The Royal Rogue

by Halle, Karina

  “Don’t you think we should get married first?” I ask dryly.

  “Yes, of course! Get the ring and ask her to marry you and let’s get this started. The fate of our country is in your hands Orlando. Don’t you forget it.”

  As if I’ve forgotten it for a second.

  I think the only time it’s slipped my mind, this mind-crushing pressure, is when I was with Stella. Our days together were brief, but it was only when I was tasting her skin, feeling her touch, that I was somewhere else.

  But that was obviously never meant to be. I don’t know why I still keep thinking about her, it’s not doing me any good.

  “So you’re coming over for dinner?” she adds hopefully. “Be here at seven.”

  I sigh and hang up the phone, taking in a deep drag of my cigarette and letting the smoke fall from my mouth. It’s hot, but never too hot here thanks to the sea breeze. The sun is hanging in the sky, glittering off the waves in such a way that it makes my eyes hurt. I have nothing to do today except this dinner plan now. I have a penthouse apartment, a gorgeous girlfriend, and all the money in the world.

  I should be happy.

  I’m anything but.

  The sliding door opens and Zoya sticks her head out.

  “Who was on the phone?” she asks.

  “Penelope,” I tell her. “She wanted you over for dinner but I said you were already in Paris.”

  She lets out a sigh of relief. “Thank you.”

  “I wasn’t so lucky.”

  “You handle them so much better than me. You know I get . . .”

  “Anxious? Crazy? Yeah.”

  “I just can’t handle a lot of socializing,” she says, as she comes out and sits on the chair across from me. “I don’t get crazy.”

  “Yes you do. It’s why you’re so good on the court.”

  “Phhfff. Yes, that’s why. Not the fact that my parents have been training me to be the best tennis player in the world since I was two years old. My first word was tennisnaya raketka.”

  I laugh. “Let me guess. That’s Russian for tennis racket.”

  “Well, yes,” she says. I take another drag and blow the smoke away from her. She peers at me thoughtfully. “Are you okay?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “You only smoke when you’re stressed. Why are you stressed?”

  How do I explain it to her? That I’m stressed because of her? That because we made this arrangement, because we’ve fallen into these roles, that this is now my life. A life I actually chose—can’t blame anyone but myself—but not a life that makes me happy.

  I shrug. “Must be the changing of the seasons.”

  When Zoya and I first started dating, everything was legitimate. I was attracted to her, obviously, who wouldn’t be? I liked being around her. I had feelings for her. I . . . loved her? I’d never been in love before, so I still assume that’s what it was. Whatever I felt though, it was strong and it was real.

  She said she felt the same for me. I believed her at the time. Now, I’m not so sure. It’s not because she’s bisexual. But the spark and the passion she has with Emily, I don’t think she ever felt that for me.

  Our relationship started to drift apart after the first year and a half.

  She told me she met someone else, that she was desperately in love with a woman, a Slovakian tennis coach.

  But she didn’t want to break up.

  At this point, I thought I was on track to marry her and then that curveball was thrown my way. She asked me for a favor. A promise. Said that I needed to be her cover until she figured out what to do. And because my father was insanely happy that I was finally getting serious about someone, I thought it was best I go along with it.

  Now we’ve been in this for four years and I honestly don’t think there’s any way out. Breaking up with Zoya wouldn’t ruin her life, but it would mean that she could never be with Emily, that the chances of them getting caught would be too high. If that happens, she would lose everything she’s worked her entire life for.

  As for me, well, I know there’s no one out there for me. If I’m going to have to marry someone and produce an heir, it might as well be Zoya, someone I care for deeply anyway.

  “It’s the pressure, isn’t it?” she asks me. “Penelope. She’s been pressuring you to propose.”

  I nod.

  “I can tell.”

  “She says we’re getting old.”

  Zoya rolls her eyes. “Well she’s going to have to wait a bit longer. I know, I know that I’m so close to winning the U.S. Open. Wimbledon. My first Grand Slam. I can’t have a baby now, it would throw everything off.”

