Royal Mistake: The Complete Series

by Ember Casey

  And today is going to be the day I change everything.

  It’s Monday. Story meeting day—the day my editor assigns all the projects for the week. And every Monday for the past five years, my assignments have all been related to Montovia in one way or another.

  Sure, it started out innocently enough. I was working late that night—I’d only been at my job for a few weeks and I was desperate to impress my new employers. Someone heard a rumor that Prince Leopold had been spotted at some exclusive club opening, and because it was so late at night, I was the only one in the office. I jumped at the opportunity, and being able to write that article opened a lot of doors for me. But they were all doors to Montovia and the bad boy princes who lived there.

  I know my time covering Montovia has to come to an end, especially after my humiliating experience a few weeks ago at their state dinner. Prince Andrew, heir to the throne and giant douchebag in residence, had the gall to have me deported for no reason other than for being in his country.

  So I’ve had it with Montovia, and princes, and especially with writing about Montovian princes. And I’m going into my story meeting with more ideas than I’ve ever had—and not a single one of them involves anyone royal.

  I nod at the other writers as I take my seat in the conference room. There are half a dozen of us who are regular employees of Celebrity Spark Magazine, and we’re the only people who get to pitch ideas. The magazine contracts with a ton of freelancers, but they’re either called when a story breaks or they turn in stories on spec. I know I’m lucky to have my job—there aren’t many reporters who get to call themselves employees these days—but I can’t help but want something more from it. More than covering the royals of Montovia, anyway.

  Frank—my editor—comes in and takes a seat at the head of the table. “All right. Let’s make this quick today. I have an important meeting in an hour.” He motions to the woman on my right. “Sylvia, let’s start with you.”

  She grins. “I met a girl over the weekend who’s a makeup artist on the set of that new movie Rob Adams is in. She thinks she can record him talking about sleeping with the extras. I guess he likes to brag—”

  “Everyone knows Rob Adams likes to brag about his conquests.” My editor frowns. “It’s kind of a tired angle, Sylvia. See if you can get her to dig up something else. Tax evasion or something. Anything.” He shakes his head, still frowning as he turns to me. “What about you, Victoria?”

  “I was thinking we could do a story on celebrities visiting the Middle East. What difference do they make to the soldiers or the people living there? Is it even a good idea that they’re putting themselves in harm’s way—?”

  “Boring.” He fakes a yawn. “What else?”

  I resist the urge to gnash my teeth. “Well. How about celebrity charities? Which celebrities actually volunteer? And what do they do? Say if Rob Adams…” I motion to the woman next to me. “If he goes into a children’s hospital, is he actually doing anything there? Or is it only about making an appearance—?”

  “Bore. Ring.” Frank rolls his eyes. “Jesus, Victoria, you usually have the best story ideas. Do I really have to do all the work this week?” He shuffles a few papers before sliding one across to me. “Here. Looks like Prince Nicholas has rented himself a villa in Barbados. You should head down there and see what he’s up to. And who he has with him.” He turns to the man sitting on my left. “And what about you, Mitch?”

  “Wait.” I interrupt. “I…I don’t want this story.”

  Frank blinks at me a few times. “You…what?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t. I don’t want it.” I slide the paper back across the table toward him. “I want to do something with some meat this week, Frank.”

  I can feel the air almost sucked out of the room. No one questions Frank—not even me, and I’ve been the darling of the magazine for the past few years. My stories about the princes of Montovia have helped Celebrity Spark sell more copies than they probably should have. But even I don’t get to question my editor.

  “Victoria…” He clears his throat and slowly slides the paper back across the desk. “You will do this story. And if you don’t…I expect you’ll have a resignation letter in your hand the next time I see you.”

  Andrew

  I should have known I couldn’t run from this day forever.

  My entire life, I’ve had but one desire—to serve the country of Montovia to the best of my ability. As Montovia’s crown prince, that service has been both a duty and a privilege, and I have never once put my own needs in front of those of my beloved country.

  Except for once—during a night in Prague I’d rather forget.

  I sigh and run a hand through my hair, looking down at the letter in my hand. That night in Prague was a mistake—I knew that even then. But I let my brother Leopold convince me it would be fun. That I needed to let loose. It was foolish, to give myself over to the terrible decisions I made that night, but I thought, for a time, that I might escape them. After all, it’s been several months now. I’d allowed myself to hope—to believe—that Prince Reginald had forgotten our bargain, or at least seen fit to forgive it.

  I was wrong. Prince Reginald has finally decided to bring the consequences right to my feet.

  I crumple the letter in my hand. This is a problem. Not just for me, but for all of Montovia. How could I, in the space of one drunken night, create such a mess? The people of this country will never forgive me when they learn the truth. Everything I’ve worked for, an entire life of service, will mean nothing.

  One night, one mistake, and I stand to lose everything I’ve ever wanted. Everything I am.

  I stride over to the window, trying to think straight. Shame burns a hole in my stomach, but I force myself to ignore the pain. I will do anything to fix this. Anything.

