by Renna Peak
Royal Mistake
PART ONE
Renna Peak
Ember Casey
Casey Peak Publishing
Contents
Prologue
Prologue
Royal Heartbreakers Reader Team
1. Victoria
2. Andrew
3. Victoria
4. Andrew
5. Victoria
6. Andrew
7. Victoria
8. Andrew
9. Victoria
10. Andrew
11. Victoria
12. Andrew
13. Victoria
14. Andrew
15. Victoria
16. Andrew
Royal Mistake
Royal Heartbreakers Reader Team
Also by Renna Peak
Also by Ember Casey
This book is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, locations or incidents are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locations is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by Ember Casey and Renna Peak
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
First Edition: January, 2017
Prologue
VICTORIA
Something isn’t right.
Call it a sixth sense, a reporter vibe, a journalistic feeling—whatever. I’m sitting at a table with eleven of my not-even-remotely close friends at the Montovia state dinner—a royal affair, even if they pretend like it isn’t. And I’m not stupid—I know it’s impossible for a journalist to score a ticket to this shindig. Just being here seems impossible enough. And I can’t remember the last time I heard that someone from the press came to one of these things. I know it’s a huge honor to be here, but I can’t shake the little twinge I always get when I know there’s a story happening.
I’m pretty sure I saw Lady Karina and Queen Penelope make a beeline into one of the rooms on the far side of the ballroom not twenty minutes ago. And I’m positive I saw the queen pull Elle in there not a few minutes later. Elle may not have wanted it, but holy hell, that silver dress was a show-stopper. All eyes were definitely on her and the man seated next to her. And that first dance they shared—they should be happy there were no members of the press here other than me. The electricity between them was palpable, even from all the way over here.
It couldn’t have been anyone but Elle who had gone into that room with the queen. And now… Now Leo has gone into that room, too. My stomach does the weird twingey-fluttery thing it does when I’m sensing a story. I can’t take it any longer—I stand and excuse myself from the table, making an apology to the Duke of Somewhere—a middle-aged, balding man who thought it appropriate to be the only person in the room to wear his red, official-looking royal suit. He’s also the only person to have paid me a lick of attention tonight, but that doesn’t matter at all. I’ve been listening to the talk—the whispers among the other party-goers, and it sounds like I’m not the only one who thinks something is fishy in the land of Montovia.
I’ll admit it—I only came here tonight to try to corner Prince Andrew. Elle thought she might be able to score me a seat at his table, but she probably has a lot less influence here than she thinks. I haven’t seen the man at all tonight. But even if I had, all eyes here are on this Leo and Karina situation. That’s where the story is—I just know it. I’ve been—yes, unfortunately—assigned to cover the bad-boy prince a lot more often than I’ve wanted to in the past few years. And I remember the rumors of his little fling with Karina. If I’m doing my math right, it was less than six months ago.
And that chick is way more than six months pregnant. I’m not sure how everyone else seems to have missed that little fact. If my previous experience means anything, most of the tabloid reporters I know don’t want to know the truth—especially if someone like Lady Karina is feeding them a story. It’s lazy reporting, but it’s easy—and it sells a hell of a lot of magazines.
But I would love nothing more than to break a story—any story—about Montovia and the stuff I know they’re hiding. Being invited here is next to impossible as a reporter, and I’m going to damn well make the most of my next few nights here, starting with tonight. Starting with this Karina story.
I make my way to the small crowd that has gathered near the side door where I saw the queen take Karina. After a few moments, Elle rushes past me, not even looking over. I don’t think she even noticed that a group had formed at all. It’s not even a minute later before Leo comes rushing past himself—and collides with a waiter holding a tray of full champagne flutes.
Thankfully, I’m able to step out of the way before I’m soaked or before any of the glass reaches me. Leo scrambles to his feet, and I’m about to follow him out when I feel a tap on my shoulder.
I turn and almost faint when I look up into the darkest blue eyes I’ve ever seen. They’re like sapphires, deep and blue, and the light from the chandelier is making them almost look like they’re faceted, just like jewels.
Prince Andrew doesn’t smile at all. He only extends his hand. “Would you care to dance?”
My heart feels like it’s going to flutter right out of my chest. My concerns with breaking a story about Lady Karina or Prince Leo or hell, even Elle’s role in all of it are the last thing on my mind when I look into those eyes.
I can barely nod, I’m trembling so much. But I manage to bob my head in agreement—I think I even crack the smallest of smiles before I squeak out my response.
“Yes.” And then I take his hand.
Prologue
ANDREW
I don’t care for dancing.
Unfortunately, for someone of my position, it’s something of a requirement at an event like this. Tonight, it’s even more necessary. It appears I am the only one in my family who cares to make it through this night without a scene—Leo has made a fool of himself once again, my mother has disappeared somewhere, and one can only wonder where Sophia has gone off to. It’s a blessing my brothers William and Nicholas aren’t here as well—my poor father would probably have had an aneurysm before this circus of a night was over.
