The Proposal Problem: A Billionaire Royal Hangover Romance

by Natalie Knight

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  1

  Todd

  I just became the lead story on CNN. Fox News has a therapist analyzing what happened, and TMZ is running the same clip of me over and over, ad nauseum.

  It’s all lies, of course. But it doesn’t matter because most people don’t have an appetite for the truth, anyway; in a sense, it’s like an unwelcome guest at a dinner party. What people want is gossip, rumor, and innuendo.

  And the media is more than happy to oblige. Anything to goose their fucking ratings.

  Jordan Ray, my public relations agent, a man I pay an obscene amount of money―which is most of the money he earns―is sitting across from me. He seems to think I’m in need of some damage control.

  We’ve been working together since the day my career took off, six years ago. And the truth is that he has gotten me out of a lot of situations I didn’t think even a fairy godmother could extricate me from. But this time, I don’t agree with how he wants to handle it.

  This…this…shit I’m seeing on Access Hollywood―the only thing I can do is scream at the ninety-two-inch screen mounted over the marble fireplace in my office. And I still don’t feel any better afterwards.

  Jordan patiently waits, tapping his fingers on the shiny mahogany. It’s obvious from the expression on his face that he has something to say. But I’m not interested in that right at the moment; I’m still pissed off and need to get the anger out of my system.

  “Go fuck yourself!” I scream at the screen, loud enough to practically blow it off the wall.

  Jordan clears his throat, and I finally stop pacing and join him at the table. I nod, as if to say, go ahead, take your best shot. And he does.

  “I tried to stop you. You couldn’t keep your fucking hands to yourself?” Jordan yells as he stands and begins pacing the length of the room.

  I’m so not in the mood to listen to this. I want to walk around the table, pick him up by the lapels of his thousand-dollar suit and toss him out the window.

  Yeah, I know, he’s my best friend and the best PR man in town. I also know I’m lucky to have him. But what he’s telling me to do…it just doesn’t work for me.

  “Jordan,” I say in my most commanding voice before giving a slight look at the chair.

  It’s all I need to do. With that one gesture, I communicate that he needs to shut up, sit down, and listen to me―I’m an actor, so I know how to command any situation. I’m good at what I do, and he stops and sits.

  “So, how bad is it?” I ask.

  “Bad” is Jordan’s terse reply.

  “I’m gonna need more specifics,” I say. “On a scale of one to ten, where are we at?”

  Jordan places his hands on the desk and looks into his palms as if the answer will magically write itself in the air in front of me. “I’d say you need to lay low, leave town, go visit a sick relative, go on vacation, take some downtime. That bad.”

  “Fuck,” I shake my head, “It wasn’t my fault.”

  “Yeah, well, it doesn’t look that way— “

  “Make this go away,” I interrupt him before he can say anything else. “Are you keeping up with me here? I need you to have this entire saga dry up and disappear.”

  “It will be much easier if you aren’t around, where the paparazzi can follow your every move,” Jordan responds.

  I just stare at him in disbelief.

  “You’re a distraction, Todd. We just need you out of the picture for a while if we’re going to do our job.”

  This doesn’t sit well with me. Jordan knows what really happened, and he needs to figure out a way to get the truth out, not the version of the ‘truth’ that’s playing all over TV and YouTube. I’m fed up. Enough.

  “Just make it go away!” I yell and storm out of the room.

  Walking down the long corridor of my penthouse apartment, I glance at the dozens of photos of me hanging on the walls.

  Six years ago, I was a struggling actor. Now, I’m on top―and when you’re on top, there’s always someone who wants to take you down. But I’m not going quietly.

  Not me.

  I yank out my phone and give a good hard swipe to the right. Pulling up my Twitter feed, I can see it’s not good. “Damn, word spreads fast.”

  I can’t believe it. It’s a hashtag fiesta: #ToddSucks, #LoserTodd, and what instantly becomes my personal favorite, #CLIT, which apparently stands for, Chump, Loser, Idiot, Todd.

  “Assholes... don’t these people have anything better to do with their time?” I say to no one.

  With my eyes glued to the screen, I walk into my bedroom and slump to the floor at the foot of my bed, still scrolling through my feed.

  Jordan knocks on my door.

  I turn and scream, “Go away, and don’t come back until you fix this!”

  There’s silence from the other side of the door, so I know he gets that I’m dead serious.

  “In case you don’t know how I feel, let me break it down for you. The media, collectively and individually, are a bunch of hairy sleaze ball suck eggs, with a fucking twisted sense of the truth. You and I both know that tape has been edited to make sure I look bad.”

  “I know, I know,” Jordan says, obviously trying to placate me.

  “Then go away and do your fucking job.”

  I really have had enough of this bullshit. It’s time to change my mood, and there’s only one way to do that: change of atmosphere.

  I jump up, strip off my clothes, and head for my walk-in closet.

  I gotta admit, sometimes this is my favorite place in the apartment. I had it built to my specifications when I moved in.

  I gave up one of the bedrooms to make sure it was big enough to accommodate all my clothes, a couch, and a work out bench. This six-pack didn’t come in the mail.

