Prince Billionaire: A Royal Romance

by B. B. Hamel

  20

  Bran

  Of course, I can’t go anywhere in the damn castle without three guards following me at all times, which is annoying. I flex my injured hand a little bit and take a deep breath, testing my bruised ribs, but I’m otherwise totally fine.

  I stop outside of my father’s chambers and glance back at the guards. “Wait out here,” I say, though they’d never dare follow me into the King’s private quarters. They take up positions near the door as I knock and enter.

  My father has a network of rooms all to himself. Well, that’s not exactly true. It’s more of an office space, a place for his closest advisors and personal staff to work, plus a couple of rooms just for himself. He sleeps here sometimes, but mostly he works here.

  I nod at a few people I know. My father’s personal secretary meets me as I head down the hall. The rooms on either side are glass enclosed conference spaces and another larger room with several semi-open cubicles. It looks more like a modern office space than like a set of personal rooms.

  “How are you, Prince Branimir?” his secretary, Dasha, asks. She’s an older woman, maybe a couple years older than the King himself.

  “I’m doing fine,” I say.

  She frowns at the bandages. “I heard about what happened. I know Aleks will make sure somebody is held responsible.”

  “I’m sure he will,” I say. “Is my father in his office?”

  She nods. “He’s supposed to have a call, but he’s postponing it.”

  “How kind of him,” I say dryly.

  She smiles and shrugs. “You know your father. Work never stops, even when your loved ones are nearly assassinated.”

  I laugh at that despite myself. We reach the end of the hall. Dasha nods and disappears through a side door into her own little office as I knock on my father’s big, ornate wooden door. I hear him call out so I push it open and enter his office.

  It looks totally unchanged since the last time I saw it. His space is large, though not enormous. It’s dominated by a big desk in the center and filing cabinets around the walls. Paintings and statues are the only decorations, plus some old family photos.

  “Branimir,” father says. He walks around his desk and hugs me. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

  “All thanks to the guards,” I say. “They responded fast, even late at night.”

  He grunts and nods. “We’ve already commended the men that responded.”

  He goes back around his desk and I sit down in a chair in front of him. He reaches into the top drawer and pulls out a little bottle of local whisky and gives me a sly look.

  “Don’t normally drink this early, but hell, it’s a special occasion,” he says. “It’s not every day your son survives an assassination attempt.”

  “Thanks,” I say and accept the drink.

  “To your health,” he says. We cheers and drink.

  “I’m still not sure why he came after me,” I say as my father refills the glasses.

  “I suspect I know,” he says.

  I raise an eyebrow. “And why’s that?”

  “They can’t get me. Tried a few times already.”

  That makes me pause. “A few times?” I ask.

  “Four, to be honest,” he says. “First time was just a guy with a gun. He missed. Second time they tried to poison my food, but one of the poor busboys ate some before it got to me. Third time they tried to bomb our caravan as we traveled across the countryside. And the most recent time, they tried to stab me in my sleep. Almost got me, actually. Had to strangle the fucker myself.”

  I stare at him, totally shocked. “You were almost killed four times and you never told me?”

  He waves his hand like he’s dismissing a crazy claim. “Why worry you?”

  “Jesus, Dad. You had to strangle a guy.”

  “Not the first man I’ve strangled.” He gives me a grin.

  “Stop,” I say. “For fuck’s sake. How have things gotten so bad?”

  “You’ve been away,” he says softly, a little sadness creeping into his voice. “Things haven’t been great here in Bellestan.”

  “But the economy is growing. Jobs are plentiful and available. I’ve been investing millions into building up the infrastructure. I thought things were improving.”

  “The numbers are,” Dad says. “But people don’t see the numbers. They mostly see the bad things, because assholes can use the bad things to manipulate them.”

  “Perko,” I say.

  “And men like him.” Dad nods and sips his drink. “They’ve been telling people that things are worse and worse in Bellestan for years, basically ever since you left. It’s not true, but if you say it enough times, people start to believe it. Nobody can see the big picture because they’re all blinded by their own fears.”

  “So why kill me?” I ask him.

  “For the same reason I need you.” Dad knocks back his drink and sighs. “You represent the truth of Bellestan, son. The world is changing, and Bellestan needs to change with it. Your company is a symbol of that change.”

  “If they kill me, they think they can get rid of that?”

  “Maybe,” Dad says, shrugging. “I don’t know what Perko and his bastards are thinking, but I suspect it’s something along those lines. This is a war of information and beliefs as much as anything else, son.”

  I frown down at my drink and sip it. I feel so angry at everything right now. I’m angry at Perko and his cronies for trying to kill me, but I’m also angry with people for believing him.

  I don’t understand why people are seduced by negativity so easily. Things are good in Bellestan, and yet men like Perko can sell their little messages of fear and hate and anger so easily. People buy into it because they think Perko is the only person that can solve the fake problems Perko makes up. They can’t see that the world is slowly trending better, that things are improving. Their lives are easier and healthier, all because of the royalty spending money and investing in infrastructure and technology. The world is changing, and people are afraid of change.

