Dirty Scandal

by Amelia Wilde

  We both favored a simpler style, I think to myself. If the news Phillip shared with me is right, then Marcus doesn’t favor anything anymore.

  There are people milling about in the hallway outside Marcus’s rooms, standing with bowed heads, whispering to each other.

  They must have gotten wrong information as well, or maybe they’ve heard instead that Marcus is sick, he is gravely ill, they have discovered cancer, perhaps. It’s bad news, yes, but it can’t be the news that Phillip gave me.

  Yes, that must be it. Marcus is sick, or hurt, but not dead.

  Phillip wouldn’t lie to me.

  But I can’t believe him.

  The people in the hallway turn to face me when they hear my footsteps approaching. Their eyes are filled with pity, filled with sorrow. It’s not me they should feel sorry for. They should be feeling sorry for Marcus, who may be facing a terrible disease. I should reassure them. I try to give them a weak smile, but the corners of my mouth feel weighted down.

  “It’ll be all right,” I say to the eight or so people hovering in the hallway. I’m sure as word gets out about Marcus’s illness, there will be even more people standing vigil. People may even gather outside the palace gates to support Marcus.

  When my mother died, we were not yet living in the palace. When my mother died, people did not come to the palace gates. They came to our front door and brought food, and I watched all the trays piling up on the countertops, watched bouquet after bouquet of flowers being delivered, and wondered why people sent food and flowers when food and flowers would never bring her back.

  The citizens of Saintland might send food to the king in his time of need, but I doubt it would be allowed to our rooms. Security wouldn’t allow it—the testing alone would take far too much time.

  There will be no need for food or flowers.

  Marcus will get through this.

  We will all get through this.

  We will all put our petty differences aside and get through this.

  I realize I haven’t moved since arriving in front of Marcus’s door. I’m standing in the same place in the hallway, hands hanging limply at my sides, when a woman approaches and puts her hand on my arm. Her face looks vaguely familiar. Perhaps she’s someone from my father’s staff, maybe, or someone who works in the palace? It’s a large household.

  “Your highness,” she says, her voice low and tremulous, “we are all so very, very sorry to hear that—.”

  “Oh, thank you,” I say, patting at her hand awkwardly. “Thank you for saying that. I’ll share your support with my brother. If you’ll excuse me—.” I incline my head toward the closed door leading to his rooms.

  The woman—is it Shondra? Yes, that sounds right—steps back from me. She presses her lips together and looks at me, tears building up in the corners of her eyes. “Of course, your highness. Of course.”

  Pulling the door open takes every ounce of my effort, but I need to get in his room, get through the door, so I can finally see the truth for myself.

  The scene inside Marcus’s rooms causes my heart to sink right down to my toes.

  In the living area, three doctors are huddled together, heads down, speaking to one another in soft voices. The slump of their shoulders tells me this is either bad news or the worst news imaginable. If there was hope, they would be rushing back and forth with a sense of purpose. Their voices would boldly ring through the rooms.

  I can’t bring myself to look at them as I go past them to Marcus’s bedroom. As far as I know, they don’t notice me either.

  My stomach clenches as I put my hand on the doorknob. When I open the door, I will know for sure if Phillip was telling the truth. If he was, nothing will ever be the same.

  I turn the knob, and the door opens silently. It doesn’t so much as squeak on its hinges.

  I look into the room, and I know.

  My father sits next to Marcus’s bed, his shoulders heaving with sobs. It’s the only sound in the room.

  All the breath goes out of me. I feel sick to my stomach. My legs feel like jelly.

  My brother is lying in his bed, still wearing his pajamas from last night.

  But he is still.

  So still.

  Deadly still.

  He is gone.

  I go to my father’s side.

  He does not look at me.

  I stare at Marcus’s cold, colorless, still face. I notice his closed eyes, the way his chest does not rise.

  He is gone.

  He is dead.

  Phillip told me the truth. He did not have bad information.

  All across Saintland, the news must be breaking. If it’s in the hallway, in the palace, then it’s also in the streets.

  Jessica’s face floats into my mind. I want her to be with me, by my side, right now, even though I don’t know what this means for me, for us. I don’t know what this means at all. It means everything and it means nothing at all.

  How can I be both numb and consumed with aching regret at the same time?

  “Father,” I say, the word a throaty gasp. “I’m so sorry. I’m so—.”

  He does not speak, only reaches out for my hand and grips it tight.

  27

  Jessica

  For two days, I wait in anxious limbo, Claire at my side.

  She hardly leaves my suite, and neither do I. We both take up posts at either end of the sofa, watching the constant news coverage about Prince Marcus’s death. The story runs ad nauseum on Saintland’s news channel and is even covered by the networks in neighboring countries. It turns out that Saintland is a bigger player in European politics than I realized.

  Not that I knew much about European politics before coming to Saintland.

  Not that I know anything about them now.

  But the news anchors all have their opinions, and again and again they discuss the only details that have so far been released to the Press.

