Chapter One
Margot
At twenty three years old, this is definitely not where I saw my life headed.
Exiled from New York.
Running away to Denmark.
Haunted by memories of a man that wasn’t at all who I thought him to be.
A man whose fiercely good looks and skills in bed still wake me up at night, panting his name.
Stellan.
I close my eyes and lean my forehead against the smooth off-white plastic surrounding the window of the plane. I let myself drowse and drift. As the plane carries me across the Atlantic, I’m in the elusive space between wakefulness and sleep. My mind wanders, half-formed shapes rising out of the ether to remind me of what I’m running from.
“Margot! Margot!”
Dimly, I am aware of a round black microphone materializing out of the dull gray void, and being pushed toward my face.
“What was it like to sleep with Denmark’s future king? Do you have royal aspirations? Are you and Prince Stellan declaring your intentions to marry?”
I flinch away, stirring a little. The microphone is shoved toward my mouth. Everyone is waiting for a response. I have no choice but to answer.
No, I think.I don’t want anything to do with him.
Stellan’s face takes shape in my mind. He is tall and broad, dark-haired with ice blue eyes and cheekbones for days. He is exceptionally gorgeous. It’s clear as day that he descended directly from the Vikings and looking at his face makes me feel weak in the knees.
In fact, I would describe his features as being distinctly aristocratic. But along with that comes the aloofness that I have always associated with royalty.
He holds himself apart from everyone else, makes a distinction based solely on how much money his family has. And that makes me wish I had never slept with him, no matter how fuckable I find him.
“Margot!” the reporter says again, jostling me. “Margot?”
Why is the reporter suddenly speaking in a smooth English accent?
I open my eyes to find Pippa peering at me. Pippa is my best friend from college; she is taking me with her back to Copenhagen, to outrun the screaming mob of paparazzi that dogged my every step back in New York.
Well, that explains the accent. Pippa is British.
It takes me a moment to realize that we are still on the plane. Pippa brushes her fiery red hair out of her face and folds up her tray table.
“We’re about to land,” she says. She nods to something past me. “Look out the window.”
I turn and look at the view. It’s pitch black out as it isquite late here in Copenhagen. A million tiny points of light shine through the darkness, filtering up to me in the shape of a city. It isn’t nearly as huge as New York City, the place that I’m running from.
But it shimmers and twinkles all the same. I place my hand against the glass as we start to descend. Copenhagen will be my home for the next few months.
As the plane lands and I rush to follow Pippa to customs, I am beyond nervous. We line up behind half a dozen other people, all waiting to have their passports examined and stamped. I flip open my brand new passport, creasing the book a bit, and peer at the picture inside.
A tiny, shell-shocked woman with pink hair glares back at me. I’m wearing a leather jacket in the photo and look like more of a badass than I actually feel like. I grew up with less than nothing; not only did I not have any money; I wasn’t even sure from night to night where I would sleep or how I would eat.
I’ve definitely never been out of the country before now. Swallowing, I try to slow my heart rate, which soars higher with every step I take toward the plexiglass security booth.
Pippa leans in close, seeming to tower over me. Pippa is a good six inches taller than me and always dresses impeccably in long, flowy dresses. “Relax.” She elbows me. “We’ll be through this line in just a minute.”
She winks at me. I wrinkle my nose but stay quiet. It’s often best to stay silent if you only have negative things to say, I find.