  “She knows that.”

  “Does she? She keeps bringing up how Serena Williams did it.”

  “She’s a superhero and so are you.”

  Zoya gives me a grateful smile. “Still, I know the pressure is getting to you . . .” She chews on her lip for a moment. “Have you, you know, even thought about the ring?”

  It’s such a complicated situation. We both know we need to get married, but both of us wish we didn’t have to.

  “I should look into that, shouldn’t I?”

  She sighs and reaches out, taking my hand in hers. “You’re a good man, Orlando. You’re loyal to the bone. I can’t tell you enough what all of this means to me. But . . . I do think the time is coming. The papers are already starting to talk, wondering why we’re not engaged yet. I think, maybe before Christmas, that would be the best.”

  My chest starts to constrict but I manage to take another drag, my lungs filling with smoke. “I agree.” My words echo with finality.

  “Good,” she says, and then gets up. She’s a formidable sight. She’s an inch taller than me and her limbs seem to go into other time zones. “I’m going to go pack.”

  She heads inside and shuts the door.

  I let out a sigh of relief, tilt my head back, and close my eyes. I need a drink. I need something. Perhaps one of the painkillers the doctor had prescribed me. I still have one or two left.

  My phone rings and I expect it to be my stepmother again, but when I pick up the phone, I see it’s from a number I don’t recognize. Normally I wouldn’t answer but I could use the distraction.

  “Hello?” I say.

  There’s a pause, then, “Orlando?”

  It takes me a second to recognize the voice.

  “It’s Stella,” she says with her light accent. “Princess Stella,” she adds awkwardly.

  “Hi, Stella, hi,” I say, completely taken aback. “H-how are you?”

  “I’m fine,” she says. “Listen, I know I’m calling out of the blue but I, uh, I really need to see you again.”

  “Okay . . .” I’m shocked. I thought she hated me. I’d hate me for sure too, since I never got a chance to tell her the truth. “That’s fine. I mean, yes. Where? At the palace?”

  “No, Aksel is there.”

  “You could come here?”

  “I don’t think so. How about Cyprus?”

  “Cyprus?”

  “We have a compound there, it’s lovely. Or so I’m told. Regardless, it’s completely private.”

  Private. Okay. So this is, in fact, an elaborate booty call, isn’t it? Perhaps I had more of an impact on her than I thought.

  “That sounds great. When?”

  “As soon as you can.”

  Wow. Okay. So I guess she’s really got it bad.

  “I can leave tomorrow,” I tell her. “How did you get this number, by the way?”

  “We have ways,” she says. “Tell your pilot to take you to the Paphos airport and I’ll have someone come meet you at the plane. I’ll see you then.”

  She hangs up and I’m left staring at the phone for a moment.

  Shit.

  I think I’m going to need another cigarette.

  * * *

  The next morning I’m bound for Cyprus, sitting alone in the royal private jet with only a stewardess for company. I stare out the window and
watch Capri and the Amalfi coast of Italy fly beneath us by before the plane jots over Greece and the Aegean sea.

  I’ve never been to Cyprus before. Living on the Mediterranean means that we are more likely to go to the Caribbean or even the South Pacific before exploring other places so close to home.

  The land here looks dry and barren as the plane swoops in over the sparkling sea, the water startlingly clear against white beaches. I have zero idea what I’m getting into here, but as long as Stella is there, it has to be good.

  Right?

  At least Zoya seemed to think so. I’d filled her in about Stella and everything that happened between us in Copenhagen. Zoya seemed pretty happy about it. I don’t often have affairs because of the whole NDA thing, so I think it weighs on Zoya a bit to always be “stepping out” on me. I guess with Stella it felt like it evened things out a little.

  It’s fucking weird, I’ll say that much, to have your girlfriend be happy that you’re jetting off somewhere to have a sexfest with someone else. But she also really seemed to like Stella as a person too, so that definitely helps.