  The Crown Prince Marcus Henry Caldwell was found dead in his rooms at Sainthall Palace.

  No foul play is suspected.

  Prince Marcus was discovered at about 7:30 a.m. by James Hamilton, his head personal assistant.

  He was unresponsive when first responders arrived.

  Autopsy results have not yet been released.

  Time seems to drag while I wait for word from Alec. He sends me two text messages, both are apologies for not being able to get away, unable to get back to me, and each time I assure him that he is exactly where he needs to be.

  Unease settles in the pit of my stomach, and it stays there.

  I’m useless.

  It’s hard to comprehend the gravity of the situation, not being from Saintland, but I watch Claire’s reaction to each piece of news as it’s reported. I want to know how the country is reacting. Claire hides nothing, shaking her head, sighing, and putting her hand over her mouth as tidbits dribble out from behind the palace walls.

  She watches with rapt attention on the second afternoon when it’s announced that plans are underway to conduct a ceremony naming Alec as the next crown prince of Saintland.

  “What does that mean?” I ask her, watching the news anchor’s mouth move up and down as she summarizes the news. I’d assumed all this time that “crown prince” was simply a glorified word for “prince.”

  Claire doesn’t shift her eyes away from the screen. “The crown prince is the one directly in line for the throne. It means…” She trails off, chews at her lip, considers. “Prince Alexander is the obvious choice to move into that position, but there is a provision in our constitution for the king to name a successor from outside his family if he has no children…or if he finds the potential heirs unsatisfactory.”

  My mouth hangs open. “So his father could have chosen someone other than Alec—Prince Alexander?”

  “Yes, he could have. It would have been a very unusual decision, but I thought…” Again, her voice falls away.

  “You thought what?” I ask pryingly.

  She finally
looks away from the screen and her eyes search my face.

  “I don’t want to offend you, Jessica. I know you and Prince Alexander have a very—.” She searches for the words. “—Close relationship.”

  I give her a little smile. “We do. I still won’t be offended by whatever it is you were planning to say.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  Claire takes in a deep breath. “I wondered if the fight between the two princes indicated a real divide among the royal family. The king is not known to be a vindictive man, but his eldest son died not long after the Princes Marcus and Alexander nearly came to blows. Those pictures were plastered all over the media. If there’s any truth to the reports circulating about those picture, they were fighting over your presence here.”

  “And you thought the king might choose someone else to be the crown prince because his image in the press was too volatile after that fight with Marcus. If he chose someone else, he could have avoided any further tension with Alec about me.”

  “Yes.”

  Claire bites her lip, looking apologetic. I turn my attention back to the television, thinking.

  “Don’t be sorry about that, Claire. I knew working through their differences wouldn’t be easy.”

  She flutters her hands in the air. “But the king didn’t choose someone else. Prince Alexander is going to be named the crown prince, so they must have been able to work through whatever was wrong, even if it was tension over Prince Alexander’s image.”

  “I guess a shock like this puts things into perspective,” I say.

  She looks down at her tablet, swipes absently through a couple of news items. Her answer comes out as a whisper. “It would have to.”

  On the third morning, Claire and I are watching a movie—there’s only so much news coverage a person can watch—when there’s a knock on the door. Claire answers it, and when I see who is with her when she returns, I leap up from the couch and rush across the room.

  It’s Alec, his eyes red with a slump to his shoulders that I know he works hard not to let show on camera. I throw my arms around his neck, and pulling him towards me, press my face into the side of his neck.

  “I’m so sorry,” I whisper to him, embracing him tightly, the words falling far short of the sorrow I feel for him in my heart.

  Claire discreetly slips out the door, leaving us alone.

  Alec’s grip on me tightens. We stand in silence for a moment, and then he speaks. “It’s awful, Jessica,” he says solemnly.

  I have no answer, so I press my lips tenderly against his cheek and then hug him again.

  “Will you do something for me?” he asks, pulling back and meeting my eyes.

  “Of course,” I say. “Anything.”

  My heart thuds in my chest. I’ve already accepted that he might want to take a break from our relationship while he sorts things out. He might ask me to go back to the United States until things are more stable …or perhaps he’ll even suggest we break up, never to see one another again. At least, I thought I had accepted this could potentially happen, but in the moment it takes him to start speaking again, my throat tightens as my heart braces itself for rejection.

  “Come to the funeral with me,” he murmurs in a soft voice.

  Relief floods through me, and it’s followed by a wave of apprehension. “Oh, Alec, are you sure? If it’s better, I can go back to New York and give you time alone with your family.”

  With one hand he lifts my chin so that I can’t look anywhere but directly into his eyes. “Don’t say that,” he says, his voice tight with grief. “Don’t say that, please. I want you, and no one else, by my side. If you’re not comfortable with it, you can say no, but the last thing I want is for you to leave.”

