Royally Wild (Crazy Royal Love Romantic Comedy Book 2)

by Melanie Summers

  “Sorry,” I say.

  Five minutes later, I’m standing in front of the ticket counter for Avonian Air. “I need to exchange this ticket for your next flight to Valcourt.”

  I’m crammed into the middle seat on my way from Thailand to Valcourt via Qatar and Belgium (with a nine-hour layover in Qatar). That was the only available last-minute flight I could get. The entire trip will take a little over thirty-six hours, which will have me in Valcourt by Monday morning. I can only hope it won’t be too late because if it is, Arabella’s life is about to be ruined. Her family’s too.

  The longer I sit and think about what really happened out in that jungle, the more horrified I become. For those in the back row, Dylan must have had audio recording equipment sewn into the backpacks (which accounts for their weight, obviously). The audio probably ran the entire time unless we’re really freaking lucky and somehow it lost power at some point. But I doubt it, because even small recorders running on regular batteries could keep going for days.

  So, not only do they probably have a whole lot of audio of us having loud, jungle sex, they also have us confessing our deepest, darkest secrets, the worst of which being Arabella’s mum’s suicide.

  Yeah, let that sink in for a minute.

  An unbelievably painful family secret—one they’ve managed to contain for nearly three decades—is about to be spilled on reality television. The more I think about it, the more my entire body courses with rage—not just at the producers and network, but at myself as well. How could I not have seen that coming? I mean, seriously?

  How could I allow myself to be a part of this utter trash? I’m not a reality TV guy. I’m a nature documentarian. I’m a professional adventurer. Or at least I was. Now, I’ve been reduced to a Kardashian in hiking boots. And they’re going to reduce Arabella and her family to nothing more than a cheap scandal, not to mention forever tarnishing her mother’s memory.

  And I know what you’re thinking – that I should tell Arabella what’s going on, but I can’t. Not when she’s doing work that she’s so passionate about for the first time in her entire life. The Equal Everywhere Conference is so much more important than what I’m doing (or ever have done, really), so the last thing she needs is another crisis to handle right now. Especially not since I left her to deal with the first one (which happens to be related to this one but is about to get so much worse if I can’t stop it).

  No, the right thing to do is to step up, put a stop to whatever Dylan is about to do, and let Arabella focus on the work she’s doing. That’s what a good partner does. So that’s what I’m about to do.

  Well, that’s what I’ll do in about thirty-six hours. For now, I’ll just sit here being used as a pillow by the man to my left who’s fallen asleep and now has his head on my shoulder.

  19

  Princesses, the Paragons of Oppression

  Arabella

  Well, this certainly sucks mouldy doughnuts. Day two and I have yet to add anything of value to the conversation. But even worse, my presence here is actually a detriment to the cause because the press is camped out in front of the building and the only thing they want to do is keep the conversation about me being a whiny, entitled brat going. They have no interest in interviewing the incredible women here about what the UN is doing to advance women’s rights around the world. Sad really.

  I’m surrounded by the world’s brightest and best—women who have fought on the front lines of it their entire lives, whereas I’ve spent years feeling put upon because I don’t have total autonomy over my wardrobe. I’m afraid that Phillip Crawford and the rest of the advisors were right about me—I don’t belong here, which is utterly disappointing.

  So far, I’ve remained a silent observer in a Chanel suit, even though the other women have been very welcoming and do seem interested in hearing from me. Well, most of them anyway. There is one nasty in the group, Dr. Sandra Highbrow (yes, that’s her real last name). She’s a professor of women’s rights at Cambridge and class A be-otch who came right out yesterday at the cocktail hour and asked me what exactly I bring to the table, other than bad press. Those were her exact words. I couldn’t even think of a good response, so I just gave a weak laugh, hoping to pass the entire thing off as though I thought she was joking. But she wasn’t, which she made very clear by following up her question with, “No, seriously, what are you doing here?”