  But we have to keep going forward. The world isn’t all bad. I can’t let men like Perko win, the lying bastards. I believe in the people of Bellestan. I believe they’re smart and hardworking and good at heart, they’re just being seduced by a charismatic asshole.

  “They’re coming for us, Bran,” Dad says.

  “I know they are. What do we do?”

  “Keep being yourself,” he says, smiling. “Don’t be afraid. Keep to your schedule, do your events. Tell people the truth. Make them hope and believe again.”

  “And what if I can’t?”

  Dad shrugs. “Who knows? Maybe we’ll just throw Perko into jail and cut off his coup before it can really get moving.”

  I laugh gently and stand. “I don’t think that’ll work too well.”

  “Oh, what, the royalty taking legal matters into its own hands and acting like a tyrant wouldn’t play out too well? I suppose not. I miss the good old days.”

  “I don’t.” I grin at him and turn toward the door.

  “Branimir.”

  I pause and turn back to him.

  “Be careful,” he says seriously. “Take every precaution possible. And keep that pretty girl of yours safe.”

  “I will, father,” I say.

  “Be strong. We’ll win.”

  “We always do,” I say.

  He nods and I turn away. I leave his office and head back through his chambers toward the main hall.

  I don’t know how I feel after that conversation. I hoped that he’d make me feel better, but instead I feel more conflicted than before. I’m positive that what I’m doing is right and that I need to keep going no matter what, but I’m more worried about Mila.

  My father was attacked four times. That’s insane to me. I can’t believe I didn’t know about it. I can’t believe that Perko is still walking around free, even attending events in the castle bunker. It’s disgusting and horrifying to me. And here I am, thinking about b
ringing Mila into all this.

  I don’t know what to do. I want her here and she wants to be here but it’s just so dangerous now. I can see it more clearly than ever. I want her and need her, but I don’t want her to get hurt. I don’t think she should sacrifice anything for this country, the country she barely even knows.

  Aleks meets me out in the hallway. The guards hang back as he walks back toward my room.

  “I want to talk to you about something,” he says, speaking low.

  “What’s wrong now?” I ask. “Is Mila okay?”

  “She’s fine,” he says. “But I do want to talk about her.”

  I hesitate. “What is it?”

  “You’re not going to like this, Bran. But hear me out. I’m sick of sitting back and waiting for things to happen.”

  I glance at him, eyebrow raised. We get into the elevator and head back toward my floor. “Did you know that my father was attacked four times?” I ask.

  “Of course,” he says. “I was there every time. That’s part of what I’m talking about.”

  “Have you made arrests?”

  “In each case,” he confirms. “But this group, it’s large and it’s well funded. We suspect Perko is a part of it, but we have no solid proof, not yet at least. We need something if we’re going to really get him.”

  “How don’t we have any proof?” I ask, a little mystified.

  “He’s good at covering his tracks,” Aleks says. “We know he’s the leader, but we need real proof. That’s just how things work here.”

  I sigh. “I know, I understand. I’m just angry.”

  “I am too, Bran. That’s why I’m bringing this up.” Aleks pauses then pushes forward as we walk out of the elevator, getting closer to my room. “I want to use Mila.”

  I look at him. “What?”

  “She’s an outsider,” Aleks says. “And I think Perko likes her. You should have seen the way he spoke with her. I think he believes he can turn her against you since she’s just a stupid American outsider.”

  I can’t believe Aleks is even saying this. “Are you going where I think you are?” I say to him, stopping and facing him.

  He frowns at me and glances down. “Just ask her. If she speaks with Perko, she might be able to record him saying something we can use.”

  “Aleks,” I say forcefully. “You motherfucker. Listen to me. Mila is not to be used as bait.”

  He meets my gaze. “I knew you’d react this way. I wouldn’t put her in danger,” he says. “I’d never put her in danger.”

  “Don’t ever bring this up again,” I say, practically a growl. I want to tear his fucking head off. “Do you understand?”

  He watches me for a moment before bowing his head. “Yes, my Prince,” he says.

  “She’s not fucking bait.” I pause before going back to the room.

  I’m so fucking angry I can barely breathe. I can’t believe Aleks would suggest that. He must be the dumbest motherfucker in the entire world. He knows I don’t want Mila anywhere near danger and yet he just suggested that we throw her right into the lion’s den.

  I won’t do it. I won’t use her that way. It’s just not happening.

  We’re going to keep going together. We’ll keep up our appointments and try and turn the tide of this stupid war of hearts. Mila and I will convince the country that we’re going to help them win again, that we’ve been winning all along. We’ll show them that fear can’t win in the long run. We’ll save them.

  But she won’t be bait. She’s my Princess. I’ll never use her that way.

  I head into the room and try to forget that conversation with Aleks.

  21

  Mila

  After everything that happened with Bran and the assassination attempt, I thought things might slow down. Instead, the next week is a blur of activity.

  It’s a media blitz unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before, which isn’t saying much, but still. We go on local radio shows, television morning shows, and do a little event every night. Bran continually talks up the monarchy, our relationship, and all the investing and infrastructure development he has planned through his new company. He’s continually talking about how much better life is in Bellestan every single appearance he makes, and he backs everything up with charts and graphs.

