As promised, there are plenty of advisors and staff, and Mamma, too, to help me learn the royal ropes. I’m given a whole lot more media training. I’m well behind on messages to friends, and my personal phone has mostly been off. I get a sleek new phone for all my official kingly stuff, which has gone through all kinds of security witchcraft. A makeover has also happened to my personal phone. My old life feels a million years ago.
Today, I’m taking a lunch break on my own, and at the minute, I’m gazing more out the window at Copenhagen’s harbor rather than downing my rye bread open-faced sandwich. I scroll through my personal phone now that we’re reunited.
I open Instagram, where I’m met with James’ latest, a garden party where he poses with friends and laughs and carries on. As I scroll through, there’s no sign of Frankie. And on Frankie’s socials, there’s also no sign of James. Things must be well and truly over, then.
Ethan and Sacha are on Ethan’s grid, sharing a cozy picnic up on Primrose Hill, where I had been not that long ago. They look happy, leaning into each other for a selfie. It’s a bittersweet feeling, seeing my friends move on with their lives.
I haven’t dared text Stef since that night, and he hasn’t messaged me, which tells me everything I need to know. Obviously, Stef’s a catch, and I’m glad he’s exploring his sexuality on one hand—but on the other, I can’t bear thinking about it. Every time I do, my stomach twists, and my mood tanks, wondering what he’s doing. Or if François is with him. When I’m feeling particularly bold, I wonder if he misses me at all.
Don’t be silly. It was fun while it lasted. He’s got his life, and you’ve got yours to live.
It doesn’t make it hurt any less. And late at night, when I let myself think about it, I replay scenes in my head, like telling Mamma I fell in love, an admission that’s a gut punch. Every time I think about it, my face burns like an inferno. Or other times, when I’m alone late at night in bed, I think of the last time I saw Stef in person in Edinburgh, how it felt to have him pressed in my arms, on fire for each other.
Another lifetime.
I swipe into my personal email and skim messages. Something from Ethan I need to answer tonight about a client project. A message from Eddie wishing me well. And a message from the Greek coast guard asking me to come to Kerkyra as soon as possible for some final questions as my last legal obligation about the yacht-sinking debacle.
I lift my eyebrows at that. Could I send a lawyer in my place?
Then again, what if there’s a chance to see Stef?
Shit. It’s been months since I heard anything, and I figured that was old news. With a glance at next week’s schedule, I message my private secretary, Hans, and ask him to make arrangements instead for my travel to Greece for a few days.
“Don’t you think this is a little like overkill?” I murmur early one morning to Mads, my lead bodyguard, as we’re driven up to the waiting plane on the runway, a small private charter.
“Your Majesty, as noted, this is the private flight option. Otherwise, it’s the Royal Danish Air Force for official engagements, as your parents have done.” He peers at me. “You don’t wish to outrage the taxpayers, do you, by choosing the air force option for your private trip?”
“No!” I quickly compose myself and quash my alarm. “That’s definitely not what I meant. I mean, couldn’t I fly business class or something on a commercial flight? Also, we’ve been over this—please call me Theo.”
Mads has a killer piercing stare, which is his default expression. I hold my ground, practicing my best poker face as if my flail seconds earlier hadn’t happened. Mads is having none of it. “A commercial flight would be a security nightmare. Absolutely not.”
“It worked when I was Crown Prince.”
“And now you’re the King. Different arrangements.” He gives me a sharp look, which is a highly effective visual evisceration technique.
“Noted,” I say wryly.
The car rolls up to the plane and the waiting staircase and people for my flight to Kerkyra. The July breeze gusts over the open terrain, ruffling everyone’s hair. As I exit, I wish everyone a good day, and I’m given a variety of bows, curtseys, and a couple of handshakes, all of which is still disconcerting after a few weeks of this kind of treatment.
With a glance over my shoulder, my bags are efficiently being loaded onto the plane, along with Mads’ bags and the air crew’s. My personal goal is to get Mads to crack a smile, but he’s a man more given to scowls, with, I’m sure, accompanying impeccable military and police training in takedowns. Not that I want to see said full training applied on myself or anyone else, for that matter. I’m sure he could feed someone their pancreas for breakfast.
I’ve had some introduction to what he’s capable of when I wake up with night terrors, with Mads shaking me because, apparently, I yell like I’m being murdered. Then I can’t breathe, and he stays till he’s certain I’ll be alright. And till he’s satisfied I’m not, in fact, being murdered. But those nights, after my nightmares, I can’t sleep till dawn, when light floods my room again. One night, he brought me a nightcap. Another night brought chamomile tea.
We don’t talk about this in the daytime.
On board, I settle into a leather seat by a window, fishing my two phones out, one for each hand. I put the official phone on flight mode and scroll through my personal phone. An air steward comes by, and I assure her I’m fine and don’t need anything right now ahead of the direct flight to Kerkyra.
Back on my phone as we wait for clearance to begin to taxi to the runway ahead of takeoff, I call up Stef’s contact details.
I’m dropping into the neighborhood and I hope I can see you for an hour or two if you have time x
There. I’ve only been practicing what to text him for weeks. I sigh, sagging my head back against the headrest. The crew readies for our takeoff while the plane’s hum already rings in my ears.
And sweet reward—a message back from Stef arrives five minutes later.
What do you mean, Your Majesty?
I send a selfie shot with the window and runway in the background.
