, imposing wooden thing, complete with carvings of horrible gargoyles and hinges that, no matter how much they get oiled, always creak.

I knock tentatively on the door, and a few seconds later, true to her word, Maria returns.

“Paolo!” she exclaims, gasping in shock and doing a startlingly good job of acting like she didn’t know it was going to be me. “You’re back!”

“I’m back.”

She rushes over to the intercom by the door and buzzes up to my parents’ living quarters. “Your Majesties,” she says, “we have a visitor.”

There’s a faint sound of a reply that I can’t quite distinguish, but I can easily imagine my father saying why should we care? “Trust me, Your Majesty. You should come down. It’s your son.”

We head through to the drawing room that my parents use to entertain guests. It’s a grand, stately room with some hideous gold wallpaper and carpet that hasn’t been replaced in fifty years. They’re very proud of this room. It’s got some historical significance or something.

Personally, I think it’s ugly. It’s a good job I’m never going to be king, because if I were, I would probably redecorate the whole place.

We sit for what feels like forever until my parents enter the room. They push the door open slowly, and when I see them I get to my feet. I grin sheepishly. “Hi, Mom. Dad. How are you?”

“Paolo,” says my father, staring harshly at me. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“No, I know,” I say, clenching my fists as I try to hold my nerve. “I’m sorry for lying, but… well, I’ve come to pay my respects to Grandfather. I can’t believe no one told me that he had passed.”

“It seems you’re struggling with the concept of being exiled, then,” my mother says coldly.

I take a deep breath. I have to not fight with them. The most important thing about this conversation is that I don’t fight with them. If they kick me back out now, there’s no way I can face them like this again.

I decide not to say anything about the inheritance. “I loved Grandpa. I get that I’m not supposed to be here, but it felt unfair that everyone else should get to say goodbye to him and I didn’t. I don’t care that I wasn’t invited to the funeral. I just want to see his grave. I can go again after that. I won’t complain. But a year in exile has taught me a couple of things. That was the point, wasn’t it? To teach me a lesson?”

“And what lessons have you learned? asks my father. I don’t think he believes a single word I’ve said. I’m not surprised. I probably wouldn’t either, if I were him.

If they’ve been following my travels — and I don’t doubt that they’ve been keeping an eye on me in one way or another — it doesn’t exactly look like I’ve done a whole lot except party for the last year. To any outside observer, I guess it doesn’t seem like I’m changed at all.

“I found a wife,” I blurt.

“A wife?” says my mother, the faintest expression of surprise peeking through her mask of neutrality. I get the sense that she wants to end that sentence asking why I didn’t tell them, but of course, I had no way of telling them. It’s not like they would have listened to me anyway, and it’s not even like my marriage is real.

“Yes, a wife,” I say, holding my head up high. “Her name is Chloe. She’s just a normal person, and I met her doing normal-person things. She lives in New York, and her dad was from Bellamare. We’ve got a lot in common, actually. It’s been really interesting getting to know her. With her, it’s not about me being a prince at all. She’s taught me how to be a real human.”

“And do you think that is enough to warrant us lifting your exile?”

“No, I guess not,” I sigh. “But surely it means something . I’m responsible now. I’m grown up. A real human woman fell in love with me and married me, of her own free will. It had nothing to do with my title.”

They don’t have to know that that’s more or less a lie.

Actually, it’s pretty much one hundred percent a lie. Chloe doesn’t know who I am. And the reason she married me couldn’t have had anything less to do with love.

“You do realize,” says my father, “any marriage you’ve had will not be recognized by this country. Any wedding you had away from us will not count, in our eyes.”

“Then we’ll get married again,” I say defiantly. “And this time we’ll do it properly. I’m not embarrassed to have Chloe recognized in front of everyone. I’m not embarrassed to show who I am now.”

They both stare at me, neither one of them convinced. It’s not the first time I’ve had a passionate outburst in front of them.

But this is probably the least like a petulant child I’ve ever sounded.

My mother shoots my father a look, and my father nods grimly. I have no idea what the silent conversation they’re having is, but I’m certain that I’m not going to like their response.

“Very well,” says my father. “For now, you can stay. But you are not to leave this house. Nobody is to see you. We are willing to accept your story as an honest one for now. But if you’re planning to stay in this country long term, it would be best if you and your wife —” he says the word with such disdain that it makes me recoil, “—had better start making arrangements for her to come here for a formal introduction.”

I nod hesitantly. “She’ll need to get time off work. That doesn’t happen just overnight. You have to give us time to plan.”

They share another look, then my father says, “Two months. We’ll give you two months for this wife of yours to make an appearance. If she is as good and honest as you say, then we will have no problem with her. And if you’re willing to show some respect and responsibility for your duties, then we will graciously put an end to your exile and allow you all the full rights of citizenship again.”

I nod, bowing my head as I try to keep my face serious and hide the panic that has started swirling around in my stomach.

Invite Chloe here? What a mess this is becoming.

She has no idea that she married a prince. She has no idea what scheme she’s tangled up in. There’s no way I can be certain she’ll say yes to the trip, even less that she’ll agree to go along with the deception.

“Thank you,” I say to my parents instead of voicing any of these fears. “I’ll speak to her tonight. We will get something arranged. You’re going to like her, I promise.”

Neither of them say anything as they leave the room.

That night, I lie in bed and toy with the idea of texting Chloe, but I can’t figure out what to say.

So, I leave it.

And then I leave it the next day. And then a week goes by. Then two.

And every night I redraft the message that I’m trying to send.

And every night, I don’t send it.