  Soon the plane is landing and I’m heading down the jetway at the far end of the runway where a tall, overtly tanned man in a dark suit and sunglasses is waiting for me. He’s a man of few words as he takes my duffel bag and I get into a Suburban with tinted windows. It’s so hot outside that even the aircon on full blast seems to do nothing, and for a second I’m hoping Stella sent him and this isn’t some sort of kidnapping.

  Twenty minutes later though, we’re pulling off the two-lane highway and heading down a narrow paved road through scrub and stunted trees until we come to tall gates and a massive wall bookended by the sides of two converging cliffs. The gates open and we drive on through.

  It’s not a huge house—two stories, white stucco, red tiled roof—but the landscape is something else. There’s a terrace that spans the space between the house and the cliffs and beyond that is the sea, shimmering brightly.

  I get out of the car and head up the steps, practically sweating through my dress shirt as the sun bears down on me.

  Halfway up, Stella opens the door and leans against the doorway, peering at me.

  I stop where I am and take her in. She looks completely different here, her vibe, her energy. Her hair is long and blowing lightly in the breeze, she’s wearing little makeup and, though her skin is pale, I can see a few freckles poke through, making her look like the sexiest girl next door. She’s dressed in just a white coverup with blue pom-pom accents, the cheap kind you’d pick up from a seller on the beach, with the straps of a bikini showing through. She’s barefoot.

  “Hi,” I tell her. A bead of sweat drops off the tip of my nose and I wipe my brow with the back of my arm.

  Fucking smooth. I feel like an idiot standing in front of her and I don’t know why. I have so much explaining I need to do here, I need to set things right and clear my name a little.

  “Glad you could make it,” she says. I expect her to make some small talk, but she just turns around and heads back into the house.

  I follow her and, as soon as I’m inside, the driver comes up behind me, places my duffel bag on the floor and then exits, closing the door behind me.

  I watch as she walks through the tiled foyer and around the corner.

  “So it’s just us here?” I ask, following her through the house. There’s something so different about her now and I don’t know what. Not that I knew her well to begin with, but she seems like more of a stranger than before.

  When I turn the corner and find myself in the kitchen with blue-tiled walls, she’s standing by the counter holding a glass of clear liquid. She holds it out to me.

  “Here,” she says, meeting my eyes briefly. “This is for you.”

  “Okay . . .” I sniff it and grimace. It fucking burns my nose and smells like raisins.

  “It’s local. Saviana.”

  It smells like a hangover.

  “Are you not having any?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Are we saying cheers to something?” I ask, lifting the drink to my lips and taking a tepid sip. It’s not that bad. “Because I’ve got to be honest with you, I’m getting the impression that you’re not in a celebrating mood. Which makes me wonder why I’m here.”

  “We’re not celebrating anything,” she says and winces. She exhales loudly. “I need to talk to you about something important.”

  Oh no. My first thought is that perhaps Aksel found out about us and wants to kill me for some reason, like I’ve insulted his honor and he’s going to invoke the Danish tradition of the King beheading his enemies, or something like that. Or perhaps it’s that other people found out about us and now it’s making the headlines in Denmark and I just don’t know it yet.

  “What?” I ask warily.

  Her smile is sharp and sour and strikes fear in the heart of me.

  “I’m pregnant.”

  The words come out of her mouth like a blunt instrument, but the blow doesn’t take me down right away.

  “What?” I repeat dumbly.

  I blink at her.

  Why is she telling me this?

  She gives me an incredulous look.

  Oh.

  Here comes the blow.

  “You’re pregnant,” I repeat, the words finally sinking in.

  Holy shit.

  “Are you sure?”

  She nods. “Oh, I’m sure.”

  “How . . . how long? I mean when? I mean . . .”

  “Obviously since I last saw you,” she says sharply.

  “And you know for sure it’s mine?”

  If looks could kill, I’d already be dead.

  “Of course it’s yours!”