  First things first, I need the media on my side. I must get ahead of the story before it breaks; spin it in a way that garners some sympathy for me. If I can’t hide what I’ve done, then I must do everything in my power to assure the people of Montovia that my life is still theirs, that I’m devoted to my duty above all else. That’s the truth, after all—there’s nothing I won’t do to serve Montovia. Nothing.

  Unfortunately, that means finding an ally in the press—and if there’s one thing I hate, it’s the press. I understand that this world runs on easily accessible information and that news media is a necessity, but in my experience, reporters are far more interested in creating dramatic headlines and attracting readers with click-bait than actually sharing the truth. Where the hell am I going to find someone to tell my truth? Someone who has access to an international audience but who isn’t merely looking to break the next royal scandal? Why, only a few weeks ago, I had to deport a young reporter who’d managed to sneak her way into our state dinner—an event at which press is strictly forbidden.

  Unlike my brother Leopold, who’s a regular fixture in the tabloids, I’ve spent my entire life actively shunning members of the press. I have no idea where to begin. If it were any other issue, I’d ask for my father’s advice—I certainly trust his discretion over Leopold’s—but I’d prefer my father doesn’t learn the full truth about what I’ve done, not until it’s entirely necessary. My father is a fine king—some would say one of the best Montovia has ever had—but he doesn’t have much patience for indiscretions, especially when it comes to his children. And I can’t go to any palace advisors, either, since I know they’ll report to my father the moment our conversation is over.

  My mother, on the other hand…

  My mother, though she was born a commoner, is as politically savvy as my father—and far more understanding. She’s worked closely with a few members of the press in the past, and I’m sure she’ll have a few reliable names for me. She also trusts me enough not to ask too many questions—and she also knows how to handle my father. If I tell her I have some important business and I need a trustworthy international reporter…she’ll point me in the right direction. As
much as I hate the press, my mother is the finest judge of character I know—if she trusts someone, then I will, too.

  Of course, that’s assuming I can get past my extreme distaste for the media—some of these tabloids bring me to the point of nausea—but as I look down at the crumpled letter in my hand, I know I have no other choice.

  Victoria

  My great-grandmother had a framed quote in her hallway I never gave much thought to until recently.

  Today is the first day of the rest of your life.

  I get what it means now. It’s the reason I’m clutching my resignation letter in my hand. It’s why I’m trembling as I walk toward the closed door of Frank’s office.

  I’m not sure what I’m going to do next, only that I’m done with being a celebrity reporter—if anyone can really even call me that. It seems like too nice a way to describe my job. Scum-of-the-earth-paparazzi-tabloid-filth probably describes what I’ve been doing for the past five years a hell of a lot better.

  But not anymore. I want to be able to look at myself in the mirror again without feeling disgusted. I want to feel some amount of pride about what I’m doing with my life.

  And covering the royal family of Montovia for as long as I have… Well, it wasn’t the reason I went to journalism school.

  This job—running around, documenting the antics of Prince Leopold and his family—was supposed to be temporary. It was supposed to be a means to an end—not the end. And after what happened at the Montovian state dinner a few weeks ago, I knew I had to be done with this life, even if it meant never working in journalism again.

  Not that this is really journalism.

  I had a chance to do something meaningful. I wrote those articles about Eleanor Parker’s past—and they were the best stories I’d ever written. I suppose if she hadn’t been involved with Prince Leopold, nothing about her story would have mattered. She was an ordinary doctor, working for a charity clinic owned by the Royal Family before she met him. And if it hadn’t been for Leo’s tendency to have scandal follow him everywhere, I might never have met her at all. I suppose I should be thankful for everything that happened to her—she became a good friend and gave me the opportunity of a lifetime with her story.

  Except no one noticed. Well, no one except Frank, but his boss only cares about newsstand sales, not about how well-written the articles inside the issue are. And everyone knows stories about the current scandals of the royal family will outsell stories about some nobody—no matter how salacious that nobody’s stories are.

  I groan to myself as I stare at the closed door. I could have made a difference. I could have done so much more to change things, but instead I fell into the same trap everyone else did. I looked for stories that would sell magazines instead of writing about things that actually matter.

  I can freelance, I tell myself. Not that there are many papers out there that will buy freelance articles from a former tabloid reporter. But maybe I can try.

  It might be better to leave this industry for good, anyway. My roommate said she could get me hired on at the coffee shop where she works, so I know I won’t go hungry. And maybe I can start that novel I’ve always wanted to write. Maybe I can use some of the ridiculous things I’ve witnessed chasing the royals over the past several years and turn those stories into fiction. Someone might want to read a book like that. Maybe.

  I groan again and look down at the resignation letter in my hand. My stomach twists on itself knowing what I’m about to do—how I’m about to give up my livelihood for no reason other than my morals—but I know it’s the right thing. I can’t live like this any longer.

  I knock on the door and Frank grumbles for me to come in.

  I open the door and barely take a step into the room when my eyes widen—and I’m not sure if it’s shock or horror I’m feeling as my stomach falls to my toes.

