Royal Mistake

by Renna Peak

  “I am willing to offer you a hefty sum for your troubles,” I tell Ms. Simpson. This is a big deal—usually tabloids pay us for exclusive photos and interviews, not the other way around. But I want her to know I’m serious about this.

  Ms. Simpson shrugs. “Not my problem anymore.” She heads toward the door. “Have a nice life.”

  Her editor is waiting outside the door.

  “Victoria, wait!” he calls after her. But it’s too late—she’s already halfway to the elevator.

  “I’ll get her,” I say, striding quickly after her.

  I despise the fact it’s come to this—me chasing after some American reporter who refuses to assist me, as attractive as she might be—but it can’t be helped. I also despise the fact it’s this reporter, the one who sneaked into my country’s state dinner a few weeks ago, who seems to be my best and only choice. I’m still not entirely sure I trust her, but my mother does, and for now, that will have to do. She is my only option.

  I catch her at the elevator. She jabs at the button as I step in front of her.

  “Ms. Simpson,” I say, “our conversation wasn’t finished.”

  “Maybe you aren’t finished, but I am.”

  I suspected she’d be difficult, but I didn’t anticipate this sort of resistance. After all, this woman has been following my family for years—and even broke our laws to attend one of our biggest events of the year—and while I guessed she might still be angry with me for kicking her out, I still thought she would leap at the chance to have an exclusive story about me.

  “I know you weren’t exactly pleased by my treatment of you at the state dinner,” I say.

  She snorts. “That’s putting it mildly.”

  “You must understand, though, I had little choice. You, more than anyone, must understand the lengths some reporters will go to in pursuit of a story. It is my job to protect my family, and that is what I was attempting to do, Ms. Simpson.”

  Her emerald eyes flash. “By deporting me?”

  Her entire being has seemed to come alive with her anger—her cheeks are slightly flushed, her breath coming faster, and for a moment, I find myself stunned by her. But I quickly suppress such a ridiculous reaction.

  “I was simply ensuring that you were not privy to my family’s private affairs. I suspect if it had been any other reporter in there, what little you did see would have already been splashed across the newsstands by now. I admit my faith in the ethics of the media is not very strong.”

  “And my refusal to take a bribe from you wasn’t a clue I might not be like the others?”

  “At the time, I simply believed you thought you might make more money by publishing or selling anything you learned. I’m well aware of how this industry works, Ms. Simpson.”

  “Well, you were wrong,” she says.

  Behind me, the elevator dings and the door slides open. Ms. Simpson pushes around me to step inside, and I turn and follow her. She glares at me, but I ignore it. A pity such a charming-looking woman should have such a despicable vocation, or that she should be so vehement in her refusal to assist me. Again I find myself musing that under different circumstances, I’d probably have found her dark hair quite lovely, or her eyes scintillating. Right now, though, I can only think of what must be done. Offering her money certainly won’t do any good, so I must try another tactic.

  “Ms. Simpson,” I say as the elevator door closes behind us, “if you weren’t at that state dinner to find a story, then why were you there?”

  She raises her chin. “I was Elle’s date.”

  “And how, exactly, did that come to pass?” I ask. “How does a reporter end up as the date of my brother’s lover?”

  “They weren’t exactly lovers at the time,” she says. “And Elle and I are friends. Unlike you, she seemed to accept the fact that not all reporters are scum.”

  “She hasn’t been dealing with reporters her entire life,” I muse. “Give it time.”

  The cold stare Ms. Simpson gives me is a reminder that I should be trying to win her over, not insulting her profession, so I hurry on.

  “Obviously, you are an exception to this,” I say. “You have morals. And if Elle is any proof, you seem to have the ability to form good relationships with the subjects of your stories.”

  “I don’t know what you’re getting at, but my answer is still the same,” she says. “I don’t want to have anything to do with you or your family ever again.”

  “But are you willing to write off Elle as well?” I ask her. “The two of you must have formed some meaningful bond if she brought you to our state dinner. May I remind you Elle is soon to be a part of my family?”

  She crosses her arms. “Elle is the only exception. I couldn’t care less what happens to you or anyone else in your family.”

  Our elevator must be close to the ground floor by now, but I’m not ready for this conversation to be over. I quickly grab the emergency stop button and pull it, and an alarm bell goes off as the elevator shudders to a stop.

  “Why did you do that?” she demands over the blaring of the bell.

  “I needed a few more minutes of your time.”

  “My answer is still the same,” she says, trying to reach around me to the panel of buttons. I block her way, though, until finally she throws up her hands in apparent exasperation and stops trying.

  “I just ask that you consider my request,” I say. “And not for my sake, but for Elle’s.”

  Her frown deepens. “What does this have to do with Elle?”

  “Nothing. And everything,” I say. “I know you understand how this works, Ms. Simpson. The actions of one member of my family affect everyone else. This story, told improperly, could harm all of us, Elle included.”

  Something flickers in her eyes, and I’m almost afraid to hope it might be some sort of professional curiosity.