  We have basically no alone time. We’re no longer staying in the castle bunker, instead roaming the beautiful countryside. I wish I had more time to explore, but every single second is taken up by the media blitz or by planning and strategizing with Bran’s public relations team.

  Not to mention there’s the constant security risk. We’re traveling in what’s basically a tank and we’re staying surrounded by guards at all time. I’m pretty much never alone, and Bran is literally never alone. Which means I’m never alone with Bran, and that’s hard.

  Because I want to be alone with him very, very badly.

  We’ve been able to sneak a kiss here and there, but never anything more. He’s constantly in demand by his staff, and he’s working long hours. For my part, I’m learning a little Bellestanian, at least enough to say some basic stock phrases, and I’m doing as many interviews as I can. At first, it was really difficult and I was constantly stressed, but I quickly got used to it. People are mainly nice to me and don’t press me with hard questions since I don’t speak their language and they typically don’t speak English well enough to push. I don’t have to worry about getting caught in a lie, because even if I did, I could just claim some kind of language barrier and misunderstanding.

  You’d think it would be easy, riding around and doing interviews, but it’s exhausting. I didn’t think I could be so tired, and yet I’m finding out just how tired I really can be every day. We get up at five in the morning to get on the early talk radio shows and early news shows and we get to bed around midnight at least after long planning and strategy sessions.

  Despite all this, Bran is shining. He’s growing and thriving, and he looks damn good on TV, I have to admit. He’s a natural at this apparently, though I can tell that he hates it. Giving interviews was never his things back in the States, but out here, he’s a celebrity and a part of the monarchy. People want to hear from him, and he’s giving them as much of him as he possibly can.

  I don’t know how long he can keep this pace up. One week passes with no sign of slowing down, and I’m just doing my best to keep up. Bran takes security very seriously, and we never go anywhere without at least two guards to protect us, and everything is constantly swept for poison and explosives.

  Which is how I find myself early one morning around four-thirty, the only second I can find to work out these days, jogging on a treadmill and watching bad Bellestanian political TV. They have a CNN-equivalent, except apparently it’s a radical news channel that leans toward the opposition.

  And they’re doing a story on Bran himself.

  I can’t help but pay attention.

  At first, it seems like any other story on Bran. He’s been in the news a lot lately, which is the whole point of this trip. Nothing seems out of the ordinary as I start to break a slight sweat. I’ve picked up some Bellestanian, though, and what they’re saying doesn’t sound like the normal PR stuff.

  They keep saying this one word, “moshennich,” over and over. It’s not a word that I’ve heard before, and normally that wouldn’t bother me. But it’s the way the host keeps saying it, like he’s spitting out fire. Suddenly, there’s a picture of me on the screen at our last PR stop at some bookstore in the last town. I get a strange feeling as I look over at the guard that’s supposed to be watching me.

  “Markus,” I say to him. “Can you translate this for me?”

  He steps closer to me. “Ah, uh, my Princess, I cannot.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. I’m getting sick of them calling me their Princess, since I’m not married to Bran and therefore not a Princess, but I let it slide. They’re not going to stop that anytime soon.

  “Do you not speak the language?”
I ask him.

  “It’s just, ah, this is a very bad show,” he says, looking worried. I swear, he’s starting to sweat more than I am.

  I slow the treadmill down to a brisk walk. “Markus,” I say sternly. “Please, I want to know what they’re saying.”

  He frowns and looks at the ground. “It’s an ugly show, Princess. Maybe we can watch something else?”

  “Markus.” I glare at him.

  “Very well.” He clears his throat. I almost feel sorry for him, since clearly whatever they’re saying isn’t very nice. “The man is saying that Prince Bran is a liar and a cheat. He is saying that Bran cannot help but cheat at every stop we make on our tour, sometimes twice in a day, and they are calling you a stupid American whore.”

  I blink at him, totally surprised. “What do you mean by ‘cheat’?” I ask him.

  He sighs. “Sex with other women, my Princess. I’m sorry, it is a nasty show, you should not be watching it.”

  “Sex with other women?” I look back at the screen and suddenly there’s an image, a grainy black and white shot, of two people in a bed. “What is that?” I ask Markus.

  “They say it’s a photograph of the Prince with a prostitute,” he says. “They are lying, Princess. This show, it has very bad reputation in Bellestan, only crazies pay attention to it.”

  I stare at the picture and ignore Markus. The more I look at the picture, the more I think I can see Bran in that man. But I can’t imagine when he’d have time to sleep with anyone else. In fact, we haven’t even had time to sleep together, and we’re staying in the same room. In the same bed, in fact. We can’t exactly pretend to do otherwise while we’re traveling, and so I made that little concession. But we’ve both been too exhausted, and I’ve actually made an effort to try and keep our relationship professional, at least while we’re on the road.

  Maybe that’s a mistake. Maybe Bran needs to be touched and loved in that way, and I’m screwing up by not giving that to him. I don’t know if that’s really him in those pictures, but I suddenly have to talk to him.