  I give a pat to my flat stomach, “All muscle, baby,” I say to my reflection in the full-length mirror.

  “He thinks I’m okay with laying low,” I mutter to myself, looking through my built-in drawers “Yeah, right…go on vacation, as if.”

  I push a button that brings the revolving clothes rack to life.

  “Disappear? Fuck that! The only place I’m going is out,” I push the button again, the rack stops, and I rip a pair of jeans off their hanger.

  Finally dressed, I check my reflection again from head to toe: black v-neck tee, jeans, and boots. I have to admit, I look good―like I always do.

  I reach for my phone. Flipping through my options, I see a number that makes me smile, and push it.

  “Hey, baby, let’s go get something to eat.”

  2

  Sophie

  Alice is tugging at my shirt.

  “Now, Sophie, now.”

  I finish typing the text message to my mother. As usual, she’s agitating me to firm up plans for our proposed lunch next week.

  “You’ll miss it,” Alice tugs harder.

  With a sigh, I put the mobile down and roll my eyes.

  “I don’t even know if I want to see it,” I start and reach for my mug of coffee.

  “Of course you do.” Alice corrects me, and I laugh.

  “No, I don’t. And I really don’t think I want to work with him either. From what I’ve read on social media, he’s a prima donna of the highest caliber, not to mention rude…”

  “Shush,” Alice puts her hand over my mouth.

  Luckily, she’s been my best friend since way back; otherwise I might have objected.

  The television screen is filled with none other than Todd Alexander: current mega star and bad boy.

  “Turn it up, I can’t hear.”

  I lift cushions off the couch, push Puff the cat off, and find the remote to the TV. As I turn it up, we can hear Todd’s angry voice. A close up of his face shows his eyes narrowed and his lips t
ightly draw into a thin line.

  “You’re nothing,” yells Todd at a little Italian man who is holding up a tea towel. “Who the fuck do you think you are, wog boy?

  “I don’t give a shit about your money. So what if you can afford this place? Why don’t you do us all a favor and crawl back down into that hell hole you crept out of.”

  I cringe. It’s worse than I thought it was going to be. Todd’s eyes are now wide open; he is baring his teeth at this poor man who is still holding up his tea towel.

  Was Todd going mad? Rabies? Brain tumor, or simply a personality disorder?

  My money is on the latter.

  Whatever that was, my mind is made up. I don’t need to see the rest.

  Just then, Todd lunges forward, and I watch horrified as his right fist makes for the poor man’s face.

  Jordan, his PR guy, appears out of nowhere. He grabs Todd and tries to pull him back. It is to no avail.

  Terrible Todd seems to be frothing at the mouth. Left jab, right jab and left again.

  I’m holding my breath.

  Dismayed, I see Todd’s fist collide with the face of the Italian. Blood trickles down from his nose. In slow motion, the hurt figure crumples onto the ground.

  “Fucking useless mole,” Todd continues to sneer at the mess of a man on the floor. No one else in the restaurant appears to be moving. Jordan is hot on Todd’s heels.

  Todd is still swearing as he leaves the restaurant. Jordan is hot on Todd’s heels.

  My hands are shaking. There’s clearly something wrong with our alleged superstar. No one in his right mind behaves the way Todd Alexander just behaved. No one.

  He just made a psychopath look like a gentle giant.

  The screen of the television goes black and voices are cut off mid-sentence.

  “Fuck you” are the last words we hear.

  “Can you believe it?” I shake my head and start pacing the length of my living room.

  “You―” starts Alice but I cut her off.

  “No. No. No. And in case you still aren’t sure what I think: NO.”

  I’ve stopped pacing and am looking at Alice, hands on my hips.

  She’s sitting on the white leather lounge, legs tucked underneath her, and she smiles at me.

  I know that smile. I know her too well. I lift my right hand and point my index finger at her.

  “No. Alice, I mean it.” I run my hand through my hair and point at the television. “Did you see and hear him? I mean, who behaves like that?”

  I cringe at the thought of having a confrontation of any type with Todd. So what if he’s got the looks and the talent?

  “Come on Soph, he’s not all bad. You know Megastar has the deal in the bag. Todd has to sign his part of the contract, and it’s a done deal. And we need this. You can’t back out now.”

  I hate it when she calls me Soph. Pouting, I flop onto the couch. Puff hisses at me and abandons his spot.

  He goes to Alice who pats him. Promptly, he purrs and gets comfortable on her lap.

  Traitor.

  “I can’t work with him.” I shake my head. A man of Todd’s caliber would never listen to me. A director has to work with people who get on with other people; Todd isn’t one to get on with his fellow human beings, that much is obvious.

  “The whole thing might have been a misunderstanding. You should listen to Todd’s version of the story first.”

  I roll my eyes before I look at Alice.

  “You’re joking. How could any of what we saw have been a misunderstanding?”

  Alice doesn’t reply.

  “Alice, please,” I start to beg. There must be a way out of this.

  “Listen, Sophie.” Alice suddenly sounds serious. “You can’t back out now. We’re all tied up in this deal. The movie will be made. You will direct it. You’ve got the balls, girl.”

  I laugh.

  “Don’t forget Jordan’s there as well.” Alice adds.

