C1 Clive

I read the text from my friend again. I have the perfect solution.

There is no such thing, I texted back. This is the wedding from hell. There’s no ‘perfect’ in hell!

Chase immediately responded. You might as well have fun while you burn. Shrugging emoji.

The sound of heavy breathing interrupted my conversation; bloody Herbert was still chasing me. I tucked the phone into my pocket as he advanced. The steward was short, his stubby legs buckling beneath his round belly as he attempted to power-walk toward me across the South Lawn.

“Your Highness.” Herbert sounded desperate and perhaps as though he might cry.

“I’m still ignoring you.” I headed toward the palace, and the little shit struggled to keep up.

“Your Highness, please. The King said that you must give a response—”

“Tell him my response is that he should stuff it.” I grinned, picturing a red-faced Herbert relaying my message to the King. “Tell him I’m tired of his commands and that I’ve gone rogue.”

“Oh…dear. Oh my.” The steward fretted as he chased after me. “What about Princess Isabelle? What shall I tell her?”

I stopped walking and faced him. Herbert, my father’s top steward, was one of my least favorite people at the palace. He’d been tattling on me since I was a little boy. “Tell her I said congratulations, you imbecile.”

He opened his mouth as if to speak. Then, after a moment, in which he looked pretty confused, he closed it.

I took that as my cue to escape—I turned on my heel and fled. This time Herbert didn’t follow me.

Maybe, after all these years, he was finally smartening up.

* * *

The respite didn’t last long. My younger sister, Izzie, threw open the door to my study. “What do you mean—congratulations? You already said congratulations! I don’t need your bloody congratulations—I need your cooperation!”

I arched an eyebrow as she slammed the door behind her, dramatically collapsing into the armchair across from me. My sister glared. Her chocolate eyes narrowed as she looked me up and down. Her dark-brown curls tumbled over her riding jacket. She smelled like fresh air, but her expression was dark, like a basement—or perhaps a tomb, where she might very much like to bury me.

“Hello, Izzie.” My feet were up on my desk; I didn’t bother to take them down.

“Don’t you dare hello me!” Her eyes flashed. “Father said you were making idle threats.”

“I’m not sure I would characterize them as idle.” I smiled at her without warmth. “What can I do for you?”

Izzie groaned. She’d lost weight for the wedding, and her cheeks looked hollowed out. I’d feel sorry for her if she wasn’t my nemesis—and also, our father’s little puppet.

She sat forward. “Will you please come to the wedding? Please? I am literally begging you.”

I could tell she meant it; Izzie never begged. “I told you I would come to the wedding,” I said. “But on my terms, not yours.”

She lifted her chin. “I don’t think it’s too much to ask you to find a proper date.”

“You’re right. It’s not.” When she looked relieved, I quickly added, “That is, if I had a proper date. But I don’t. I’m not seeing anyone, and I won’t do it just for the press. I told you, I’m done playing the game.”

“D’you think—for once—that you could put our family first?” Izzie’s voice shook.

“I’ve been putting our family first since the day I was born.” As heir to the throne, it wasn’t as if I had much choice. “Whether I like it or not.”

“This isn’t about you, Clive.” She shook her head. “It’s about the biggest day of my life. I don’t ask you for much—”

“All everyone does around here is ask—”

“I don’t ever ask you for anything. Not anymore.” Izzie’s cheeks turned pink. “I gave up a long time ago. But I’m asking you for this: please come to the wedding and bring a date. That’s all the reporters have been hounding me for. They don’t even care about my dress. All they want to know is who Prince Clive is bringing. You know how unrelenting they can be—it’s been impossible.”

“Then it’s time we stop giving in to them.” My temper rose. Over the past fifteen years, the press’s obsession with our family had become unbearable. When I’d been growing up, the constant public scrutiny had been a nuisance; with the internet, it had become an all-consuming pain in the ass, one requiring continuous care and feeding.

“I understand how you feel, but the situation is what it is,” Izzie said, her voice firm. “You can’t hide from this by going off and digging a ditch in some remote village.”

“That’s hardly fair.” Even though I’d vastly prefer to flee to a remote village and dig a ditch.

Izzie sighed. “My wedding’s in three weeks. We can’t change the world in three weeks. Everyone wants to see the prince with a date—it’s been years since you’ve been linked to anyone. They have a right to be curious. Whoever you marry will be queen someday…”

“I disagree.” My shoulders tensed. “Just because I’m a prince doesn’t mean my personal life is for public consumption.”

“You’re a public figure. You’re the heir to the throne. That makes it the public’s business.” Izzie frowned. “Hey… What about Freya Wilson? She’s already invited. I know she’d love to hear from you.”