As it stands, my father is doing his best to appear calm and collected, but I can see the tension around his mouth, and there’s a vein in his forehead that only seems to appear whenever he’s on the verge of exploding. He cannot get involved himself—that would be a sure sign something is amiss—so damage control has fallen to me.
Which, unfortunately, means dancing.
I look at the woman in my arms. Her eyes are on me, not on the door, which is a good start. She’s not particularly skilled at formal dance, but I’m not of a mood to show her the proper steps tonight. The next time I swing her around, I lower my face to her ear so that only she can hear me.
“No members of the press are allowed here tonight,” I say.
She pulls back slightly. “I’m not—”
“Don’t play me for a fool, Ms. Simpson. My family has done business with you before. Did you think I wouldn’t recognize your name?”
She raises her chin slightly. “I was only trying to say I’m not here as a member of the press tonight. I’m here as the date of Doctor Elle Parker.”
“Ms. Simpson, you might claim you aren’t here as a member of the press, but that role isn’t something you can pull on or off as you might a coat. I’ve seen how closely you’ve been watching everyone tonight. And that is, I assume, the only reason my mother allowed this to happen. But I’m not as trusting as my mother.”
“Elle is my friend, and I’m worried about her. Of course I’m going to be looking out for her.”
“It’s not just Elle you’ve been watching. Can you honestly tell me you haven’t thought once about what sort of story you might be witnessing here tonight? That your professional curiosity hasn’t gotten the better of you?” I feel my body tensing, feel my grip on her tightening slightly, but I try to force myself to relax. “As I told you before, Ms. Simpson, I am not a fool. And I do not abide liars, especially not in my home.”
It’s almost infuriating how boldly she looks back at me, as if she has absolutely no remorse for coming here tonight. There’s only stubbornness in her green eyes. My mother has always liked Victoria Simpson—she says she’s a sweet but fiercely intelligent woman, with more integrity than your average reporter. And when I first spotted her across the room, I took my mother’s words as truth—Ms. Simpson certainly looks sweet enough, with her heart-shaped face and full mouth. But the look in her eyes right now is anything but sweet—insolent would probably be a much better word.
“I’ve done nothing wrong, Your Highness,” she says.
These damned reporters are all the same, even the ones who look perfectly innocent upon first glance.
“You came to this event knowing full well that we don’t allow members of the press to attend,” I say. “Do you truly see nothing dishonest about that? I know reporters have a twisted sense of ethics, but I expected better from the woman my mother praised so highly.”
“If your mother is fine with me being here, then why does it matter to you?”
“As I said, Ms. Simpson, I am not as trusting as my mother. Now, let us get down to business—how much is your silence?”
She blinks at me. “Excuse me?”
“I think I’m being quite clear, Ms. Simpson. What is your price? How much will it take to keep you quiet about what you’ve seen here tonight?”
Her lips purse, her eyes flashing. She misses the next step and nearly trips over my feet, but it makes no matter. She and I are done dancing. We’re at the edge of the room, near the main doors to the ballroom, and I pull her out of the way of the other dancers and into the corridor outside.
“Your price, Ms. Simpson. Please be quick about it—I have other business I must attend to tonight.”
She looks absolutely furious. “I do not take bribes.”
I sigh. “Ms. Simpson, please. We’ve already established that you have a questionable set of ethics. Now please just tell me what you want so we can settle this quickly and quietly.”
Her shoulders tense, and for a moment I think she might actually try to throw a fist at me. But after a moment, she seems to control her temper.
“Maybe you didn’t hear me the first time, Your Highness, but I don’t take bribes,” she says. “Is this how you treat your guests here?”
“You are no longer a guest,” I say. “In fact, I request that you remove yourself and your things from the palace at once.”
Her eyes widen. “Are you serious?”
“Yes. You are not welcome in this palace,” I start to turn back to the ballroom, then stop. “If you are as ethical as you claim, Ms. Simpson, then you will respect my request.”
“It sounds a lot more like an order than a request.”
“Interpret it as you like. But the result should be the same.” I plan on sending a couple of people after her to make sure she doesn’t try to cause any trouble—or do any snooping—on the way out.
This time when I turn away from her, I make it all the way to the ballroom door.
“You’re wrong about me,” she calls after me.
I pause at the doorway, looking at all the colorful couples swirling across the dance floor. “I highly doubt that.”
“Your family needs some friends in the media,” she says. “One day, you’re going to need my help.”
“I doubt that as well,” I say. “I’m more than capable of handling my own affairs. Farewell, Ms. Simpson.”
I feel her gaze on my back as I step into the ballroom, but I’ll send my people after her immediately to ensure that she fulfills my request.
I have no patience for reporters—and certainly not for ones who so flagrantly lie about their motives. Sweet face or no, I intend to ensure that Ms. Victoria Simpson never sets foot in this palace again.
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Victoria
Today is going to be different. I can feel it.
I can be more. So much more than a tabloid writer, reporting on the latest antics of the Montovian Royal Family. I’m still not sure how I got roped into doing this job, anyway. Once upon a time, I didn’t care much about the tiny Central European country that has come to dominate my life.
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.