  I froze up, but luckily one of the other ladies piped up with, “At the moment, she’s trying to enjoy her Cosmopolitan, Sandra. Leave her alone.”

  To be honest, I should probably go home. The last thing I wanted to do was hurt the cause, which is exactly what I’m doing. I’ve never felt like such a giant wazzer in my entire life. And there’s really nothing I can do to fix it, is there? I said what I said, then it got recorded and shared with the world, which means I will forever be known as Princess Precious. End of discussion. For decades to come, when anyone googles me, that stupid clip will come up first. I have never, ever been so angry at myself for anything, and instead of setting that aside and managing to find ways to contribute, I keep hearing a voice in my head telling me I’m a fraud, I don’t belong, and I can only make everything much worse by being here.

  At the moment, we’re in breakout rooms. There are ten of us sitting around a boardroom table brainstorming ideas for the next phase of the equality revolution. Well, nine women brainstorming, plus me. Dr. Malika Jelani is leading our session this morning. The topic is assisting women in rural areas in making strides in home-based businesses, something I know nothing about. My phone vibrates in my pocket and I discreetly take it out of my jacket, only to see it’s Will calling.

  Of course he would call at the exact moment when there is no possible way I can answer. Biting my bottom lip, I glance at Malika, hoping I can make eye contact and excuse myself. But the eye contact makes her think I have something to say.

  She gives me a hopeful smile. “Yes, Princess Arabella, you look like you have some ideas to add to our brainstorming session.”

  “Oh, yes,” Dr. Highbrow says. “Do share with us how you managed to squirrel away a few dollars by knitting hats out of the sheeple who love you.”

  Malika, who’s standing at the head of the table, folds her arms and tilts her head at Dr. Highbrow. “No, we mustn’t do that. Princess Arabella has been every bit as oppressed as any other woman here.”

  No! Please don’t. My cheeks burn. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that.”

  Dammit, I missed his call.

  “Of course you have,” Malika says, then looking around the room, she adds, “Arabella lives in one of the oldest patriarchal subsets of society in human history—royalty. Everything decided by birth order rather than aptitude and life goals, no autonomy whatsoever, not even with regard to her own body. She’s even obligated to bear children.”

  “It’s honestly not that bad,” I say, with a light chuckle. “I know I made some unflattering comments about my life recently, but I really am fully aware of my unusual level of privilege. When I made those comments, I was —”

  “Suffering from dehydration and exhaustion?” Dr. No Brows says, wrinkling up her nose. (I’m calling her that because she clearly plucked her eyebrows into oblivion in the nineties, and also because I’m extremely immature when I’m upset. Add that to the list of things I hate about myself).

  My phone starts buzzing again and it’s all I can do not to leap from my chair and run out of the room.

  “She absolutely was suffering that day,” Malika says, sitting down in her chair. “Here is a woman who has barely even been allowed to do anything physically or mentally challenging her entire life. So when she managed to break free of those shackles, the first thing she did was test herself beyond the reasonable limits of any human. She has the heart of a true warrior.”

  No Brows snorts.

  “Oh, no,” I say, utterly humiliated. “I’m honestly a very average person. And my greatest wish is to find a way to help the truly oppressed.”


  “Don’t you dare! You’ve been oppressed as much as anyone,” Malika says. “My friends, we, as a group, need to embrace poor Arabella and help lift her from the depths of her dungeon.”

  “It’s fine, really,” I mutter. “I’d be much happier to focus on the needs of the rural women in economically depressed areas.”

  “And we will,” Malika says. “But we must not forget our sisters in need in palaces around the world.”

  My phone buzzes again, and I glance down at Will’s picture, my heart squeezing in my chest. Three calls in a row? Something must be wrong. “I am so sorry, I must take this call. There is an…urgent situation that requires my immediate attention.”

  Malika looks taken aback for a second, then quickly recovers. “Yes, go ahead, my dear. You can tell us what you were going to say when you return.”

  “Thank you,” I say, standing and rushing out of the room.

