by Kim Karr
I am absolutely speechless.
Is there anything more bad boy than a Prince saying “f*ck it” and making out in public with a woman who we don’t believe to be a royal?
A commoner?
I’m going to go with No.
Tweet me and tell me who the girl is.
I’m still waiting to hear.
And I’m dying to know.
TWEETS
Barbara Riley @BarRil
Hey @IanWesley why don’t you get a life and leave him alone?
♥60.8K
34,410 people are talking about this
CandyHolmes @CandyCane
I wish it were me with @PrinceMax.
♥8.8K
4,420 people are talking about this
SAY WHAT?
There’s nothing like Monday morning in New York City. And when I say there’s nothing like it, I mean it.
This city is like Dallas on steroids. Horns are honking, people rushing, pushing, shoving.
It’s freaking crazy.
It took me ten minutes to buy a new MetroCard because I had trouble with the machine, and the entire time I could hear the leers from the people behind me. Then one of the trains was delayed and I had to take an alternate line, which had many more stops. Luckily, I budgeted more than enough time into my schedule to get to work by eight.
The sun is shining as I take the stairs from the Columbus Circle Station in a brand new pair of knee-high gray-colored suede Jimmy Choo boots that Ava was gifted while at Vogue and hated.
Starting the short walk to the building, I sigh at the positively gorgeous weather.
Arriving at Hearst Tower early, I decide I have time to grab a coffee in the lobby before taking the elevator up to Bombshell.
This time, when I get to the main doors, they are unlocked. I smile at the security guard as I walk by him and pass the escalator to head to the coffee shop. From my purse, I can hear my broken cell ringing.
Stopping at one of the benches in the huge atrium of a lobby, I find it and carefully slide my finger along where I know the answer bar is. “Hello?’
“Finally,” Ava sighs. “Where have you been? I’ve been calling for days.”
Smiling, I take a seat and do my best not to place the broken screen too close to my face. “I’m sorry. I’ve had a lot going on and so much to tell you about. When are you coming home?”
“Saturday,” she tells me.
“Oh, good, we’ll have plenty of time to catch up over the weekend.”
“How about now?” she says, her tone slightly bemused.
“I can’t right now. I’m on my way to work.”
“Work?” she shouts through the line. “What the hell? You have a job, too?”
“Too?” I question. “What do you mean?”
“OMG, seriously, don’t pull that non-disclosure crap with me. I still can’t believe you haven’t called me to tell me everything.”
I glance around the space for somewhere quieter because I find myself getting irritated by the noise of the waterfalls behind me. “I’m sorry Ava, I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, come on, Gigi. Please. It’s me. And besides, I already know. I sent you the pictures in my text messages last night.”
Pulling my phone away from my face, I attempt to thumb through my texts, but when I’m greeted with a black screen, I remember instantly that my phone is broken, and why. “My phone isn’t working. But tell me, what on earth are you talking about?”
“Come on. It’s me, remember. Your closest friend. You can talk to me. I won’t tell anyone anything.”
My eyes shift to the giant clock that reads 7:49, and I really have to get moving. I won’t be able to get a coffee anymore. “Ava, what the hell are you talking about?” I ask, clearly frustrated.
“Fine, have it your way, but pictures of you and Prince Maximus are plastered all over social media over here in the Vespa Isles, so clearly I already know.”
The skin on my palm feels sweaty, and I fear I might drop my already broken phone. “What did you say?”
“You and Prince Maximus Napoleon Montgomery of Casanovia. Second in line to the throne. You know, the guy you were straddling on the back of that motorcycle yesterday.”
No wonder he never answered me when I asked where he was from. Why it went unanswered. Now the reason for his vagueness is crystal clear.
Oh, God! How could I not know?
My stomach drops to my toes, and when I get to my feet, I think I stomp right on top of it. “Listen, Ava, I really have to go. I’ll call you later.”
“Okay, but I want all the details, so be prepared to spill.”
After I hopelessly try to figure out how to end the call, I stumble toward the escalator with my heart hammering so hard, and run right into an attractive woman with Lucille Ball hair. Her iced coffee crushes between us, and my pale gray blouse is now spotted with brown.
“Oh, my God, I’m so sorry,” I tell her.
Using the wad of napkins in her hand, she attempts to pat me dry. “No, I am. Your top is ruined. Let me pay for the dry cleaning.”
In my own daze, I start to back away. “Don’t worry about it,” and continue through the atrium.
I can’t believe what a fool I am.
Mortification setting in, I feel like I can’t breathe. Oh, my God. I’ve had sex six ways from Sunday with this person I thought to be a regular guy. Sure, a guy with money, but still a guy who had to work for a living.
The reality is so much different.
He doesn’t have to work.
He’s royalty.
Stopping just before the escalator, I stand there as people rush by me headed to their various publishing jobs and the truth sinks in. My boss at Bombshell, Max Montgomery, is Prince Maximus Montgomery of Casanovia.
The Queen of Alexandria’s ex.
Prince Maximus Montgomery.
Fury blazes through my veins and sets my skin on fire. Did he just forget about that little detail?