Freya Wilson was a reed-thin, auburn-haired socialite who’d been circling me like a shark for years. My cousin, the Duke of Clifton, had asked her out several times. Finally, she’d flatly refused, informing him that a duke held no interest for her; she wanted a prince. “I’ll pass.”

“Fine.” Izzie jumped up from her seat. “I don’t care who you bring. Just find someone acceptable. Figure it out soon—she needs to be vetted. I promise I won’t ask you for anything ever again.”

I snorted.

“You really are a prat, you know that?” Izzie hustled to the door, giving me one backward glance. It was the most honest expression I’d seen on her face in years: a mixture of hurt and hatred.

“If you don’t come up with someone by the end of the day, I’m calling Freya.” She slammed the door for dramatic effect.

Fuck. Izzie drove me crazy. She was both my father’s puppet—always conspiring with him—and also the press’s darling. Izzie always played the game. I don’t know how she had the stomach for it, but she did. She was even marrying the most boring man on the planet, George Smith—even his name was boring!—because my father had arranged the match.

I, on the other hand, had lost my taste for conformity. Like in a fairytale, I’d consumed a drop of poison and would never be the same.

I’d had a girlfriend, once. I’d met her at university. She was Lithuanian, from a working-class family, and was attending uni on scholarship. She’d been so loyal and sweet—that is, until my father paid her to break things off with me.

Much to my surprise, she took the money and ran.

In her defense, it was an awful lot of money. But that experience took away all my illusions that I would ever lead a normal, happy life. Who was I ever going to be able to trust? My father believed he was in control of my life and that it was his duty to make choices for me.

What I wanted didn’t matter. What mattered was being a royal—our image, our lineage, our removed and superior position with the people of our tiny country.

Everything was a duty. Even my sister’s wedding.

But I was heir to the throne. So one day, I would be King. And no matter my mixed emotions about my family, I truly loved my country. So, therefore, I would do my best to serve the people of Astos.

My sister was right. I needed to go to her wedding, and I needed a proper date because it was customary. I sighed and took out my phone, re-reading Chase Layne’s text. You might as well have fun while you burn.

You know, he might be on to something.

Send me the number for the agency, I wrote.

My sister wanted me to bring a date. So…what if I hired one?

Chase sent me the contact information immediately. I’d been friends with the American quarterback for years; we’d met ages ago at Wimbledon. I’d never met his second wife, but I’d heard she was lovely and that they were incredibly happy.

I’d also heard she’d been his escort.

I wasn’t looking for a wife—I was looking for a date. I was also looking to point a big middle finger right at my father’s face, even if he never knew the truth…

I took a deep breath. And then I called AccommoDating.

* * *
“We will test her for sexually transmitted diseases,” the Madame purred. “I guarantee clean girls who follow strict birth-control protocols. You can relax about being intimate with her and enjoy yourself.”

I groaned. I hadn’t been with anyone in a long time, but I would not have sex with the escort. Paying women for sex was human trafficking in my book. I wouldn’t take part in something like that—I wouldn’t support it.

But would I pay for her to pretend to be my date? Hell yes. Anything was better than being trapped with Freya Wilson!

“I don’t plan on using that particular set of services,” I said quickly. “But thanks for letting me know.”

“Really?” The Madame, Elena, surprised me by not sounding at all surprised. “Well—please remember that you have the option. You might change your mind when you meet her. My agency employs some of the most gorgeous women in the world.”

“I just need someone who can behave in a civilized manner. No binge-drinking, no drugs, nothing inappropriate.” My cousin, the Duke of Clifton, had once brought a young woman to one of our parties. She’d had too much champagne and attempted to swing from the chandelier. They had banned the Duke from the palace for a month after that…

“I think I have just the girl. She’s young, early twenties. Is that acceptable?”

“Yes.”

“And she’s blond—platinum blond. Long, thick hair, athletic, gorgeous skin…she’s quite stunning.”

My cock was stirring. Fuck. I was a sucker for long, platinum hair—the Madame had done her research.

“She sounds perfect. And although your fee is exorbitant, I’ve heard good things about your services. This has to remain completely private. I’ll take care of the details on our end, but you need to make sure the woman you send to Astos is clear on these terms. I’m paying her a lot of money, but it’s a onetime deal. If she comes back at some point, looking for more or threatening to sell her story to the press, she will be very sorry. Are we clear?”

“Crystal, Your Highness.” Elena sighed, a happy sound. “I am so glad you chose AccommoDating. Trust me. You won’t be disappointed.”

“You’d better be right about that.” I hung up before she could tell me more about the hot escort.

I needed a proper date. I needed no strings. I did not need to be fantasizing about having sex with a hooker. The very last thing I needed was a messy entanglement, or worse, setting myself up for being blackmailed.

Hiring an escort for my sister’s wedding was bad enough.

And “bad enough” was…good enough for now.