  Once I’m in the hallway, I swipe to answer. “Hello?”

  “Thank God I caught you,” Will says.

  For some reason, my eyes fill up with tears at the sound of his voice, and I hurry down the hall to a sleek wooden bench. “Are you all right?” I ask.

  “Good, yeah. Well, I’m okay. How are you doing?” Will says, his voice filled with the same desperation I’m feeling.

  “I feel absolutely awful about what happened, and I really need to see you so badly. When will you be here?”

  He pauses for a second. “First, let me say how much I miss you, because honestly, it’s enough to fill this entire airport with mushy, gooey emotions. Second, I want you to know that now that I’ve had some time to cool off, I’m not upset about what happened. I totally understand why you were so confused and upset. It’s okay, really.”

  “No, it isn’t,” I say, my voice cracking. “I can’t believe I levelled those accusations at you. I can barely sleep, I’m so angry at myself. I wish I could take it all back and handle the whole thing over again like a normal, reasonable person.”

  “Honestly, Belle, I think we may have underestimated Dylan’s ability to mess with us,” Will says. “And the pressure you’re under is insane with the show and the constant public criticism. Add a disapproving older brother, and it quickly adds up to too much for anyone to handle – even a reasonable person, which you are.”

  I blink quickly, forcing the tears back into my head. “No, I don’t think I am, but thank you for saying it anyway,” I answer. “I so badly needed to hear that. To be honest, things are not going well with the conference. The press has followed me here and they’re ignoring the cause and focussing on my stupidity. Plus, I’m a total disaster. I keep freezing up and have yet to provide any sort of value in any way.”

  “I’m sure you’re being too hard on yourself,” he says, and the soothing sound of his voice makes me even more desperate to see him so he can wrap his arms around me.

  “Unfortunately, I’m afraid my assessment of my performance thus far is quite accurate,” I say. “If you weren’t on your way here, I honestly think I’d be ready to pack it in. When do you land? If it’s in the evening, I can come to the airport to get you.”

  “Yeah, here’s the thing,” he says in a tone that tells me I’m not going to like whatever ‘the thing’ is. “I have to go straight to Valcourt.”

  “What? Why?” I close my eyes tightly as disappointment coats my insides like thick paint.

  “I can’t get into it right now but believe me when I tell you that if I had any choice at all, I’d still be on my way to see you right now.”

  Keep it together. Keep it together. This is not a crisis. War is a crisis. Being forced to flee your homeland to escape certain death is a crisis. This an opportunity to show I can be both reasonable and supportive when life takes a turn. “What happened?”

  “Nothing I can’t fix but I have to do it immediately.”

  “So, something bad did happen?” My heart squeezes at the thought of anything else going wrong.

  Down the hall, the door to our conference room opens up and Dr. No Brows comes walking in my general direction. Oh perfect.

  I turn my attention back to Will who is saying, “…so sorry, sweetheart. I miss you so much, and if there was any possible way I could be on my way to Vienna right now, I promise I would be. But don’t worry about me, okay. You’ve got enough on your plate. Just focus on the conference and know you’re there for the right reasons and that they’re lucky to have you. You’re smart and kind and you’ve got so much to offer them. Just trust yourself.”

  “Thank you,” I say, even though inside, my brain is screaming, ‘wrong!’

  “My flight is about to leave, but I want you to know how much I love you and how sorry I am about everything.”

  “Yes,” I say, glancing up to see that No Brows is within earshot, so I can’t very well tell him I love him back. “Thank you for bringing me up to speed on all of this. Do let me know how things progress,” I say in a very formal tone. With that, I hang up.

  Well, that was just great, wasn’t it? I pulled the Queen Elizabeth handshake when a little Prince Charles ran to her for a hug.

  I sigh, then quickly text him. I’m sorry about the overly formal goodbye. I pretended I had to take an urgent call to get me out of the meeting. One of the other attendees was walking past right when we were wrapping up. What I meant to say is, “I love you so much it hurts, and I cannot wait to be with you again.”

