Would Be King

by Kim Karr

  Flash! Flash! Flash!

  “Who’s that?” someone yells.

  “That’s Prince Maximus’s mistress,” someone else responds.

  “Where?”

  “Over there!”

  Rushing past the throng of entertainment reporters, I don’t see the end in sight. Just more bright lights with each step. Somehow, I ended up in the middle of the lion’s den with the paparazzi, and they know who I am.

  Flash! Flash! Flash!

  “Are you Prince Maximus’s secret girlfriend?”

  “Is it true Princess Beatrice and Prince Maximus are engaged to be married and you’re the other woman?”

  “If you work for Prince Maximus, are you his employee or girlfriend or both? And does he pay you to sleep with him?”

  Flash! Flash! Flash!

  And repeat.

  Over and over again, I keep hearing the same questions. Seeing the same dark lenses. Hearing the terrible things they’re saying about me.

  I start running, covering my head with my purse, trying to shield myself from the onslaught that seems endless.

  “Gigi, wait.”

  The only thing I can do is freeze when that piercing sound strikes me from behind. It’s him.

  I swear I can feel his determined footsteps as they tremor across the concrete and climb up my body. Then his hand grips my shoulder and that electric connection that charges through him to me is undeniable. “Gigi, wait.”

  Slowly, I turn, aware everyone around us is watching, snapping, taking notes, but not caring one bit.

  The air is thick with tension as I pivot on my heel. Twisting, turning, I want to scream at him as soon as I see his beautiful face.

  Yell.

  Shout.

  Stomp my feet, even.

  Tell him to go to hell.

  But then I see the look in his tortured eyes, and I can’t do any of that because this man plucks the breath right from me with that broken look.

  My lungs heave for air, and I whisper, “Max, you shouldn’t be here with me. You’re engaged.”

  He shifts on his feet, a nervous hand jerking at the pieces of hair on his forehead that have fallen forward. “No, I’m not.”

  I look at the ground as if it might hold the answers to all my questions. “Princess Beatrice tells me you and she are betrothed, so perhaps engaged is the wrong word.”

  Those big hands are on my face. “We’re nothing.”

  I take a step back. “Does it work that way, Max? In your world, if the King says it must be, can you really go against his wishes?”

  His mouth trembling, he stares at me, expression uncertain, and I know right away the answer is no.

  A strangled sob springs from my core. “You should have told me.”

  “God, Gigi…I’m so fucking sorry. It’s so much more complicated than that.” His tone is low, consumed by guilt.

  Lightheadedness spins around me, and I gasp for air, trying to figure out what to say, but I come up with nothing.

  “Can we go back to the hotel and talk?”

  I swallow as I lift my head to meet his gaze. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. I need to go home—back to the States. I shouldn’t be here. Not with you. Not like this. Not as the other woman.”

  Lights flash over and over, but somehow, we’re able to block them all out, pretend it’s just the two of us for these few short seconds that we have left together with our eyes locked on only each other.

  “Please,” he pleads. “I’m so fucking sorry I didn’t tell you about Beatrice. Give me a chance to explain. That’s all I ask.”

  There’s a crowd swarming around us, and soon, we’re bombarded by a cacophony of shouts and speculations as the paparazzi steal picture after picture of us.

  Gabriel rushes up to us. “Prince, we must get you out of here. I have a car waiting at the corner.”

  Max looks at me before responding. “You have to leave here with me.”

  I give him a small nod. “Yes, I’ll leave with you, but I won’t go back to the HÔTEL DE CRILLON.”

  “But I need to explain.”

  I shake my head. “I need some time alone to sort through things, and I can’t do that with you. I’m going to go back home to the States.”

  “Gigi, please.”

  “Max, you owe me this.”

  Hesitantly, he nods back. “You’re right, I do. Whenever you’re ready to talk to me, I’ll be waiting.”

  If only it were that easy.

  Talking won’t change the fact that he’s been promised to a Princess. That I’m a commoner. That his father is a King with a decree.

  Yes, it is complicated, and in a way, I don’t see a happy ending for us.

  Pressing me close to him, he pivots toward the corner. Guarding. Protecting. Keeping me safe.

  As soon as we start walking, the crowd rushes forth even more. As if determined to find out what we discussed.

  Flash! Flash! Flash!

  “Prince Maximus…there are reports that you’re to be married to Princess Beatrice. Is this true?”

  “Can you tell us why you are to assume to the throne instead of your brother?”

  “Can you confirm your brother’s terminal condition?”

  Flash! Flash! Flash!

  Terminal condition?

  Max’s entire body stiffens and then he comes to an immediate halt, turns, and for the first time addresses the privacy invaders.

  “Where did you hear that?” he growls as they flock around us like rabid dogs. I want to spit at them, but I’m so taken aback by the information, I find myself waiting for the answer, too.

  The paparazzo holds up his phone in response. “This news was just released on the Casanovia Conquest. Can you confirm it to be true? Does this mean you’re next in line for the throne?”

