The Proposal Problem: A Billionaire Royal Hangover Romance

by Natalie Knight

  Dr. Nobody didn’t even bother to check.

  I wave over my best nurse and we get to fucking work.

  I turn to the idiot doctor. “Are you aware she has a small wound, likely from a projectile, which is common in three-car pile-ups, especially to a small person sitting in a booster seat?”

  I’m ice right now. Ice and fire. Fuck this idiot for missing this.

  He has nothing to say. Not one word of defense. He just stares at me.

  I throw the chart at a nurse and tell her to prep a surgery for my patient. She bolts out of my way as I approach Dr. Asshole. I’m already rolling up my sleeves, preparing for scrubs.

  “She was dying on that cart you, asshole,” I hiss. He has sweat running down his hairline. “All because you couldn’t be fucked to do a proper examination. Thirty seconds ago, I didn’t give a fuck what your name was, but now I’m going to make it my business to find out—right after I save this little girl’s life.”

  I don’t wait for a response as I stride out of the room.

  I have a life to save.

  14

  Stella

  I wake up thinking of Michael. There’s a smile on my face even before my eyes fully open. I know it’s probably impossible, but from the way my cheeks ache, I think it’s been there a while.

  A contented sigh escapes my lips as I roll onto my back, half expecting the punctual doctor to already be awake and looking at me.

  The smile fades when I see his side of the bed, empty.

  I’m more than a little disappointed. My dreams last night were a bit rough, and I could really use some attention right now.

  I know I’m an adult, but I still require a good snuggle after having bad dreams.

  After the ones last night, I could use more than a snuggle.

  It seems silly in the light of day, but I still can’t get the image out of my head. The dark outline of a man, standing at the foot of the bed, watching me sleep.

  It sends a shiver down my spine despite the warm room.

  Enough of that.

  I throw the blankets aside, exposing my naked body to the morning air. Nudity really has become my calling card as of late.

  Will have to try harder to fix that...or not.

  I skip over to the closet. Thoughts of bad dreams and absentee doctors slip easily from my mind. Who has time to think about those things when they’ve got a closet full of brand new designer clothes, right?

  I grab a Gucci dress. It’s a little fancy for a day around the house, but it’s made from the softest fabric I’ve ever felt. Red silk falls around me in waves as I slip it on, taking a moment to thank the powers that be that Michael didn’t manage to get his hands on it.

  Had he torn this one, heads would have rolled.

  Or so I like to think.

  In reality, I probably still would have wound up on my knees in front of him.

  The man really is impossible to stay mad at.

  I make my way to the window to check the driveway. As I suspected, his car is gone.

  I don’t spend long wondering where he is. Instead, I decide to take the opportunity to get...better acquainted with my man.

  I mean, come on. Leaving me here alone like this is practically an invitation to snoop. What kind of mail-order bride would I be if I neglected his invitations?

  Feeling thoroughly justified, I head to the dresser.

  It’s a massive hulking thing, probably made out of the kind of tree that’s now extinct. The surface is so glossy I can practically see my reflection. It occurs to me that I don’t know if he does his own cleaning.

  Probably. I can hardly imagine him letting a stranger into his house.

  I start at the top and work my way down.

  Socks, underwear, shorts.

  Boring!

  Until I reach a drawer on the bottom, that is. It slides open easily, as did the others. I’m thrilled to see its contents are something other than clothing for a change.

  Inside sits a small wooden box, more polished than even the dresser.

  I lift the lid, fully expecting to find some porn or maybe even a gun.

  Instead, I find myself gazing at a stack of paper.

  Taking the top sheet, I scan quickly over its contents.

  Discharge papers? Like…military?

  I’m not sure why he wouldn’t have mentioned it. Frankly, I’m fucking impressed.

  Apparently, the good doctor is more than meets the eye.

  I scan the page again, locking onto the highlights.

  Medic, honorable discharge, acts of valor...

  Definitely seems like the kind of thing someone would brag about. But not Michael, of course.

  I set the page aside, digging deeper into the stack.

  More military forms, different commendations, that sort of thing. At the bottom of the box, though, sits a stack of photos.

  One of Michael in his lab coat, standing beside a smiling child.

  Another of him in the same getup beside a clearly overjoyed old woman.

  Him and a zit-faced teenager, him and a little girl…On and on.

  Scrawled across the backs are names and dates:

  Eddie Prince- 01/16/17

  Ruby Smith-04/02/15

  Jane O’Neil- 03/19/12

  There are dozens.

  It occurs to me about halfway through the pile that I’m looking at people whose lives he’s saved.

  I smile broadly.

  Here I thought I was gonna find porn.

  I put everything back, putting extra effort into remembering the right order. If I were him, I might shout these things from the rooftops, but he clearly has them hidden for a reason. No need for him to know I’ve been here.

  I close the drawer and look around for something else to discover.

  Hell, it’s a big house, and it looks like I have some time on my hands.

  I poke around his office next, thoroughly inspecting his massive oak desk, relaxing in his leather chair. Then, I move to the closets, the attic...