  Text from Will: Back at you, Belle. Go get ‘em.

  20

  A Deal with the Dylan

  Will

  “Will! The man of the hour,” Dylan sings, standing up at her desk. “Come sit. I was thrilled when I got your email. Have you seen the ratings? They are off. The. Charts! And, I have some big things coming down the pipe for you, young man! Huge!”

  She gestures to a round table in the corner of her office and walks toward it, stopping at the mini-fridge for a can of Red Bull. “Drink?”

  “No,” I say, folding my arms and remaining rooted in place while she has a seat.

  “So, I’ve been working on something absolutely epic for you. No. Bigger than epic, it’s—”

  “—Did you have recording equipment sewn into our backpacks?” I ask, glaring at her.

  “Mm-hmm.” She nods, cracking the can open. “Stroke of genius, don’t you think?”

  Wow, so she’s not even going to deny it. “I’d use a different word actually. Unscrupulous or conniving maybe.” I tilt my head, then add, “Or evil. Yes, evil is the most accurate, definitely.”

  Dylan looks taken aback, then she waves off my words as though I’m nuts. “Evil? Is it evil to make you a star? Is it evil to help put two young people who are perfectly suited for each other together in the wild so they can fall in love?”

  “It’s evil to record us without our knowledge and you bloody well know it,” I say. “What’s the secret you’re revealing, Dylan?”

  “What secret?”

  “Cut the crap. You know what I’m talking about,” I spit out. I’m definitely treading far over the line of acceptable workplace decorum, but I really couldn’t care less. “The one you’ve been advertising every five minutes.”

  “I think you can guess,” she answers.

  I let out a frustrated sigh, my gut tightening. “Her mum?”

  Dylan nods. “I can see why you’re upset. I get it. You love Arabella and it’ll be a bit tricky for her for a few days, but in the end, I promise, it’ll be a positive thing. It never feels good to keep secrets. It’ll actually be quite freeing for them. Plus, it’ll open up the conversation on mental illness and suicide. So, when you think about it, we’re actually doing a great service for the entire kingdom.”

  “Don’t you dare try to spin this,” I scoff. “What you’re doing is wrong and you know it. These are real people’s lives you’re about to ruin.”

  She stands and walks around the table toward me, then perches herself on the edge of it. “You wanted me to make you a star.”


  Shaking my head, I start to say no, but she talks over me.

  “Yes, you did, William. You want to be famous. You want to be incredibly rich so you can spend the rest of your life hopping from one adrenaline rush to the next one,” Dylan says. “And I promised I’d get that for you, which is what I’m doing.”

  “You’re unbelievable. I never asked for any of this. I just wanted to do my show, teach people about the wilderness, and maybe get some of them out there into nature once in a while instead of sitting around glued to screens their entire lives,” I say.

  “Well, this is something Ms. Alanis Morissette would call ironic,” she says, having a swig of her drink. “You don’t want people to get outside into nature. You want them sitting at home watching you. In fact, you need them to because if they don’t, you can’t make a living doing whatever you want whenever you want. Before me, you were a man teetering on the edge of unemployment, remember? The network was about to drop you, but I finally got people to watch. And now, you’re upset about how I did it. Maybe you should just say thank you and be glad you’re about to have all your dreams handed to you on a silver platter.”

  I set my jaw and glare at her, my mind spinning as I search for a way to make her listen. As badly as I want to lose it and start yelling, the wiser part of my mind is telling me I have to play nice here. I have everything to lose, but more importantly, so does Arabella. “I don’t want it this way, Dylan. I’d rather be broke for the rest of my life than to hurt Arabella like this.” I let my shoulders drop. “Please, Dylan, please don’t do this to them. There are other ways to get ratings.”

  She scrunches up her nose. “I wish I could help you, but the execs love it. Victor and Kira almost died, they were so excited. They’ll never give it up.”

  “Let me talk to them,” I say. “I can convince them that this is the wrong thing to do.”