  “It must be Beatrice,” Max mumbles, turning back and sandwiching me between himself and Gabriel. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Walking even faster now, we quickly make our way to the waiting car. Gabriel throws the door open, and I’m rushed into the back seat. Gabriel is keeping the crowd away, and before Max can follow me inside the car, he’s pulled away. A man with a microphone has taken his arm and is thrusting the device into Max’s face. “Are you to be the next King of Casanovia or not?”

  Fury lights Max up, and he surges forward, shoving the man back as Gabriel pushes the rest of the crowd away.

  I watch as the cameraman falls back to the curb and then Max is inside the car and the door is slamming.

  Within seconds, Gabriel is up front in the passenger seat. There is no privacy glass, and I have no idea who the driver is. The person is wearing a hat and buttoned up jacket with huge sunglasses.

  “Go,” Gabriel orders and the vehicle takes off.

  “I’d like to drop Miss Gatsby off at the Four Seasons,” Max tells him, looking back as if to assess the damage we left behind.

  I want to argue with him, tell him I can’t afford that hotel, just take me to the airport, but right now, I can’t even speak.

  His brother is terminally ill.

  Prince Maximus Montgomery is second in line for the throne of Casanovia, but if what the reporters said is true, it sounds like he’s Heir Apparent.

  This changes everything.

  “Yes, Your Royal Highness,” Gabriel responds. “Does she have a reservation?”

  “No, but if you don’t mind handling it and also, can you arrange a flight back to the states for her tomorrow evening?”

  “Yes, right now.”

  Gabriel taps away and I watch him for a bit before texting Ava that I had to leave, but I’d be in touch.

  Then I stare out the window, wondering how I’m going to say goodbye to Max because I don’t have a choice. I have to. I need to leave France. Work or not, I can’t be here and be in the news…as the other woman.

  Paris is truly amazing and so incredibly different from New York City. There are no skyscrapers. The buildings are old and grand, and a glorious riv
er runs through the city under a clear, wide-open sky.

  There are things I’d like to discuss with Max, but I just can’t. Instead, I don’t say a word. When Max tries to talk to me, I hold up a hand. “Please, not now.”

  The rest of the ride is quiet. I stay on my side of the seat while he stays on his, staring at his phone, thinking, stewing, brooding (I’m not exactly sure).

  When the car pulls up to the hotel, it appears clear of any cameras. I turn toward Max. “I’ll call you.”

  “Let me walk you to your room.”

  I shake my head. “No, you should stay here.”

  He squeezes his eyes closed, his expression pinching in regret. “I . . .”

  “Don’t,” I beg. “Please don’t. Let go. You have to just let go.”

  Turning to pull me close, he whispers in my ear, “I love you. I can’t let go. And don’t forget, I’ll be waiting for your call. Day or night. Weeks or months. As long as it takes, I’ll be waiting.”

  I hate to break free of his hold, but I know I must. Once I do, I bolt out of the car without saying another word.

  Love won’t fix this.

  And I’m afraid nothing will.

  THE SHOT

  The Casanovia Conquest

  Breaking News

  A CHILD LOST

  By Ian Wesley

  This story has just broke. Two years ago when the shot fired at the King hit the Queen, it did more than injure her, it killed the King’s soon to be third heir.

  Known as Lady Genevieve, she’s a distant cousin to the King of Catalina, and somehow wooed herself into the King’s bed.

  It is reported from a very credible source, that after she ended up taking the bullet meant for the King, and had to have a complete hysterectomy because of it, there is nothing anyone can say to him about her that he hears.

  His guilt is too heavy.

  The speculation is the shooter was livid over the King’s public stance on gambling throughout the Vespa Isles.

  Two years ago, when the push for gambling courtesy of King Rutherford of Eastwood began, every country received a bill to sign allowing for legalized gambling.

  The King disavowed it. Proclaiming there would never be legalized gambling in Casanovia while addressing the public. It was something he should not have done during a speech on trade talks while in Paris. Word has it that he’d received a warning just prior to the speech not to mention his stance.

  However, the press asked his opinion, and he answered.

  That’s when the bullet flew.

  The shooter got away, and the King has never spoken of his stance against gambling again.

  My sources tells me the King blames himself for the loss of the child he so desperately wanted and can’t see past his own guilt to recognize the Queen for what she really is—a power-hungry ruthless woman who will stop at nothing to get what she wants, including adding allies to the families.

  And now King Rutherford has taken another avenue to gain his means by going to the Vespa Isles General Assembly and Council to gain legalization.

  The King of Casanovia must be furious.

  My source has asked to remain anonymous, but I am certain this is the truth.

  You heard it here first.

  Don’t forget.

  CROSSROADS

  The Casanovia Conquest

  Breaking News

  THE PRINCE HAS A GIRLFRIEND & A BETROTHED

  By Ian Wesley

  Although not officially confirmed by the Palace, it appears Princess Beatrice Hill of Eastwood has been secretly betrothed to Prince Maximus of Casanovia (How did we not know this), and the reason isn’t one I bring with a smile.