  I throw my hands out feebly. “Well, I don’t know. That was over a month ago. You could have had a million lovers by then.”

  “That’s not how I operate, but it’s obvious that’s how you operate.”

  “Hey, that’s not fair.”

  “You had a fucking girlfriend!” she yells at me, eyes blazing, nostrils flaring. She’s terrifying and beautiful and oh my god, she’s pregnant with my baby. “You probably still do!”

  “We aren’t together!”

  “Stop lying to me!”

  “I’m not!” I try and calm down. I don’t want to yell at my baby mama. “It’s complicated.”

  “Stop saying that.”

  “Zoya is a lesbian,” I confess and that’s enough for her eyes to go wide. “Okay? Well, she’s bisexual. Or something. Regardless, she’s in love with a woman named Emily. They’ve been together for years.”

  She doesn’t say anything. I’m not even sure she believes me.

  “It’s true,” I go on. “Yeah, when we first started dating, that was real, and then after a while she told me she was in love with a tennis coach.”

  “So, if that’s true, why are you still with her?” Stella folds her arms, raising her brow as she watches me.

  “Because it’s safer for her that way.”

  “Safer?”

  “She’s Russian. It’s not accepted there. More that that, it’s actually dangerous to come out. She says her parents have ties to the government, some shady shit. I don’t know, I’ve never actually met them. But I’ve looked into the LGBTQ rights, hell, even the human rights, situation over there and it’s horrible. It’s non-existent. Her parents would disown her, she’d lose her sponsors, she’d be kicked out of the Russian league. She could even lose her sportswear line. Anything is possible. Most of all, she might be made an example of for coming out. It’s a fucking big deal.”

  She nods slowly, seeming to mull it over. “That doesn’t explain why you’re with her.”

  “She needs a front. A beard, if you will. If I’m not with her, covering for her, it’ll be harder for her to be with her girlfriend.”

  “Again,” Stella says, “why are you with her?”

  I lick my lips and shrug. “I made a promise to her. I keep my promises.”
/>
  “You mean to tell me you’re that loyal? That you’d be in a fake relationship just for the sake of someone else?”

  I stiffen at that, feeling my hackles go up. “Why is that so unbelievable to you? I may not be in love with Zoya, but I love her like family and I made a promise to her.” I clear my throat and look away. “Besides, it’s not just her sake. It’s mine too. If I don’t marry and produce an heir, the country of Monaco reverts to being part of France. I don’t want that on my shoulders.”

  “The agreement of 1918,” she says.

  “You know it?” I ask, surprised.

  “I may have done some more research after you left,” she says. “And then some when I found out I was carrying your child.”

  Jesus. There it is again. It’s just too fucking unbelievable. Like I’m being pranked.

  “I guess you do have an heir after all, just not with the right person,” she says lightly, but I know she’s taking this anything but lightly.

  Fuck. This is messy. So very messy.

  “I think I need to sit down,” I tell her, and quickly finish the drink. It burns and I have the urge to finish the whole bottle, drink until the world makes some sort of sense again.

  “I figured you would.”

  She leaves the kitchen and I follow her out to a small shaded part of the terrace, caught between the grey-white cliffs, a clear infinity pool, and the startlingly blue sea.

  Stella sits down in a wooden chair and stares out at the waves, not facing me. I take the chair beside her. It almost feels like we’re two vacationers who have just arrived at their sunny destination and don’t know what to do with themselves.

  I don’t know what the fuck to do with myself.

  I’ve never gotten anyone pregnant before. I’ve been careful, too. It’s a well-known phenomenon that women will seek out royalty and give birth to illegitimate heirs, so I’ve been extra cautious when it comes to this.

  But I clearly wasn’t that cautious when I was with Stella. She said she was on the pill and I really should have insisted on a condom, especially since I always use them. I guess the moment blinded us. And then all the hot and sweaty moments after that. Being with her in the palace was like being in some other world where neither time nor consequences existed.