I can’t believe you didn’t say anything to me after the press poor form theo
What am I supposed to say, exactly? Lay off the smear campaign? Aidan dumped me, after all. And his behavior’s increasingly unhinged. The latest snippet from an online interview has Aidan looking all sultry and sad.
“Yes,” Aidan lamented, the camera zooming in like he’s been waiting for his close-up, “it’s so tragic what’s happened to Prince Theodor with his father last year. But it’s no excuse to treat me in such a heartless way. As if I didn’t even matter to him. He’s ghosted me.”
Quite the twist on reality. I ought to do a tell-all interview of my own, but I don’t want to give Aidan anything else. He’s already taken enough of my energy. And I have some self-respect.
Meanwhile, there’s the present reality. With a sigh, I step out of the back seat of the car into the blustery, crisp London night onto the pavement in front of Soul restaurant, with Miles my usual shadow. Rain splatters down, and it’s more than a lifetime away from Kerkyra and Stefanos.
Forget him. You’ve made enough problems for Stefanos. Let him go, Theo. You’ve got to let go of this spark. It’s lust, nothing else.
Maybe if I say it enough, I’ll start to believe it.
And the present is very much before me.
James failed to fill me in on whether tonight’s date, Martin, is also in on the fake part of the date. And I wonder what Martin’s motivation might be for participating in such a scheme if he knows about it. With James, the odds are fifty–fifty that he told Martin it’s a fake date only. Though that would probably raise too many questions about why I need a fake date—presumably, Martin might think it’s revenge for Aidan or, as the truth has it, a much-needed reputation makeover.
Standing to my full height, I stride into the restaurant, acting as if I’ve left all of my worries out in the cold. The heat of the restaurant hits me in a rush. In short order, I’m led to my table in a semi-private area, enough to be seen but not overheard.
The ambient light is low in the restaurant, full of chic tables and leather-backed booths. Tea lights glow in glass holders on tabletops. A giant canopy of leaves stretches over the dining area, rising from a tree in the center of the room. Judging by a couple of head turns, I’ve been clocked, and we’ll see how long it takes before the paparazzi show up. Miles is at a nearby table.
Martin rises from his seat as I join him. We shake hands like we’ve completed some manner of business transaction.
“Hi,” Martin offers with a disarming smile. Not what I expected from a banker. I’m sure I have all the wrong ideas about bankers, to be fair. “I’m Martin.”
“Hi. Good to meet you. Please, call me Theo.”
We sit and consider each other across the table. My mouth takes the opportunity to dry up while I try to think of some sort of way to take charge of the conversation. Classic icebreakers like hey, what’s it like not being on the cover of the gossip mags and any pointers on lying low and making your life over?
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Theo. I’ve heard a little about you through Frankie.”
Right, he’s Frankie’s friend, so he can’t be a terrible human. And honestly, between us, in consideration for worst human, that would undoubtedly be me. God, I’ll be an even worse human if he thinks this is a real date, and I’m leading him on. There’s no way to surreptitiously text James at the table to ask, and it’ll be too weird to beeline immediately for the WC as cover. I’ll just have to wing it. Who knows what the etiquette is for a fake blind date.
“Hopefully good things.” That, at least, is honest. I give my best smile back. “And Frankie’s great.”
Thankfully, so far, Martin hasn’t said anything about my recent media coverage.
“He tells me you’re into design work?”
I blink, then smile. My regularly scheduled life at this point feels lost amid travel and disasters. It’s a grounding reminder. Nobody other than my family and Stefanos knows about my future Danish King destiny. “Yes, actually. I’m a creative consultant.”
“Please tell me about it.”
Which leads into the usual explanation of what creative consulting work is and how I came into it. “So,” I finish after we order, “I have various clients from private to corporate that I consult for, and I provide some artistic direction too.” I tilt my head, considering him. I’ve had time to take in the fact that Martin has a built physique under his suit and the poise of an athlete or someone who works with his body more than numbers. It’s definitely unexpected. “How about you?”
“No design clients,” Martin chuckles. “I’m in finance.”
I’m listening, but somehow, it feels dishonest, like I’m betraying Stefanos, because thoughts creep in about him despite my best efforts. Like wondering how he’s doing with the whole post-sinking situation. Or if his father is furious with him. Obviously, he must be. And how wrong it feels to leave him behind to deal with the fallout.
Our meal comes, and I push mushroom risotto around my plate with my fork despite it being delicious. My stomach’s in knots. When I glance up, Martin gives me a wry smile. “I know, bankers are boring, right?”
I flush. “No, not at all. My apologies. It’s not you. It’s me… I’ve been… dealing with a few things lately.” My voice is low.
Martin gives me a sympathetic look. “I imagine all the press attention is exhausting.”
“Mm. I’d like my regularly scheduled life back,” I confess to Martin. “Where I had a lower profile.”
Which is Aidan’s fault for prolonging the situation with his ongoing press releases and interviews. I still haven’t bothered answering his texts, the most recent one of which arrived last night.
