“Thanks for all this, by the way.” I give him a sidelong glance. Stefanos is at the helm. “I really appreciate it. The yacht trip, the hosting, all of it. I’m feeling kind of spoiled. I’d love to return the favor sometime.”
Stefanos sidelong glances right back at me and smiles. “My pleasure. Are you finding any inspiration so far?”
I’m quiet for a long moment and search his eyes. “I think so,” I say into the quiet.
His smile broadens. “Good.”
There’s another moment where something passes between us. Where it would be so easy to reach out and kiss him. Then he refocuses on navigating, and I’m left with goose bumps.
“I wasn’t completely honest with you earlier,” I admit sheepishly. “About my royal duties and the future being complicated. This has been a great escape from all of that. And—Aidan too.”
“It’s okay. You don’t need to tell me everything that’s going on.”
“The thing is, I want to. But—this is just between you and me.”
Stefanos looks over at me. “Of course.”
I draw in a deep breath. Now or never. “My sister’s supposed to be celebrated in a coronation-style event this summer. I mean, she should be queening around right now. Except… except she’s secretly married an American and is planning to move there with him. Something about an animal rescue, I don’t know.”
The words rush out of me.
Stefanos blinks, startled. “So what does that mean?”
“It means… it means Freja’s abdicating the throne. And… that would make me King.” My words are barely audible as my stomach knots into new shapes like it does every time I think about this. Recurring nightmares have started since I first heard about Freja’s plans to abdicate.
The dreams always start off reasonable enough.
I’m usually with Papa, on one of our last visits, riding horses down a Malaga beach together in the warm Andalucian spring before it gets too hot. The sun is low, and the horizon’s pink. Mamma and Freja have already gone back to the hotel to have a visit of their own.
Beside me, the wind ruffles Papa’s dark hair. He has a heavier build than I do, though we’re about the same height. He’s kept the muscle from his military service days before becoming King. Every day, he runs. On holidays, I often join him. But today, we thought it would be fun to instead take horses out together. Security is once again up and down the beach, but as far as the eye can see, we have it to ourselves.
Papa’s providing assurances. He gives me an irrepressible grin. His eyes sparkle, and he’s nonchalant. “It’ll be fine, Theo. You’ll make an excellent king, trust me. You’re excellent with people.”
“I’m a disaster with people. Have you seen the tabloids?”
“As we all know, the tabloids are far from credible,” he chides me, smiling. “According to them, I have eight illegitimate children across Europe, a secret life of selling antiquities on the black market, and, my personal favorite, plans to build my own rocket ship. Out of cheese.”
We both laugh. He’s always had a knack for helping me feel better. And it’s no secret that he’s been entirely devoted to Mamma since they got engaged at twenty-five. Young, he said, but they were in love, and they waited two more years before they married.
I smile over at him, cheered, as we ride side by side down the endless sandy beach. The waves roll in and out around our horses’ hooves. Sea birds reel and dip over the water. Many years earlier, we had been on a family holiday at a cabin when our car broke down, and the memory lingers. Papa’s hands were covered in grease as he chased me and Freja when we were still children. He pretended to catch us as we screamed.
He looks amused. “Theo, I promise, you have everything you need to rule, believe me.”
Before I can ask him how he can be so certain, he urges his horse into a canter, and he starts to fade from view when I can’t catch up. The beach vanishes. I always wake up feeling shaken, alone with my grief. Pappa died so suddenly, in the prime of his life, fit and healthy, and no one expected him to have a heart attack. Or to pass away the next day despite all the best medical interventions.
I haven’t told anyone about the nightmares.
Meanwhile, Stefanos’ eyes widen. He digests my words about Freja. About becoming the Danish King.
And then any fleeting fantasy I had of kissing Stefanos vanishes. So much for escapism.
“Wow,” Stefanos says at last. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Please don’t tell anyone,” I beg, searching his eyes. “Not a breath of this can become public yet.”
“I promise, Theo. Please. Don’t worry.” He touches my arm.
The way he says my name gives me goose bumps, and I shiver at his touch. My shoulders ease slightly. I unclench my jaw. “I’m hoping Freja comes back to her senses. Or someone will tell me it’s a really bad prank they’re pulling on me. Or some kind of bad dream.”
