Page 1 of Fallen Crown

Chapter One

Brice

Women love me. It’s some sort of chemical reaction caused by my smile, my toned, tattooed physique, or my princely status. I’ve never questioned a woman’s innate attraction; I’ve accepted it as my lot in life. They love me, and I love all of them.

But judging by Maren Tucker’s glare across the conference table, I still won’t be counting her among my fans anytime soon.

“With all due respect, Your Highness, we’re not putting together this charity adventure race team for a lark. We want to raise money, and we want to have the efforts of the team taken seriously.” My title oozes false sincerity. If we were alone, she wouldn’t bother to pretend. Her tongue is acidic, and I’ve been on the receiving end of her poison more than once. One of a thousand reasons I’d never want her tongue caressing mine. She’d ram it down my throat and laugh as I choked.

“With all due respect, Ms. Tucker, if you want publicity for this team, and if you want the producers of the streaming service to spotlight Bellerive, there is no one better to be on it than me.” As I finish speaking, I scan the conference room to make eye contact with the other board members from the Alzheimer’s Society who are witnessing this exchange.

“That’s a valid point,” Tim Eggleston says. “Being able to lobby the island’s wealthy for donations, suggesting they get behind Prince Brice, especially given the family connection to the disease, would be very beneficial. We can’t discount that. His high profile balances the lack of experience.”

The reminder of my father’s diagnosis causes me to flinch slightly. While my father’s situation is well-known, I’m hopeful the coronation for my older brother, Alex, as king of Bellerive and his appointment to the island’s Advisory Council will move along laws to assist my father and give him greater choices about the quality of his life. I’ve seen what this disease does to people, and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone, let alone my father. A slow decline until he bares almost no resemblance to the father who raised me.

“We need a team member who will take this seriously,” Maren says.

“We’ll consider the offer, Prince Brice. It’s generous of you to donate your time to training and fundraising for our organization and the race.” Tim surveys the room and takes a deep breath. “We’re in danger of going over our allocation for tonight’s board meeting, so we’ll revisit this at the next one. We have about a month before training needs to commence.”

Maren opens her mouth to protest, but the other members seem to be done with the conversation. She must really hate me to argue my involvement in front of her colleagues. Especially since I’m going to win. Only a fool would turn down the publicity and built-in fundraising. Not to mention the elevated profile our team would have on the documentary-style program funded by InterFlix, the biggest streaming service on the planet. As the director of the Bellerive’s Alzheimer’s Society, Tim is not an idiot. Everyone likes money, and including me on the race team is a license to print it.

The board members rise from their seats, and eight of them file out. Maren is the last one to leave her spot at the table. Outside the door, my security detail awaits. If she’s got something to say to me that she’d prefer no one else hears, her window is short.

“The other team members have done an adventure race before. They understand the training required to do well. They’re committed.” She tucks her long dark hair behind her ears, and her blue eyes, the color of ice chips, meet mine.

“I’m a fast learner.” I give her a suggestive glance meant to annoy. “I can master this. Learned all kinds of skills for all sorts of situations over the years.”

“The skills you’ve learned have nothing to do with a ten-day adventure race.” She scowls. “I guarantee it.” With a huff, she gathers her papers into the folder in front of her. “You only became serious about being a real benefactor to the society when your father was diagnosed. Before that, you were an on-paper, just-for-show, throw-money-at-it guy.”

Acidic. Burns right through me. She’s got me wrong, but it feels right to her and maybe a bit to me too. Throughout my life, I’ve been the third in line to inherit the throne. Pending a large disaster, there was never any chance of me ruling, and I’ve been given a long, often indulgent, leash on royal matters. No one has ever had to take me seriously, and I’ve never cared either way. My brothers have had much different experiences. Alex has the full weight of the monarchy on his shoulders, and Nick has been suffocated by it. Me? I’ve enjoyed the privileges without the same heavy lifting. Being an afterthought, the punch line to a joke, just made me work harder to be liked.

There are few people who’d dare to dislike me so publicly. If anyone can get away with obvious scorn without social or political repercussions, it’s a Tucker. Funnily enough, her billions are inherited, just like mine.

Her complete distaste for me isn’t a surprise, but the longevity is. We went to high school together, although she’s a few years younger than me, and she couldn’t stand me then either. Joke’s on her because I also don’t enjoy her company. Stuck up. Entitled. From one of the oldest families in Bellerive, she’s a trust fund baby who parades around Bellerive. Pretty but ineffective.

“Remind me again how many boards you sit on? How many of those are you throwing money at without putting in adequate work?”

Her nostrils flare, and I wish there was a tally on the wall. Direct hit. One point for me.

“I’m on five, and I work hard for every one.”

“Work hard?” I raise my eyebrows. “You flounce around the island attending cocktail parties and suggesting other people open their wallets.” I’m tempted to ask her what else she opens to get their money, but I’m too well trained by the Bellerive Royals PR team to let that one fly. From what I’ve heard, her husband is also a waste of space, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she sought fulfillment elsewhere. I might hate her, but I’m not stupid enough to comment. Too many people walking around recording private conversations for me to give anyone but family my real opinions.

“I’m training the team.” She breezes past me and out the door. “And I won’t allow the board to put you on it.”

Convincing her isn’t my problem. Tim can overrule her later, but I follow close on her heels anyway. “This cause means a lot to me. I’m passionate about raising money to find interventions, ways to support people with the disease.”

She keeps walking, and I clench my fists while I stay beside her. My two security guards are behind us. Depending on what I’m doing, there are always one or two burly men in attendance.

“You might not understand what it means to be passionate about anything,” I say, “but it means someone will go to any length to get what they want. I want on this team.”

“Passion is overrated.” She whirls on me with her meeting folder pressed to her chest. “Getting the job done and done right is far more important than passion.” She spits out the last word, but the action feels put on, as though she’s trying to provoke a reaction from me.

“To succeed, passion and results go hand in hand. If you don’t have them both, well, you’re doing something wrong. I’m sorry that hasn’t been your experience, but I promise you, it’s always been mine.”

“Has it?” Her shoulders relax. “In my experience, women are incredibly adept at pretending passion to stroke the ego of their partner—in any situation. Easy to make a man believe the two go together when a panting production”—she gives me a coy smile—“is all that’s required. Something to think about, Your Highness.” She turns on her heel and sails out the front door.

Goes to show how little she knows me. Any woman faking shit is only hindering her own satisfaction. I get off either way.