Great. This all sounds terrible. I groan. Also, Auggie and John are on this chat, and who knows what they’ll think about this news? Auggie, at least, is a more reasonable sort. Probably the most reasonable out of the four of us. Maybe he’ll have some good insight on what to do. Otherwise, the world’s obviously upended when James is being sensible and warning me. Because what the fuck would James consider chaos in his world?
Before I have a chance to wonder what exactly James might mean about what’s happening in the media, someone comes to escort me onto the plane. Hurriedly, I swipe my phone into flight mode as we walk and try to put everything out of my mind for the next few hours. I’ll be in the air, and there’s nothing I can do about the bad press till I reach London, I tell myself firmly.
Making myself draw in a steadying breath, I give a broad smile at the air steward who shows me to my seat, like I have no worries at all in the world. Because, if anything else, I’m good at make-believe. Which is why I don’t dare think about kissing Stefanos or what that felt like or what it might have led to if we—I—hadn’t sunk the yacht. Instead of following that line of thought, I put on my royal game face, the one I save for public events—all suave charm—and push myself aside.
Despite everything, I actually fall asleep on the plane after the air stewards stop fussing over me, after assurances I’m well taken care of and I don’t need anything else. They give me a blanket, and I shut my eyes.
There are strange dreams of the sea and sinking yachts, and I’m partly aware it’s not real, but the dread is still overwhelming, and then suddenly, I’m a king on a sinking boat and alone, and my father is still dead. And I don’t know what to do.
I only wake up gasping with the pressure changes in my ears as we descend to London. They pop. I force myself to drink more water in an effort to wake up and shake off the bad dreams, which have become a habit I don’t really care for.
I’ve arranged for the VIP service to navigate me through Heathrow, and my escort meets Miles and me at the airbridge once off the plane. Even with the fast-tracking through formalities and no checked bag, I still get a few double takes. Including a long, quiet appraisal by the customs agent that brings relentless heat to my face. It’s that familiar look—when I know that they know what I’ve done wrong. I give her another one of my charming smiles as she clears me.
I text James on the drive to my flat. At least the chauffeur keeps to himself, and I search my name online.
And there are photos that I wish I hadn’t seen, because living through it once was bad enough. There are presumably millions of people seeing this—including my family. It’s beyond embarrassing.
There are pictures of Stefanos and me in matching orange life jackets, waiting on board the sinking yacht to cross over onto the other boat that rescued us, wide-eyed in the wintry weather. Then, there are more pictures of us huddled in blankets, looking frozen and pale. The only good news here is that there’s nothing lewd or untoward to work with, but the picture of the sinking yacht says everything. And one thing I know for sure is that this definitely isn’t the kind of press coverage that either the Greek or Danish royals dream of or want. Even if James insists the free publicity is worth it—definitely not the helpful kind, as far as I’m concerned, and if only I could opt out.
I sink deep into the leather seat. Social media gossip sites are full of theories and speculation about what happened. A trend through them all is that this had to be my fault, given my tattered reputation, that I must have led Prince Stefanos astray with my wild party lifestyle, leading to inevitable disaster.
One media outlet states it’s a continuation of my affair with Stefanos that Aidan complained about. I frown. Mostly, though, they blame me for being reckless and causing the disaster. I guess that’s one way to take responsibility. And it hits me—Mamma’s got to have seen this, along with Freja, most likely, or Freja will see very soon if she hasn’t yet. Even in America.
Shutting my eyes, I instead think of how it felt to finally have Stefanos so close. The scent of his sandalwood cologne and his fresh shampoo. The radiating heat of his body. The crush of his mouth on mine. The couple of days together that now feel like a hazy dream, the best kind—before the yacht sank.
And I won’t be able to see Stefanos again.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Once home, I pause long enough to wash my face and shower, strip off the travel clothes for joggers and a T-shirt, and fling myself face down onto my bed. I press my face into my pillow and force down a couple of deep breaths as if that will restore the inner calm I never had to begin with.
You, I tell myself sternly, are officially and unofficially fucked, and neither is in a good way.
Which is when my phone buzzes on the bedside table. With a groan, I reach over for it and peer at the screen.
You must be home by now and I suggest you stay in for now. Call me
James, naturally. He’s not usually into my business so much. Which means he’s done the media deep dive, and his sage advice also means it’s got to be terrible. I resist the urge to look myself up again for at least ten minutes and push my face back into my pillow, feeling the lack of sleep deep in my bones and the stress that has settled over me.
When I’m marginally more ready to face a search, I try yacht news and hold my breath. The page comes up immediately with:
Princes Greek Caper Sinks £5 million Yacht
“Fuck.” I suppose that answers the question of how much the yacht was worth.
Followed by another headline:
Prince Theodor of Denmark Causes Shipwreck
“Excellent,” I mutter. Which, I suppose, is better than Stefanos being blamed. Except—belatedly—it comes to me that if I’m at fault and there’s no insurance cover, how the hell am I supposed to cover that sort of money? I certainly don’t have it. And I’ll eat my laptop and the rest of the queendom, for that matter, before I ask my mother for that sort of help.
Sitting up with reluctance, I call James before search and rescue is activated again on my behalf. “Hey.”
“The good news,” James begins gravely over the video call, “is that the media coverage of your international yacht—I think they’re widely calling it a caper, actually—has buried the news stories about you and Aidan.”
I groan. “With worse coverage. And I’ve fucked my reputation up even more. How does that actually help me? It’s still a net loss.”
“Did you actually sink the yacht?” He glances quickly at me with great interest.