  Briefly, I think about Jordan. Why does he stay with Todd? Does he like facing a personal challenge every day?

  Can I really manage Todd? Negative self-doubt creeps through me like thorny weeds.

  Of course you can’t, it says over and over. No one can, not even Jordan.

  “But he’s always been bad, Alice.” I chew on my bottom lip. “This latest scandal is one of many.”

  Surely there must be a way out.

  “Do you remember the story your mum used to read to us when were kids?”

  I stare at Alice. What is she getting at? I shake my head.

  “The little engine that could?”

  My lips curl up a little.

  “You do remember.” Alice sounds triumphant. “Remember the I can’t turns into I think I can, I think I can, I can.”

  With a long sigh, I flop back on my lounge.

  “Okay then, if the little engine says so. I guess I’ve got no choice but to give it a go.” I give in and see Alice’s triumphant smile. Her right fist slices the air in a victory punch.

  Oh, what have I just gotten myself into?

  3

  Todd

  Christ on a motorcycle, who isn’t carrying this story? I click through all fifteen hundred channels, both broadcast and cable, and I get no relief. Every morning show has the same video footage of me throwing the punch.

  I can’t get away from it.

  I’ve been sitting here for an hour, and the more I watch, the further I slump into the couch. This crap is depressing me, it’s like a career ending drama.

  I’m so sucked into this that I’m startled when I see Jordan walk into the living room.

  “Hey, bro. How are you doing this morning?” Jordan asks as he saunters in, looking like he came out of a page of GQ.

  “I see you used your key.”

  “Yeah, I knocked, but you didn’t hear me. So, I just let myself in.”

  I sit up a little straighter and adjust the small towel around my waist and make sure I’m covered. I wasn’t expecting to see Jordan this morning and I don’t think he needs a show at this hour.

  “Frankly, I’m surprised to see you up so early,” Jordan says, “but I made sure to be prepared just in case and brought you your favorite.”

  He hands me a cup. It’s a six dollar, triple espresso shot, heavy on the cream and six sugars, just the way I like it. The price is outrageous, but he’s buying so I’m just going to be polite.

  “Thanks,” I say and grab the coffee. “If you didn’t think I was up, what made you come by?”

  Jordan nods his head toward the television screen.

  “Oh, that,” I acknowledge. “That is quickly becoming the bane of my existence. And if you don’t do something quick, fast, and in a hurry, people will really believe I am the biggest piece of shit-crap that ever lived, if they don't already.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s why I’m here.”

  “Please tell me you have a better plan than yesterday. 'Cause the disappearing act just will not work. I am not leaving town. And if I have to, I’ll say it fifty more times, until you get it.”

  “Relax,” Jordan says, and motions me to sit back, as if I were a child who needed a time out.

  The bedroom door suddenly opens and Jordan looks up. A slow smile spreads across his face.

  “Jordan, this is Katie,” I say, but don’t take my eyes of the screen, and Jordan doesn’t take his eyes off Katie. “This is Jordan,” I add, lifting my coffee cup hand in his direction.

  “Nice to meet you,” Jordan says, without shifting his gaze.

  “I…uh…seem to have…left some things out here,” Katie says.

  I finally pay attention and turn around. Katie is wearing nothing but my deep green silk sheet, and her long raven hair has that messy, I-just-spent-all-night-fucking, look. Sexy as hell. I can see why Jordan is a little slack jawed.

  “Feel free, search away” I say, waving my hand in a gesture that says, 'don’t mind us'.

  Katie tip toes in and picks up her bra from behind one o
f the seat cushions, a black lace thong from the coffee table, and her shirt and pants from the corner of the room.

  I flash on a moment from last night and think oh, yeah, the coffee table. Blood quickly rushes to the center of my body, necessitating a quick adjustment of my towel, you know, to get a little more comfortable, cause I’m getting a little …stiff.

  Katie pads back into the bedroom, leaving me and Jordan alone with our thoughts. They're probably pretty much about the same thing.

  “Earth to Todd,” Jordan eventually says, snapping his fingers in front of my face, and dropping a folder on my now infamous coffee table.

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  Jordan doesn’t answer right away. Instead he sits next to me and simply says, “Open it up.”

  “Unless that’s the answer to this nightmare, I’m not interested.”

  “It may just be.”

  I stare at the folder for a few seconds. I’m curious.

  I lean forward and grab the manila envelope and look inside. It’s just a bunch of papers. Okay, I’ll bite. I pull out the papers and discover it’s a script and a production schedule, neither of which interest me.

  I toss them both back onto the table. “What the hell is this?”

  “You didn’t even give it a good look.”

  “Don’t have to. Right now, I need a solution to this,” I say, pointing to the television where the non-stop bullshit of my life seems to be playing without pause. Damn, aren't there any murders or hurricanes these assholes can cover?

  Jordan sighs, and leans over, picking up the script. “Look at this, it’s a movie and it’s being directed by Sophia Palmer.”

  I don’t respond.

  “Don’t you get it? Sophia is a ‘Palmer’. Her father is legendary. He’s larger than life in this industry. And Sophia has become the little darling of the media, her last two films were each a big success–“