  I have it on good authority that Prince Leopold, thirty-one years of age, has recently been diagnosed with Huntington’s Disease, the same illness that claimed the life of his mother at the young age of thirty-four.

  Huntington’s Disease is a hereditary disease marked by the degeneration of brain cells, causing progressive dementia at a much younger than normal age. It impacts a person’s functional abilities and usually results in delayed movement, cognitive disabilities, and psychiatric disorders.

  Most people develop signs and symptoms in their 30’s. Whether Prince Leopold has these symptoms yet is unclear. There are medications to manage the disease but there is no cure.

  With such a terminal diagnosis on the horizon, ruling the country could be difficult, which is why we suspect King Winston will ask he abdicate his status as Heir Apparent.

  It has been confirmed that Prince Maximus has tested negative for the gene.

  This is most likely also why King Winston has arranged the marriage between his second son and the distant cousin of King Rutherford, which explains their meeting last summer.

  Here we thought King Winston was meeting with King Rutherford because he’d changed his stance on gambling after the shooting. That King Rutherford’s argument for commercialized gambling throughout the Vespa Isles (that it will stimulate the economy by promoting tourism, increasing tax revenue, and creating jobs) was finally heard. Despite the newest bill not passing the Vespa Isles General Assembly Council, that doesn’t mean the individual bills for each country can’t be passed.

  Sadly, it wasn’t about that, though. No. It was about another arranged marriage for Prince Maximus.

  We’re not sure he got the memo though—it seems he has a girlfriend.

  Homewrecker that she is.

  CONFESSION

  Growing up, I hated my father.

  Winston was ruthless, never allowing Leopold and I to accept failure or even second best.

  Even when we did excel, it was always expected and rarely celebrated. Raising a royal meant higher standards than most.

  Duty was foremost.

  Honor second.

  The country always the first priority.

  Punishments for misdeeds were severe, involving anything from rewriting entire books—in perfect calligraphy penmanship—to military boot camps.

  As is custom for all five of the Vespa Isles Monarchies, any display of emotion is strictly forbidden.

  My mother though, she never followed those rules. Diandra was as loving as she could be stern.

  There were times I hated her, too. But more times than not I loved her. She was fun. Made us laugh. Played games. Encouraged us to be better. Told us my father was a good man, and we believed her.

  So yes, I loved both my parents as much as I hated them. Understood my role in Casanovia and did what was asked of me—always.

  Now though, I can’t.

  I won’t marry Beatrice.

  Not even for my country.

  Not only do I not love her, I loathe her. I detest everything she is—pretentious, privileged, and a royal snob.

  It’s times like this, I really miss my mother. The one thing she believed in more than anything was love, and she’d have been able to reach my father and change his mind. She had a way about her.

  Telling him no sounds so simple.

  It’s anything but.

  Telling my father I refuse to marry Beatrice is one thing. I could rule without a woman by my side.

  Accepting my fate as would-be king is another because it means not having Gigi in my life.

  The Royal Marriages Act of the Vespa Isles requires the sovereign’s permission to marry, and since Gigi is not a royal, she would never be accepted as my wife if I become king.

  Picking her over duty might very well strip me of the title, as it could be looked upon as abandoning my role in the royal family.

  It all comes down to duty or love.

  Duty

  Or

  Love.

  Two four-letter words I never thought I’d be forced to choose between.

  WRONG WAY

  The car turns right, and although I’m deep in thought, as soon as we pass the Musée du Louvre, I know this isn’t the way back to the hotel.

  “Gabriel, why are we going this way?” I ask.

  He tu
rns. “The press is outside the hotel, we’re circling around to the back entrance.”

  The driver rounds the Place du Carrousel and takes a left. I nod and decide to text my brother.

  Me: I think Beatrice told the press about your condition.

  Leopold: It would have come out sooner or later.

  Me: Father has been summoning me home. Do you know why?

  Leopold: It needs to be discussed in private. Back to Beatrice. You know, you could use this to your advantage. Pull her N.D.A. and hold it over her head.

  Me: That’s one way to get rid of her but Father won’t be happy.

  Leopold: Still returning to Casanovia at the end of the week?

  Me: Yes.

  His vague texts worry me. Is his condition taking a turn for the worse? Perhaps the summons was never about me; after all, Genevieve didn’t mention a thing, which leads me to the conclusion she doesn’t know. She can never keep her mouth shut.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see the car approaching the Pont de l’Alma tunnel, as if we’re going to cross the Seine.

  “Gabriel,” I shout. “Why are we going this way?”

  Turning back, he reaches over and plucks my phone from my hands. I hear the sound of the car doors locking at the same time.

  “What the fuck?” I hiss, lunging forward.

  Just as I’m about to punch Gabriel right in the jaw for his ill-behavior, the driver holds a Berretta over his shoulder. “Sit back and relax, Max.”