  His Royal Highness, Prince Andrew, eldest son of the Montovian Royal Family and heir to the throne, stands and stares at me. He extends a hand, but my brain has jumbled and I can’t think of what I’m supposed to do in this situation.

  I can only stand there—my mouth is probably opening and closing like a fish pulled out of water. My heart is thudding so loudly in my ears I can’t hear what either of the men is saying.

  I stare at him—Prince Andrew. It’s been two weeks since the state dinner—and I can still almost feel the warmth of his hand pressed against my back as we danced. It had been my dream to speak with him one-on-one. Out of everyone in his family, he’d always intrigued me most. And he turned out to be a major asshole. But goddamn if he doesn’t make me feel things I haven’t felt in a really long time. Fuck if his blue eyes don’t burn into my soul in a way that…

  Stop.

  I grit my teeth together and turn to Frank. He’s been my boss since I started at Celebrity Spark Magazine, right after I graduated from college. My classmates had all had a horrible time trying to find paying jobs, but I thought I had lucked out. I had landed a well-paying job that was going to pay me to travel. I guess I hadn’t realized then how dirty it was going to make me feel, writing about the royal family—to try to break a scandalous story about them before anyone else. It was almost fun when I first started, and Prince Leo did his share of flirting with me—hell, he’s flirted with every female reporter he’s ever encountered, I’m sure. But Andrew—he’s a different story. There’s never a story with him. He’s as uptight as they come—at least, that’s what he wants people to think. I’ve always been able to sense there’s something with him, though. And it was never Leo I was attracted to—it was always Andrew. There’s something so mysterious about him—something simmering under the surface he’s trying so desperately to hide.

  But I never had the chance to speak to him until the state dinner a few weeks ago. And when I did, I was positive there was something he was hiding. But he had me unceremoniously tossed out—and not just tossed out of the dinner. He had me deported. The fucker. He’s not worth a single word of acknowledgement after the way he treated me that night.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt, Frank.” I hold my resignation letter out to him.

  Andrew pulls his hand back—I guess he’s figured out I’m not about to take it, but I don’t even glance up to see if there’s some amount of remorse for how he’s treated me or not.

  Frank’s mouth falls open and his brow furrows. He takes the letter from my hand. “Victoria—”

  “I quit.”

  He sets the letter down without opening it and motions for me to take a seat in one of the chairs on the other side of his desk.

  Andrew sits back down in the seat he must have occupied before I came in.

  I look back over at Frank. “I don’t think there’s anything else for me to say. Sorry again for interrupting.” I turn on my heel and take a step toward the door.

  “Victoria, sit down for a second.” There’s no question in Frank’s voice—it’s almost a demand.

  “Please.” The sound of Andrew’s voice makes me freeze for a moment.

  Did he really just ask me to stay?

  “Victoria, Prince Andrew is here to request that you do a series of news stories on the royal family. He—”

  I spin around to face the two men, interrupting my boss. “I have no further interest in the royal family.” I lift a brow and glare at Andrew. “And after the way I was treated at the state dinner, I don’t believe you would have any interest in having me write anything about your precious family again.”

  Andrew stares at me for a moment. “I apologize for my behavior that night, Ms. Simpson. It was a stressful moment, and I could have handled it more appropriately—”

  “Go to hell.” I glance over at Frank. “You, too. I just told you that I quit.”

  Frank is trying not to smile. He picks up the envelope I handed him a second ago and tears it in half, tossing both pieces into the wastebasket next to his desk. “Listen to what His Highness is offering, Victoria. I think you’ll change your mind.” He winks at m
e and stands up. He motions to the chair he was just sitting in. “Sit down and hear what he has to offer, Vic. If you still want to quit, I’ll accept your resignation. But I have a feeling you might change your mind.”

  I narrow my gaze at him as he walks out of the office, closing the door behind him.

  I don’t look over at Andrew before I walk behind the desk and sit down in Frank’s chair. I stare at the coffee-stained, desk-sized calendar covering the surface, unable to make out the chicken-scratch writing that is scribbled in each of the boxes.

  “I owe you an apology.”

  I lift a brow but still don’t raise my gaze to make eye contact. “Damn right, you do.”

  “I apologize.”

  I finally look up at him to find him staring back at me. He’s gorgeous—almost too beautiful for words. He’s tall and muscular, which is obvious even through his stiff dress shirt. And his eyes—those deep blue, almost sapphire-like eyes I’m pretty sure I could drown in if I let myself look into them too long.

  I try to ignore the electric shock I feel in the center of my chest having him look at me like this—the warm tendrils of something curling around my body, centering low in my belly.

  I blink a few times, trying to fight off whatever the hell that was.

  “I’m in need of your assistance, Ms. Simpson.” He stares at me again, his blue eyes locked with mine.

  I pick up a pencil and tap it on the desk. “I don’t think I can help you, Your Majesty.”

  “Your…Highness. My father is His Majesty.” He pauses for a moment. “Actually, you should probably call me Andrew.”

  I lift a brow. “I have no intention of calling you anything. After you had me deported, I’m a little surprised that you have the balls to ask me—”