  I bypass the bathrooms, having already been in them just days ago.

  I go through room after room, each more disappointing than the next.

  Hours go by before I give up, having found nothing even remotely interesting since the wooden box.

  I miss Michael, I’m bored, and I still have no idea where he is.

  He could have at least left a note.

  I half expected to find one during my little exploration, but after covering most of the house, I’m sure there’s none.

  Asshole, I think, trying to feel mad.

  Really though, I’m not.

  After being away from him all day, what I feel the most is loneliness. It’s crazy how fast I’ve gotten used to having him around.

  As a matter of fact, I’m starting to worry.

  I know I haven’t known him long, but this seems a bit out of character. Where could he have gone so quickly that he couldn’t even leave a note?

  I walk out to the living room and start to pace.

  Now that the sun is setting, I can’t help thinking of my dreams from last night.

  They’re on a loop in my head: the man at the end of the bed, the eerily stillness while he watched me.

  I feel a shiver race down my spine.

  I feel eyes on me.

  I’m too old for this shit, and I know it. Dreams are just dreams.

  From down the hall, I hear the front door open.

  Finally!

  Still, I can’t shake the chills, the feeling of eyes running over me.

  I walk to the door, the distance now seeming impossibly far. I tell myself to stop being silly, to go and throw myself into Michael’s arms.

  When I finally get to the door though, there’s no one there.

  It’s standing open, cold air rushing to meet me. But no Michael.

  I poke my head outside, sweeping my eyes across the expanse of the yard. Nothing. No one.

  I bite back the fear rising in me.

 
This is getting ridiculous.

  I’m an adult. I am not afraid of the fucking wind. I slam the door shut and engage the deadbolt.

  There. Now it can’t blow open again.

  I let the pointless fear fade away as I walk back down the hall. I really am just being silly.

  By the time I reach the living room, I’m already laughing at myself.

  Like, what could it possibly have been, a home invader or something? Please. That’s ridiculous.

  Almost as ridiculous as being kidnapped by the Russian mafia and sold off as a mail-order bride.

  15

  Michael

  I’m so tired I can barely see as I stagger out of the room. Usually, at this point, all I want is to sit down, rest my back, knock down a drink, and recover.

  But now, I only want Stella.

  As the attendees and nurses slap me on the back and say the usual platitudes, I can’t find meaning in it. I normally feel tired, sure, but also high. Only wanting a short break before I exercise my other extraordinary powers.

  I lumber through the hospital towards the doors.

  Shit.

  The sun has almost set, and here I was, assuming it’s still the morning. Planning on spending the day with Stella.

  Nope. I’ve worked the whole day away and without a single call to let her know where I’m at.

  I’m going to have to make this big. I can already think of just the right place to take her. I’ll buy her a new gown and shoes and a necklace and earrings set to go with it. Something beautiful and classy that costs ridiculous amounts of money. I’ll wear the full tux, too.

  But no matter what I do, it won’t be enough compared to what she deserves. Fuck.

  What can I do? This isn’t a flowers-and-chocolates situation.

  The day is late, and I have a sharp anxiety in my chest. Why haven’t I heard from her?

  I go to call a car and remember that my driver would have knocked off by now. The man deserves to spend some time with his family—and I have a car here for just this occasion, anyway.

  I pull out a handful of keys as I jog down into the parking area.

  I push myself a bit, trying to dislodge the feeling.

  It’s guilt. It’s pain. It’s loss.

  I’m being melodramatic, but fuck me. I hate that I’ve missed out on a day with her.

  My need for her is surprising to me.

  I just want to touch her soft golden hair, her velvet skin. I want to bury my face between her thighs and feel her writhe as my tongue searches out her most secret places. Feel her open up for me so I can devour her.

  I reach my car and fumble with the keys. I honestly don’t understand this anxiety, how hard it’s hitting me.

  But I know where it’s coming from. I know that fucking fear all too well.

  I’ve finally found the woman of my dreams, and now I’m afraid that I’ve fucked up. Lost her. That when I get home, she’ll be gone.

  That there’s no way in hell that a woman like her will be there waiting for workaholic like me.

  I want to call her. Start my apologies now. But as much as she looks like a fucking Barbie doll, unfortunately, she didn’t come pre-packaged with a cell phone.

  And besides, I should have fucking known what I was getting into here. Mail-order bride—not exactly the world’s most touching romance story.

  I bet the second she woke up this morning, she fucked off to find some more exciting game. A guy that could spend two consecutive evenings with her.

  As I get in the car, I sit still and breathe deeply.

  It doesn’t help. I’m overcome by the idea that I might have pushed her too hard.

  Shouldn’t have fucked her. My cock is a monster. I might have hurt her.

  Suddenly, that’s the prevailing narrative in my mind. She woke up bruised, sorry, and sore, and what did I give her?

  A fuck you. I’m off to work, and I’ll fuck you later. Then she doesn’t hear from me all day and she gets more upset by the second.

  Until she leaves.

  I don’t even know that she’s gone yet, but I’m prepared for the worst.

