Then instantly regret my actions.
My screen fills with the image of a young man climbing out of a glossy Mercedes-Benz, a scowl etched onto his face. He’s instantly recognisable, solely due to the fact that he makes the headlines every goddamn week. Prince Eryxon Atherbourne, eldest son of King Reginald, future ruler of Marzod. Usually reporters try to lick his ass, but I snort at seeing the headline is more blunt than usual this time around.
ROYAL DISGRACE: CROWN PRINCE CAUGHT IN A VIOLENT ALTERCATION IN MILAN NIGHTCLUB.
I read further, bringing my knees close to my chin. The sod punched a guy in the nose, and though the journalist tries to make it seem as though he had no idea, it’s quite evident Eric was aware that the nose he broke belonged to a foreign diplomat’s son. One comment is calling it a diplomatic misunderstanding.
Um, I’m fairly certain that’s assault, but anyway.
There’s another link, taking me to already circulating videos on TikTok. A man walks beside a car, his posture suggesting he’s both used to being watched and repulsed by it. Comments are going feral for his strut. It’s just walking. That’s all he’s doing.Walking.
People are calling his name as he walks, and he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even look back. Another link jolts through, and I’m taken to newer tabloids, where I have a clearer view of his features. His hair is blonde, not exactly pale but golden. He’sstanding between two diplomats, his shirt wrinkled and his collar loose like he just pulled himself from something violent.
Nothing about him looks scandalous, I must admit. The closer I look, I’m not even convinced itishim, really. Could be Eric—could even be Kairos. Palace PR team’s worst nightmare? Probably the Atherbourne twins and their identical faces. Imagine a poor intern who’s frantically making sure she isn’t posting pictures of the prince whodidn’tcommit an international assault. If who I’m looking atisEric, he doesn’t seem to regret a damn thing.
Bet he’s unbearable in person.
As I’m about to swipe out of the app, an iMessage appears at the top of the screen.
Ed
I’ll be back in Sheffolk by Thursday night.
Tell Gran I won’t be home till Monday, though. Charlie’s invited me to some countryside gala his mum’s hosting over the weekend.
Free bar and fuckall press, yah!
I thumb out a quick reply before screenshotting and instantly forwarding it to Percy.
Francesca
[Attachment] doesn’t this make you wish you were a sheffolk son?
no ghosts, no stitching the dead back into dirt, no huskins or curses
oh, to be blissfully stupid
Percy
he’d shit himself if he knew what we’re doing this thursday. same goes for dad
lol, that’s if they invite us back this week
Francesca
fuck, forgot about that
what are we gonna do?
Percy
dunno
*farts cutely*
A soft knock on the door interrupts our conversation, and I lock my phone.Right on time.The door opens quietly, and my grandfather steps inside. He wears his usual cardigan with the suede patches on his elbows and loose-fitted slacks. There’s a mischievous smile on his face as he glances from my face to the half-empty mug on the table. Percy always said Grandad carries himself like a man who didn’t know how important he was. His presence is easy, as though the title Lord Frank Sheffolk is something that happened to him accidentally.
“Bad day?” he asks.
