I hold my hands out, palms up, willing this rather too lengthy list of my poor choices to end. “All right, I get it. I’m a mess-up of epic proportions. I should be thrown in the dungeon and fed gruel and water for the rest of my life. Not that I know what gruel is, exactly, but I’m sure it’s appropriately horrible.”
“Sadly, that option isn’t open to us in the 21stcentury,” Father says with a smirk on his face that makes me wonder if he means every word.
“What your father means, darling, is that we’ve laid out the options to you. You need a reputation rehab, as Amelia puts it, and you need it immediately.”
Thanks for the support, Ami.
Father fixes me with his stare. “Son, you’re no longer a rebellious teen. Your brother and sisters are all happily married with families of their own, working on their various enterprises and experiencing much success, not once diving on a child’s slide and landing in a pond. Isn’t it time you grew up?”
I chew my lip. Don’t get me wrong. Part of me agrees with them, as much as I won’t admit it. As the last born, I’ve led a carefree existence without the pressure of being the first-born son, without the discipline of being my sister, Sofia, and without the need to do much at all. Playing thefool, taking my friends up on their dares, never worrying about the consequences of my actions, has been a way for me to enjoy my life. To try to forget that everything I do is recorded and analyzed.
When you’re the last-born in the Ledonian royal family, there’s no set role for you. You’re never going to be the monarch, but you can’t have a career outside of the military. You need to support charities, but you can’t stand out too much or it looks like you’re making it all about yourself.
Some days I wonder if I’m just an expensive insurance policy with a pulse, kept around in case something happens to the others, but otherwise expected simply to smile, wave, and try not to embarrass the family name too spectacularly.
I’m even failing at that.
I clasp my hands in my lap and level my parents with my gaze. “You win. I’ll do one of the things you suggest.”
Mummy beams. “An arranged marriage would be marvelous! I can think of several young ladies of the aristocracy who would be more than happy to marry you.”
I shake my head. “I’m not doing that one.”
“Are you quite certain?” she asks.
“Quite.”
“The baking show?” she suggests.
“The only time I go to the kitchen is to chat with the staff and eat cake.”
“The only option left is the documentary.”
I let out a defeated sigh. “I suppose.”
“That’s settled then,” Father declares. “The documentary it is. We’ll invite Ms. Fontaine to work on it with you.”
That gets my attention.
“Wait,” I say, my brows pulling together. “What does Fabiana Fontaine got to do with making a documentary?”
“Absolutely everything, my boy,” Father replies, regarding me as though I’m a cucumber sandwich short of a garden party. “She’s the one who writes about you with razor-sharp precision. Convince her you’re not the hooligan the Ledonian people think you are, and you’ll win the country over.”
“Hooligan? That’s hardly fair.”
“We’ll invite her to the palace with immediate effect. And you, my dear boy, will smile and acquiesce with every bone in your body, charming her so that she thinks you’re the best thing since monarchy was invented.”
“ButFabiana Fontaine? Are you serious? She’s the worst,” I complain.
“Ms. Fontaine is the perfect person for this role, my dear boy. She's the one writing these stories about you. Wouldn't it be wonderfully clever to show her the real Maximilien?”
“But Father—” I complain, sounding exactly like a whining seven-year-old who's been sent to his room for being naughty.
“You'll change her opinion of you, Max. You have to,” Father says plainly.
I cross my arms over my chest, slumping back in my seat. “She hates me.”
“Darling, listen to yourself. She doesn't hate you. She doesn't evenknowyou,” Mummy soothes, her hand on my arm.