  “What exactly did you do?” she asks me.

  “I have no intention of sharing that with anyone except the reporter who agrees to tell my story on my terms.”

  “It must be pretty bad if you’re coming all the way to me with your tail between your legs.”

  I prickle at her words, but I try not to let it show.

  “I am in need of someone I can trust, yes,” I say. “The question is whether or not I can trust you.”

  “You didn’t seem to think so a couple of weeks ago.”

  “Things change, Ms. Simpson.”

  “You must be pretty desperate if you’re willing to change your mind about me.”

  “I’ve simply reviewed the facts and decided this was the best course of action.”

  She shakes her head, but to my relief, some of the anger has seeped out of her expression, replaced by a wry sort of humor. She’s enjoying seeing me in this desperate state.

  “Ms. Simpson,” I say, stepping toward her. “I know, perhaps, that this proposition comes as a bit of a surprise to you, given our history. But I assure you, I did not seek you out on a whim, and I truly believe that this arrangement would be beneficial to us both.” I’m standing quite close to her now—close enough that she has to tilt her head back to look up at me. I get a hint of the sweet, almost intoxicating scent of her, but I try to ignore it. “If you won’t help me for my own sake, then help me for Elle’s. Or help me for your own benefit—for the professional gain, or even just to satisfy your own curiosity. I don’t care why you do it, Ms. Simpson. Only that you do.”

  She still looks undecided, but the fact she hasn’t outright refused again is a promising sign. I lean down toward her, bringing my lips to her ear. I want to make sure she hears every word over the ringing of the elevator alarm.

  “I don’t know what might sway you,” I say into her ear. “But whatever it is, whatever you want, I will make it happen. Trust me, Ms. Simpson—I will make this arrangement very much worth your while.”

  When I pull back again, she looks almost stunned, and I trust my point has been made. I pull a slip of paper out of my pocket and drop it
into her bag.

  “That’s my mobile number, should you care to use it,” I say. “I don’t give that to many people, so I hope I can trust you.”

  I turn and push the emergency button back in. The elevator comes back to life, descending the remaining distance to the ground floor. When the doors open, I look back to see her still frowning. I can’t tell whether it’s confusion or merely indecision on her face, but I’ll take either.

  “Have a good day, Ms. Simpson,” I say. “I really do hope you’ll consider working with me.”

  And before she can say a word, I’m gone.

  Victoria

  As soon as he exits through the glass doors at the end of the hallway, I pull out the slip of paper he’s placed in my bag, crumple it in my fist, and walk over to the nearest trash can. My hand gets to the edge of the container before I stop, unable to drop the paper in.

  I grumble to myself. This is not how today was supposed to go. Today, I was supposed to be free—no more royal family articles, no more bullshit stories about celebrity antics no one should care about.

  The near-growl that comes out of me draws a little more attention than it should from the other people in the corridor, and I drop my gaze to the ground, pulling my hand away from the trash as I shove the slip of paper with Andrew’s phone number into my pocket.

  Elle was right about one thing—Andrew is an asshole. He seems to have a special gift for making a person feel she is somehow little more than dirt beneath his feet. And it doesn’t matter how gorgeous he is—or how good he smelled when he was standing so close to me. He’s an asshole, and that’s all I need to remember.

  But he’s in trouble. There’s something about that knowledge that makes my heart beat a little faster—something about it that gives me a feeling that seems ridiculously close to glee. Bringing Prince High-and-Mighty to his knees would give everyone who reads about it that same sense of giddiness if it’s done just right. Showing the world the perfect prince is actually human—oh, he must be horrified at the thought.

  As much as I might hate him for the stunt he pulled at the state dinner a few weeks ago, I know I’m not going to be able to let this go.

  And he said he’d give me whatever I want…

  What the hell do I want? It’s not something I let myself think about much. And the only thing I can come up with is… Not this. I want a career—a real one, not some placeholder job where I pretend to be a journalist. I want to report real news, not the latest celebrity scandal or baby bump or shopping spree.

  I want a story. One that will put me on the map—one that will have the news bureaus calling me. A story that means something. And something tells me whatever it is Andrew is hiding falls under the category of celebrity scandal rather than real news. Otherwise, there are hundreds—probably thousands—of reporters he could have called. Real journalists—not the paparazzi his country seems to have a special hatred for.

  I should at least hear what he has to say. I close my eyes at the thought—I don’t want to give that jerk the time of day, let alone actually listen to him. And he would have to agree to some ground rules—I’m not going to just write some spoon-fed story he wants published. It would have to be a real story that I write myself.

  I pull the crumpled slip of paper from my pocket and take my phone out before I walk out the glass doors of my office building.

  And I don’t put my phone to my ear before Andrew sidles up beside me.

  He walks lockstep with me for half a block before I shove my phone back in my bag, forcing myself not to beat him over the head with it.

  I finally stop and turn to him. “If you were going to wait for me outside, why even give me your number?”

