“Who—who’s that?” I say breathlessly.
“François.”
Because of course he’ll speak Greek to a man named François. Presumably in his bed, no less. Very fucking romantic. As predicted. And I’m seriously annoyed with myself for not trying to woo Stef in a variety of languages, because that’s totally an option as a European royal. Especially the romance languages, including Italian and Spanish. Plus, I also speak Swedish. I can technically read and speak seven languages, some better than others. I’ll totally add an eighth for Greek. And for the record, my French and German are fucking amazing, along with my English, and Danish is my mother tongue.
“I—I’ve got to go. Please—don’t say anything—” I blurt.
“Of course not. Wait?—”
“Fucking hell.” I hang up, my hands trembling, heart pounding.
Whatever I expected, it wasn’t Stef with another man. Definitely not on my bingo card for this summer. Then again, neither was becoming the Danish King.
Arriving in Copenhagen, I’m whisked from the airport to Amalienborg Palace in record time, in a sleek car with a police escort, so quickly I’m sure my spleen is left behind somewhere in the air between London and here. I hardly slept last night, which meant I gave bad dreams a miss, at least. I don’t even have time to acknowledge how out of sorts I am.
Thankfully, my security detail is doing all the thinking, and I’m letting myself be swept along. There’s clearly a set itinerary timed to the minute. The thought comes that I’d make an ideal kidnapping subject and just go with whatever’s going on, now that they have me.
Someone takes my bags on arrival, and it’s disconcerting that I don’t even need to carry them inside, as is my usual habit. Instead, I try to make myself feel alert up in my old rooms, washing my face with ice-cold water. There’s a moment where I scroll through my phone to look at the photo of Stef he sent recently, and I shake my head. If only I were living some other life.
After shutting off my phone again, I beeline to see Mamma in her office. Quite possibly, I’m frantic-looking by the time I knock on her door, the gravity of the situation fully thrown in my face. I’ve heard various versions of Your Majesty since landing, and I’m unraveling.
“Come in,” Mamma calls.
“It’s Theo.” I open the door and slip inside, shutting it. Then I hesitate just inside the threshold. “I’d say His Royal Highness Prince Theodor of Denmark, but that’s passé, I hear.”
“Yes.” Mamma gives me an appraising look. She takes off her reading glasses and sets them down next to her laptop with a certain gravitas. “It’s going to be His Majesty the King, Count of Oldenburg, I believe.”
I cough. “Business or pleasure?” I ask gamely, nodding at her computer.
“Mostly pleasure,” she confesses. “I took a break to work briefly on my novel.”
“Oh? How’s it going?”
“I’m writing a historical heist, so I’m enjoying myself.”
“Great. I mean, I guess it depends which side of the heist you’re on.” I swallow hard. Feels relevant. My hands sweat, and I rub them on my trousers.
Mamma gestures at the guest chair by the window. “Please sit, darling.”
“Where’s Freja? I thought she was supposed to be here. Or did she skip town already?”
“Of course she’s here. She will join us for lunch soon. She was just meeting with her—your—advisors for the handover.”
I swear, I feel all the blood drain from my face. The room swirls. “Right. Advisors.” I know we have advisors. Plenty of them. My head spins as everything hits me at once. They’ll no longer be my father’s advisors, or even Freja’s advisors—they’ll be my advisors. Oh God.
“The advisors are wonderful people and very knowledgeable,” she says firmly. “We have several. Theo. Are you… going to faint?”
“No,” I say, feeling far more feeble than I want to admit. I dig my fingers into the armrests, white-knuckled. Blood rushes in my ears.
“Breathe,” Mamma commands, and I breathe. “Listen to me. You’ll be fine. You have me and Freja?—”
“Freja’s going to America!” I erupt, but Mamma waves me off.
“Freja,” she says firmly, “will be here for at least a week to help with your new role as King. And we’ll move back the Proclamation celebration to September.”
“Right. The celebration.” Blood rushes in my ears. I feel dizzy. In an act of incredible self-restraint, I don’t even whimper or try to create a diversion. Which I’ll consider progress in this situation. At any rate, I feel numb.
“Theodor.” Mamma stares me down and fillets me with her gaze. “I’ve never seen you like this before.”