  My heart is pounding by the time I turn the key. I rev up the engine and screech out of the parking area.

  I’m just hoping that I’m not too late. I have to see her, even if it’s one last time. I need to try and explain, apologize. Even if I’m sorry is the last thing she’ll listen to me say.

  I’ve never been good at positive thinking.

  It’s made me a terrific doctor. If I assume the worst, I can usually stop it before it happens, or at least, fight it. It positions me perfectly to combat trauma and injury. So, it isn’t like I have a lot of nice thoughts crowding in my head right now.

  Maybe that face she pulled was pain, not pleasure. Maybe when I had her bent over and slid it into her too fast, that gasp against the pillow was stop not yes.

  We slept in each other’s arms…she curled up against me with a smile on her face. But it doesn’t mean a damn thing. She’s new to it, to all of it, and I should have known better than to push her so far so fast.

  As I pull out into traffic, I can’t get that image out of my mind. Of Stella waking up, sore and bruised—waiting for me to show her how much I love her and pamper her

  Instead, she gets an empty house and a cold note.

  Did she sit and wait for me to get back, or did she wake up happy I wasn’t there? Empty houses are all the easier to leave, after all. Maybe she just left and never even waited around for me at all.

  Maybe it’s better that way. I’m the doctor, after all. Minimizing pain is my specialty.

  I finally pull out of the traffic and get on to the main road. I’m certain I’m never going to see her again.

  Whether she’s there or not when I get back…something’s fucking wrong. I can feel it in my chest.

  Remembering how good it is to drive my own car, I slam my foot down and take out my frustration on the car as I handle the speed and the turns.

  And in the back of my mind, I fucking pray. I pray that I’ll drive fast enough, and I pray that I’m not too late.

  16

  Stella

  This is seriously bullshit.

  It’s full on night time, and I’ve still had no word at all from Michael.

  He doesn’t call, he doesn’t write…

  Something like that.

  I groan and settle further back into the cushy seat of his home theater. On the screen in front of me, a grinning blonde turns to find that the love of her life has followed her to the airport, desperate to make her stay.

  “BOO!” I yell, half-tempted to throw something.

  Apparently, it’s true what they say: real life isn’t like the movies.

  In real life, you can be kidnapped, mailed to a doctor with the world’s biggest dick, and still end up sitting alone watching chick flicks.

  What’s even the point of being here if I’m alone?

  I know that I don’t know a whole lot about this mail-order bride thing, but I really thought it’d be more fun than this.

  If the man who bought you can’t even be bothered to show up, what’s it all for?

  After the past few days, I definitely had a different evening planned. For example, I planned on having Michael’s cock in my mouth right about now.

  Instead, I’m watching two crappy actors make out.

  It’s not even sexy.

  Speaking of things that aren’t sexy, I’m also really over this whole creepy vibe. I really tried to talk some sense into myself, to get the hell over it, but I’m still feeling unsettled.

  No, the door hasn’t magically opened again or anything like that. I just have this feeling. It’s like, every few minutes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

  Maybe it’s my body overreacting to nightmares and loneliness…or maybe my body knows something that I don’t.

  I feel watched.

  Hunted.

  No matter how many times I tell myself I’m just being cr
azy, it won’t go away.

  In fact, it’s getting worse.

  I keep glancing over my shoulder, half-convinced I’ll find a monster there. Some big hungry beastie waiting to gobble me up—and not in a good way.

  When I look, though, it’s just more nothing.

  I’m definitely alone. All alone.

  Which brings me back to the actual problem.

  Where the hell is he?

  In my head, I alternate between worry and anger.

  One second, I’m picturing him dead in a ditch, and the next I’m trying to decide what bitchy thing I’ll say to him when he finally shows up.

  Things like, “Where the hell have you been?”

  Or, a classic like, “Do you know what time it is, Mister?”

  Maybe I’ll skip anger and go straight to, “Take your fucking pants off!”

  So many choices…

  I’m still wading through these thoughts when I feel eyes on me again. The chill that follows is even worse than before. A sensation like someone rubbing ice up the length of my spine.

  I risk another glance over my shoulder…still nothing.

  I think I might actually be losing it.

  On the TV, the credits are rolling, some upbeat song blasting through the speakers. I certainly don’t feel upbeat. In fact, the music only makes me feel more on edge.

  It’s like in scary movies when they play children’s songs or old-timey hits. The kind of music that makes you picture some nasty murder montage.

  I change the channel.

  My stomach is growling.

  It occurs to me that I haven’t eaten much today. Likely because I was expecting Michael to show up at some point and make us dinner.

  I mean really, what’s the point of being ordered by a sexy billionaire if he doesn’t even cook for you?

  At this point, I’d even eat the vegetables.

  I sit for a minute longer, stuck between my hunger and stubbornness.

  After the day I’ve had, he should have to cook.

  “GRRR!” goes my stomach, trying to sway me to its side.

  I’ll admit, it’s a pretty convincing argument.

  I cave.

  With a final huff of irritation, I pick up the remote, hitting the power button and returning the screen to darkness.