  His expression doesn’t change in the slightest—and whatever it is he’s feeling, he has it buried under lock and key. And he doesn’t answer my question.

  “If this is some sort of game, Your Royal—”

  “I assure you, Ms. Simpson, this is far from any game.” Something clouds his eyes, but he recovers quickly. “Do I take this to mean you’ve agreed to my terms?”

  “You haven’t given me any terms, Your Highness.”

  “Andrew. And I have given you terms, Ms. Simpson. You’ll accompany me to Montovia where you will be given the full details of what I require.”

  I can’t help but smile. “What you require?” I chuckle. “I don’t think you understand how this works, Your Highness.”

  His jaw clenches for a moment. “Andrew. And I’ve already told you, Ms. Simpson, I will be dictating the terms—”

  I interrupt with a tilt of my head. “Actually, Andrew, you told me not five minutes ago you’d give me whatever I wanted. That, to me, means we’re going to play by my rules.”

  He glares at me for a moment. “Name your terms, then, Ms. Simpson.”

  “Well, first, call me Victoria.”

  “Done.” His eyes flutter—almost in frustration. “Victoria. What else?”

  My brow furrows and I let out a small sigh. “I want a job.”

  “A…job? I’m afraid I don’t understand—”

  “In the news bureau. In Montovia.”

  He searches my eyes for a moment. “I’m not in a position to be able to offer such a position—”

  “I think you are. Or you could be. Or you know who is.” I lift a brow—he has to know I’m not dumb enough to think he doesn’t have the full attention of his father, who is probably the final word on such jobs, if they even exist. “We can discuss the details later, if you’d rather. I think your country would probably do well to have a permanent American journalist reporting from there. Given how…difficult…your country can be with the media and all.”

  He glares at me for a moment. “I can make no promises. That kind of decision—”

  “Would be your father’s,” I interrupt. “I get that. But if the rumor mill is true—and I have no reason to think it isn’t—you’re being given more and more responsibility every day. In fact, a little bird told me a few days ago it might not be long before your ascension to the throne is—”

  “That little bird’s name wouldn’t happen to be Elle, would it?” He almost growls the words. “I swear, I’ll have that woman locked in—”

  “Actually, I haven’t spoken to Elle since she disappeared from the state dinner. Before I was deported.” I smile. “But thanks for the confirmation, Andrew. It’ll make my story—”

  He interrupts, grabbing my wrist. “There will be no stories—not until I tell you everything. It is against the laws of Montovia—”

  “And yet, here we are in America, where there are no such laws. In fact, we hold our freedom of speech and freedom of the press very dearly here, Andrew. Something you wouldn’t understand.” I twist my arm out of his grasp, trying to ignore the little thrill of electricity I feel—I’m not sure if it’s from his touch or from the argument. Maybe both. Either way, it’s definitely…something.

  “Which is why we will be returning to Montovia tonight. On my personal aircraft. Where you will speak to no one unless you have cleared it through me.” He stares at me for another long moment. “Unless you wish to be deported again.”

  I grin. “See, Andrew, here’s where you fail. You can’t get what you want by threatening people. You’re certainly not making your case for why I should even entertain the notion of coming to Montovia again. You can’t really believe I would willingly go back there with you, can you? After the hell you put me through before?”

  His lips press into a line and he glares at me again. “You are not the only person capable of digging up distasteful stories on your subjects, you realize.”

  I lift a brow. “Is that a threat?”

  He lifts his shoulders in a small shrug. “You don’t think I would come here without a backup plan, do you?”

  “Well played, Andrew.” My gaze narrows. “What is it you have on me?”

  I swear his lips curl into the smallest of smiles. “That is for me to know and for you perhaps to never
have to find out. If you’ll agree to my terms, that is.”

  My gaze narrows again as I search his face for any hint he might actually know something about me. I shake my head. This is stupid. Even if he did have something on me, who would care? I just quit my job—and even if he has the most scandalous of stories, I’m nothing more than a tabloid writer. No one would give a damn about anything about me.

  I search his eyes again, and I swear I see something there. Some knowing or something that gives me the tiniest bit of hesitancy.

  He’s bluffing. He has to be. There’s no chance, not even the remotest possibility that he could possibly know anything—that he would even want to dig that deep.

  But his gaze doesn’t waver.

  I set my jaw and meet his gaze. “Are you trying to blackmail me?”

  “I would never do such a thing, Ms. Simpson… Victoria.”

  My eyes don’t even blink. “I want a job. In your news bureau.”

  His lips tick up into what might barely pass for a smile. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Fine.” We stare at each other for what seems like a beat too long. “What are we talking about here? Is this about you? Your father? Leo?”

  He takes a moment too long to answer, something flashing in his eyes before he speaks. “We’ll talk about it when we get to Montovia. After you’ve signed all the necessary forms and I’m under the protections of my own country’s laws.”

  “I…I need to know if this is worth my time. If this is worth anything at all. I mean, you’re not telling me anything—you’re asking me to take you at your word there’s even a story here—”