What the actual hell?
OFFICE POLITICS
Staring at the papers I swiped from Monica’s desk in HR when she went to grab a cup of coffee, I rough a hand through my hair.
Gigi’s employment contract is all intact. The forms requesting her bank information, tax documentation, and personal data are ready to be filled out. It’s the last section I’m struggling with.
I should have told her straight away.
Now, the non-disclosure agreement seems like a bomb awaiting detonation. The very first line clearly states she agrees not to mention my royal status to anyone.
My royal status.
The one she doesn’t fucking have a clue about.
And I really liked it like that. No curtsies or your royal highnesses. No stars in the eyes or aspirations of becoming my bride for the sole purpose of gaining a title.
The way it’s been for the past few months has been exhausting.
Always wondering what the woman is after.
Even if I hadn’t been ordered to clean up my image—I would have. There was a learning curve, and I figured it out quickly.
You see, because I was in a committed relationship since I sucked my fucking thumb, I hadn’t had to deal with all that bullshit. Sure, I mean there were always women looking to poach, but I’m not the cheating kind of guy. After I became single though, fuck, women were literally throwing themselves at my feet, and yeah, I noticed. When they stripped naked before me if I so much as glanced their way it was hard not to. And yes, I partook, I mean I am only human.
Still, that got old fast.
Nothing was ever real.
It was all a big show with the, “Your Royal Highness, Prince, Your Majesty, His Highness,” whatever spin they put on my title that excited them.
Not with Gigi, though. To her, I was just a stiff, a dick, an asshole, and the narcissist in me rather liked that.
Now, I’m in a true fucking jam and the dark side of my personality isn�
��t going to get me out of it. I should have come clean with her last night. I did try. I just couldn’t do it. Today, though, I have no choice. I can only keep these documents hostage for so long before Monica decides to just reprint them.
I could tell her to leave them out of the new employee paperwork altogether. No one here refers to me by status because of that NDA.
Probably not the best course of action.
A noise at my door has me glaring up in annoyance. I told the new receptionist for Bombshell I was not to be disturbed.
When Hunter Tigress saunters through the door, I shake my head at him.
“Nice shiner,” he grins.
I throw him the bird. “Don’t you have a company to run?”
Shrugging, he strides in all cool, calm, and collected. “Wanted to stop by and see you on my way to the office.”
He is the son of Prince Francesco Marco Tigress of Italy and his American wife, Katherine High. His paternal grandmother was Princess Marcella Tigress, who founded the Tigress cosmetics line.
Hunter and I went to Oxford together and quickly became best friends in our freshman year. While I returned to the Vespa Isles after university, he came to the States to take over the NYC-headquartered cosmetics company, which had been licensed under Revlon but was released to the family just five years ago.
“And to what do I owe this pleasure?” I ask with sarcasm clear in my tone.
Opening his briefcase, he pulls out a glossy rag mag. “Picked this up at the newsstand this morning. Looks like you’re in hot water, again,” he drawls as he drops the rag mag onto my desk and then slouches into one of the chairs in front of me.
Glancing down, white-hot fury shoots through my veins like an adrenaline rush. “Motherfucker! When the hell did those assholes get so good at hiding?” I leer when I see the picture of Gigi and me kissing on the boardwalk yesterday.
Hunter crosses a leg over his knee. “You need to be more like me and throat punch them when you see them. They’re like dogs. They need to be trained. Do that a few times and they’ll learn to stay away.”
Under my desk, my fingers curl into fists. “I tried that two nights ago. Not only did it get me this,” I raise my hand and point to the shiner he already commented on, “but more than likely a lawsuit, too.”
Not at all bothered by that knowledge, he raises a dark eyebrow and points to the magazine. “Care to share who she is? Don’t say some random hookup because I already saw the way-too-cozy picture of her on the back of that new bike of yours. And dude, you wore my coat.”
Fucking paparazzi.
My blood heats just thinking about Gigi, and I can’t stop the grin that spreads across my face. “That’s my jacket. For some reason, you just like to think of it as yours because anything that comes from Italy must belong to you.”
“Fuck you and fuck you very much. Now, tell me about the hot chick.”
Leaning back in my chair, I steeple my fingers. “I met this quirky girl in a cab Saturday morning…”
After I spill my guts about everything, he just stares at me for a long while before saying, “Max, my man, what the fuck were you thinking not telling her who you are?”
“That’s just it, I wasn’t.”
Now he’s grinning like a motherfucker. “Oh, I get it. You were thinking with your dick. So she was a distraction for the weekend then, since Beatrice wasn’t around to attempt to monopolize your time?”
My chin moves from side to side. “At first, yeah, maybe. But now I can’t get her out of my head. I want her, man.”
Hunter straightens in his chair, a frown marring his face. “Seriously?”
I nod.
“There’s a number of issues with that statement. I mean there’s royal law, your father, and of course, there’s Beatrice, who I might add, you dumped in my lap for one too many days. The Hamptons was so not cool with her asking me about you every five minutes.”
“Sorry about that. It’s just I couldn’t deal with her.”
