Prologue

PROLOGUE

JENSEN

“ C ome on, come on, come on,” I mutter, pounding on the door. I know George is in. He works full-time from home and it’s a Tuesday morning. That’s the pro of having a rich daddy and a cushy job in finance — you can stay home every day.

Sure, maybe I should have told him that I was coming. But I was too afraid of the press hacking me and giving away his details. Not that it seems to have made any difference from the hoard chasing me.

The fact is, when you’re royal and notorious, journalists will find a story in anything you do.

I bang on the door again. “George, please. Let me in!” I holler.

If he doesn’t open this door soon, they’ll be on me. I can hear them approaching, like a herd of raging cattle behind me, photographers and reporters calling out to me, yelling and yelling like that’s going to make me want to speak to any of them.

Why the hell did I choose to flee to America? The press here are totally vicious. At least in Sólveigr, they only bother me because they’ve got nothing else to report on, and I know most of them by name. Here in Florida, I’m foreign and exciting — and getting a good story is sure to get them a big thumbs-up from their editors.

I guess the idea of being in my private jet, away from the world for a while, appealed. Nobody can bother you in flight. And they don’t need to know I have Wi-Fi.

Of course, flight trackers exist, which I forgot about, but I needed to get out, and I don’t exactly have a lot of friends who would be happy to have me show up on their doorstep.

So maybe I’m making this a little more dramatic than it really is. The story wasn’t even that deep, really. I was just supposed to be having a month off from all the scandals.

It’s not like my parents will even notice I’m gone, not for a few days at least. They’re both too busy fawning over my dearest, darling brother Erik.

After all, he’s the heir and I’m the spare.

And being the spare means I have to shout twice as loud to be heard, and do stuff that’s twice as dumb to be noticed.

Like this. Which, I have to stress, wasn’t actually my fault. This time.

I lift my fist again, just as finally , George opens the door with a disgruntled frown. “Jensen,” he says in his delightful Southern drawl. “How did I know I was going to find you here?”

I grin weakly. “You didn’t?”

He holds up a newspaper. Prince of Parties does it again , reads the headline. Rumors of baby scandal sweep through Sólveigr court.

I bring both hands to my face and let out a long groan. “Okay. Well, first of all, that’s not even a good headline. And secondly, it’s not true. I want to make one thing absolutely clear — this is completely false!”

The picture of me in the article smiles out smugly, and I glare at him. Damn him for being so charming that the idea of a surprise, scandalous pregnancy is something that people can believe without blinking.

George’s face softens, and he steps back. “I had a sure feeling it was, my friend. Now come on in, before the wolves get us.”

I slip past George into the safety of his home, and when he slams the door, I let out a sigh of relief for the first time in days.

How have I screwed things up this badly — again ?