I have a month to figure it out. A month of unprecedented access to unravel the mystery that is Prince Maximilien.
Lucky, lucky me.
Stay tuned. This is going to get interesting.
Yours always,
Fabiana Fontaine xx
#SpoiledOrSincere
#RogueRoyal
#RoyalConundrum
Max
Here'sthe thing about me. I’ve never responded well to being forced into doing something I don’t want to do. Call it a last-born thing, or whatever you like, but I don’t deal well with being hemmed in. Having attended boarding school and later, entering the Royal Air Force after I graduated from Cambridge, I've had enough of being told what to do to last a lifetime.
And now I’ve been told to play nice with a woman I despise. What’s worse, she’s a woman who’s reporting on my every move.
Don’t get me wrong, I get it. My parents are trying to change the perception of me that has hung around my neck like a bad smell since I first hit the headlines as a 15-year-old who had no idea that drinking vodka neat would make me quite as drunk as I ended up being.
On a rooftop.
In January.
Naïve? Sure. But then no one ever said 15-year-old boys are known for their smart choices.
My whole group of friends had thought it was a greatidea at the time. What could go wrong, they asked? Try one of my mates falling off and breaking a leg for starters, and then the press finding out about it—which made zero percent difference to my mates, and one hundred percent difference to me.
It was the beginning of my “choices” becoming headline news, and soon enough the press expected me to mess up, which I did, rather too often.
A few years later, Fabiana Fontaine arrived on the scene, a journalist who somehow gets the inside track on everything I do. And she loves name-calling. McHottie Junior, Mad Max, himbo, and her most recent jibe, man-child.
The public laps it up, and I’ve had more trending hashtags than Father has rules carved into stone, and that man sure loves his rules.
It's only 9:17 AM, and we've been stuck in a conference room, which I’ve rapidly concluded was designed to make uncomfortable situations even more excruciating. Despite the padded seating and rich mahogany of the table, it’s like this the conversation is on repeat. And that repeat? An endless discussion about my so-called “public image rehabilitation.”
Apparently, the woman who’s been talking for years about how vapid and ridiculous I am is the one who’s going to resurrect my image.
The irony of the situation is not lost on me.
When Fabiana steps out of the room to take a call, I let out a breath. It’s just me, Ronan, and Pippa Chen, the palace’s concession to modern times, who was hired to help “connect with younger demographics.”
Ronan shuffles through his papers. His controlled demeanor hasn’t slipped once during today’s torture, which is morethan I can say for mine.
“Remember, sir,” he says, adjusting his glasses. “We want to maintain an air of dignified cooperation here. Admittedly, Ms. Fontaine is sharp-tongued?—”
“Aka rude,” I interject.
“The key is not to let her, shall we say, get under your skin,” he says.
I harrumph.Too late for that.
“It's not as though she's the first journalist I've ever dealt with. I’m sure I can handle her.”
“But she is the first journalist who's made 'man-child Max' a trending hashtag,” Pippa adds helpfully.