  “Okay,” I say, the word coming out as a whisper. Swallowing hard, I find my voice again. “Okay. Yes. I’ll go with you. When is it?”

  “In three hours.”

  “So soon? But that’s not enough—.”

  Even as I begin to protest, Alec disengages himself from my arms and heads back to the door. Opening it, he sticks his head out into the hall and gestures to someone down the hall.

  A moment later, my team—Claire in the lead—comes streaming in.

  They pull in racks of black clothes behind them.

  “There’s time,” he says.

  I step back to let them enter the room, my heart beating fast.

  This is going to be the most important event in my life. One of the saddest occasions in Alec’s family’s life will also be my official royal debut.

  28

  Alec

  I could not have imagined a more perfect woman to sit by my side on one of the longest, hardest days of my life.

  Jessica didn’t flinch when I asked her to attend Marcus’s funeral with me. Her first thought was to step back, allowing me time to process everything that’s been happening and regroup with my family, but I couldn’t find the words to tell her that she is as important to me as anyone in my family. There were no words to describe the pain piercing my heart when I pictured her boarding a plane back to the United States, leaving me behind. Alone.

  Besides that, it’s my father and me now.

  I have a few errant uncles and aunts, but my mother only had one sister and my father’s siblings aren’t close to one another and they’re scattered across the world.

  For years, it was the three of us.

  Now it’s the two of us.

  I don’t think I could have faced the funeral—so final, so heart-wrenching—without Jessica by my side.

  Somehow, she doesn’t need me to tell her what to do. She manages to be a constant comfort to me without demanding a thing, even though she’s in a strange country and attending the funeral of a man she never met. As far as she knew, he was a man who wanted her deported.

  Jessica knew instinctively to ignore the photographers covering our entrance when we arrived at the Sainthall Cathedral for the service. She faced looking forward the entire time, her steps measured and confident. Throughout the service, she stayed by my side, her hand tucked into the crook of my elbow.

  Her beauty served as the ideal distraction whenever grief and guilt threatened to overwhelm me. I didn’t even need to offer input into her wardrobe choice for the funeral. Instead, she consulted quietly with Claire and the styling team while I sat on the sofa in her living area, picking at a lunch she’d had sent up for me because she insisted that I needed to eat. She chose to wear a simple black dress with a matching hat that highlighted her best features but didn’t draw any attention away from the funeral.

  The entire time, she was strong and composed, and it made me impressed at her composure and class under duress. She’s American, no doubt about it, but she can fit in here.

  She sits close to me in the back seat of the town car driven by Nate to the burial service, her hand always clasped to mine in comfort, and doesn’t once complain about the heat.

  Her step and facial expression does not falter when we arrive at Sainthall Palace, though I know she must be nervous about meeting my father.

  “It’s going to be all right,” I reassure her as we move toward the palace’s formal entry, the paparazzi flashing their cameras mercilessly from both sides of the paved pathway leading to the door. They’re lined up shoulder to shoulder and they remind me of vultures waiting to swoop in and devour us. My father has approved a few select members of the media to photograph the reception held after the funeral. When I asked him why, he said, “The people of Saintland need to see that we mourn as they do.”

  We are both introduced to the somber crowd as we enter the Great Hall, and it’s then that I see Jessica’s iron veneer crack. She takes in a deep breath and lets it out evenly as she rearranges her expression to form a small smile appropriate for the occasion.

  My father stands at the back of the hall near a display that the palace staff set up to honor my brother. They’ve displayed his official portrait on one easel
and arranged a massive wreath of orchids, the official flowers of the House of Caldwell, on a second easel. The King of Saintland, his back ramrod straight and eyes hollowed with sadness, shakes hand after hand as people come through the receiving line offering condolences. When he sees us approaching, he excuses himself and steps aside to join us.

  “Come with me,” he says quietly, motioning for us to follow him. I guide Jessica, who is still linked to my elbow, as I follow him out of the room.

  My father leads us through a door into the throne room, and then through the next one leading into his council chambers.

  The last time I was here with Marcus, we fought.

  The memory flushes warmly through my chest. It’s agony.

  It must be agony for my father, too, but he doesn’t mention it.

  Instead, he goes farther into the room to stand in front of the desk. Then he turns to face us, extending a hand toward Jessica.

  “Ms. Reeves,” he says, his voice deep and tired. “Please let me apologize for any unpleasantness…any discomfort you might have experienced over the past couple of weeks. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I am Arthur Caldwell, King of Saintland, and Alexander’s father.”

  Jessica shakes her head, waving away his need to apologize, and places her other hand over his in a gesture of sympathy. “I was so very sorry to hear about your son, your majesty.” Someone must have coached her how to greet him.

  My father bows his head over their clasped hands, and when he looks up his eyes are shining. “It was very sudden. Very sudden. But I’m pleased that Alexander has someone to stand by his side.”

  Jessica smiles a little, her cheeks turning pink.

  “However, Ms. Reeves, I wanted to speak with you.”