“Yeah, I get it, dude, but you owe me for dumping her on me at the last minute as I was on my way out the door Saturday. You owe me.”
Ignoring him, I ask, “What am I going to do about Gigi?”
Hunter picks up the tabloid and waves it around. “Putting aside the fact that you’re back to bad-boy status and your father will be having your head on a platter, you better find this girl and tell her the fucking truth, like right now. Prince or no prince, she’s not going to be happy with your lying ass when she finds out from one of these.”
After letting out a curse, I get to my feet. “Yeah, fuck, I knew you were going to say that.”
One corner of his mouth twitches upward. “Hey, the truth hurts. Now, unless you need another therapy session, I’ll be going to my office. Where, I might add, I don’t have a fraternization policy and my assistant doesn’t mind blowing me whenever I ask. Which, after the weekend I had with your new bequeathed, will be as soon as I walk through the door.”
Great.
Fucking great.
Now I’m having images of Gigi taking my cock in her sweet mouth under my desk while I’m on a call, say with my father or better yet, the fucking Queen.
Fat chance of that happening anytime soon.
Right?
EXCUSE ME?
A quick stop in the sample closet turns up a brand-new silver sparkly cashmere sweater and it pairs great with the black leather shorts I’m already wearing.
Looking right, then left, I can feel my anger boiling the moment I hit the hall. What if I run into him? I’m not ready for that.
I’m not sure if I should curtsey?
Bow?
Kneel?
Tell him to go to hell?
Or better yet, tell him to go screw himself?
While rushing toward reception, I wonder if my heart is going to up and give out at the ripe old age of twenty-three.
It’s beating way too fast.
Approaching the spunky girl at reception with her pink hair in a perfect twist, I lean down and ask, “Do you think I can borrow your phone?”
Her perfectly groomed brows rise. “Excuse me, who are you?”
I extend my hand and wish I would have polished my short nails. “I’m Gigi Gatsby, the new Creative Director.”
She extends her hand, her perfect manicure shining brightly. “I’m Carly, nice to meet you.”
After shaking, I ask, “Do you mind? I just need to look up one quick thing. It will only take a second. I promise.”
Opening up her desk drawer, she hands me her iPhone protected in the boldest fuchsia case I’ve ever seen. “Here you go. I have unlimited data so don’t worry about it.”
With the phone in my hand, I keep my head down and take a seat in the reception area. I have to make sure what Ava told me is accurate. Be certain before I face him.
The sea of white feels nauseating as I sit here, and I can’t stop my fingers from trembling when I type ‘Prince Maximus’ into the Google search bar.
IMDB is the first site to fill the screen. Odd. Film? That can’t be right. It must be someone else. With my gut twisting, I tap it anyway and gasp when I see his name. After I squeeze my eyes shut, I open them and read what’s listed in his profile.
Prince Maximus
* * *
Prince Maximus was born on September 1, 1992 in Paddinglock, Casanovia as Maximus Napoleon Albert Montgomery. He is known for his work on Gracing Titans, a TCN Channel 9 News television show that aired July 2017. See full bio >>
So he does have a very short film career. I click Gracing Titans since I never heard of it and see it was a fundraiser for underprivileged children where Max took part in an obstacle course along with a team of kids.
Well, that was kind of him.
Still not enough to redeem himself, though.
Closing the page, I click on the next site that comes up to see if I can find his picture. Just to be certain there isn’t some rapper out there with the same name or even another royal
. Sure enough, there he is, front and center on the Wikipedia page. God, he’s too lethally beautiful to be a real person.
How did I not see that?
Prince Maximus
* * *
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
Prince Max of Casanovia, KCVO, ADC(P) (Maximus Napoleon Albert born 1 September 1992) is a member of the Casanovia royal family. He is the younger son of Winston, King of Casanovia, and Diandra, Queen of Casanovia, and is second in the line of succession to the Casanovia throne.
Maximus was educated at schools in Casanovia and then went to university at Oxford. While attending university and thereafter, he underwent officer training at the Royal Military Academy, where he was commissioned as second lieutenant.
Maximus gives patronage to several organizations, including his deceased mother’s favorite, Gracing Titans, a charity dedicated to helping impoverished children from birth to age twelve.
Closing that site, I tap on the ‘Images’ tab and find dozens of photos of him. There’s Max with Jennifer Lawrence. Max with an heiress. Max with…too many women. I start to feel sick again as I continue to peruse his photos, along with the most beautiful eye candy on his arm I’ve ever seen. Never the same woman twice, though.
I hear the click of stilettos coming down the corridor and quickly close my search. Getting to my feet, my legs are trembling as I cross the lobby and give Carly back her phone. “Thank you so much. I owe you.”
Her eyes light up. “Owe me as in samples from the closet?”
Walking toward the HR office I passed earlier, I glance back and say, “Is there any other way?”
“We’re friends for life, Gigi.” The giddiness in her voice is the only thing that makes me smile.
When I turn around, I run right into the same lady I did downstairs. “You must be Gigi Gatsby, and just the woman I’m looking for.”