by Jessica Ashe
“But if I become a prince, he’ll go ahead and leak the photos?”
I nodded. “There’s a simple solution to all this.”
“No,” George said.
“You don’t even know what I’m going to say yet.”
“Yes I do. You’re going to propose we get divorced now, and then I become a prince without you by my side.”
“The photos won’t mean a thing if I’m not your wife,” I explained.
“And being a prince won’t mean anything unless you’re my princess.”
This time I couldn’t stop myself from crying. George hugged me tightly as my tears fell and were soaked up by his shirt. He was right; I’d messed everything up. Not just for him as a prince, but for us as a royal family.
If I’d never sent those photos…. I knew I hadn’t done anything wrong, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t regret it.
“I’m going to sort this mess out,” George whispered in my ear. “I promise.”
“You should leave it alone,” I sobbed.
“I can’t,” he replied. “I’m not letting him do this to you.”
It was impossible to be worried while in George’s arms. He gave off the scent of a man who fixed problems, and I knew he’d fix this one as well.
I just worried how he would fix it.
Chapter Twenty-Six
George
I had to look at the photos. I didn’t want to—I really didn’t want to—but I needed to know what we were dealing with.
It wasn’t good.
Sophia certainly hadn’t been shy in front of the camera. I couldn’t pretend not to have received a few messages like this myself in the past, but on most of them you could only see one body part—not the face.
Stan had an entire collection of pictures and videos that left no doubt as to who the woman was.
I’d promised Sophia I’d deal with it, but there was one tiny problem with that. I had no idea how. I sent an email threatening him with legal action, but he just sent another back pointing out that by the time the case had gone through the courts it would be too late.
They might not be illegal anyway. I mean, they were his photos, so he could probably do what he wanted with them.
My preferred option was to get on the next flight to California and kick seven shades of shit out of him, but that wasn’t realistic. My calendar had already been filled up with charity events, and the palace was working on scheduling an interview for me where I could announce my intention to be a prince. I barely had time to piss, let alone fly to the US.
Sophia had described Stan as sensible, in addition to being a slimy piece of shit. He wouldn’t want to release the photos if he didn’t have to. They wouldn’t do him any favors with the ladies, and there were some less than flattering video clips showing him making faces that would forever haunt my dreams.
What had Sophia seen in this guy? How could a woman as perfect as her, be with a guy like this? All I knew was that I had to get her out of this mess; even if it meant paying him off.
I called Harry. I paid him to make me look good, and get me out of difficult situations. He knew me well enough to expect a sex scandal at some point, so a blackmail attempt wouldn’t be completely unexpected.
“How can I help, George?” Harry said, as he answered the phone.
“I need to know a bit about the royal finances.”
“Okay, I’ve been looking into that.” I bet he had—probably wanted to know how much he’d get paid if he worked for me. “The short version is that you aren’t going to starve and you’ll always have a roof over your head.”
“Yeah, I kind of gathered that. What about general spending? Do I get given access to a huge bank account?”
“It doesn’t really work like that I’m afraid. All the money comes from the taxpayer—except for any funds you have from outside the family—so spending is closely monitored.”
“I thought the family had an annual budget of millions of pounds.”
“They do, but most of that goes on security. They aren’t living the high-life for the most part I’m afraid.”
Bugger me. This was not good news. Or was it? Maybe I could work this to my advantage.
“Just to be clear,” I said, “there’s no way I could get access to about six hundred thousand pounds without jumping through quite a few hoops?”
“Good lord, no. Not unless it was for housing or security. Why all the questions? Is there something I should know about?”
“No, everything’s fine. Do you have the big interview scheduled yet?”
“It should be in three days’ time,” Harry replied. “I’m just waiting for final confirmation, and then I’ll let you know.”
“Okay, do me a favor, would you? Start spreading things in the media about how I’m considering becoming a prince to do my civic duty, even though it will mean forgoing family wealth, blah blah blah. I want the public to know that there is no money in it for me.”
“That’s fine. It’s not like I’d be lying.”
“Thanks, Harry.”
If I became a prince, I couldn’t pay Stan’s bloody ransom demand anyway. I’d always known being a royal meant a lack of freedom, so it’s not like I was surprised. It didn’t matter to me. As long as I could look after Sophia and give her the life she deserved it wouldn’t be a problem. I could inherit the money, give Tabitha what she needed, and then give the rest to Sophia. Simple. Then I’d be a prince and she would be a princess.
Or she’d leave.
She’d never promised to spend her life with me, and our vows wouldn’t mean much given the circumstances. There was nothing stopping her from getting on the first plane back to America. She wouldn’t want to hang around with the threat of those photos over her head like a sword. She’d want to leave the limelight for good, unless… unless I ended this for good.
I emailed Stan again.
I cannot and will not pay the ransom. You might think princes swim in pools of money, but that isn’t the case. I won’t even have control over my own bank account. Google it if you don’t believe me.
That might have been a slight exaggeration, but who cared.
Look up the royal finances if you want a better idea of how it works. The only money I can spend is the money I have already. I’m happy to make a cheque out to you for £25.60 if you like.
I should have stopped and sent the email then, but I couldn’t help myself.
I don’t know what Sophia saw in you, but she’s under my protection now. Anyone who threatens to hurt her will have to get through me first. If I see you so much as wish her a happy birthday on her Facebook page, I will decide to make a little royal visit to California for a personal introduction. You know the best thing about overseas visits? Diplomatic immunity. I can’t be prosecuted for anything that happens to you. Think about that.
Did princes get diplomatic immunity? Probably not. Hopefully he wouldn’t google that as well.
You had your chance with her and you blew it. Now stay out of her life.
I hit the send button then sent a text to Sophia.
I’ve dealt with it. You won’t be hearing from Stan again.
Thank you, came the reply.
I typed out three words, but hesitated before sending the reply. I’d wanted to say them for ages, but it wasn’t right to do it over a text.
I’d tell her the next time I saw her. She needed to know how I felt. Nothing about this marriage felt fake anymore, and that scared the shit out of me.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Sophia
I arrived at the lecture hall ten minutes early and was one of the first to take my seat. That way I wouldn’t have to deal with everyone staring at me and gossiping as I walked in.
My usual seat was still available; it was the perfect spot for me. About one third of the way up, so I was close enough to see and hear everything clearly while not being so close that I could practically count the professor’s nose hairs. The back rows had always been a no-go
zone. I’d never been popular enough to sit at the back when I was younger, and that attitude had kind of stuck with me.
I opened my books, and kept my head down as everyone else walked in. I didn’t see the stares, but I could feel them. People were looking at me, and there was far more talk than normal for a class that started at nine in the morning.
Fortunately, if there was one group of people that didn’t give a shit about celebrity gossip, it was history professors.
“Settle down, everyone,” Professor Jackson yelled out. He stubbornly refused to use a microphone during class, but he seemed to enjoy the shouting. Professors like Jackson were one of the reasons I had come to England to study. He looked a bit like a stuffy Harvard professor with the elbow patches and mismatched pants and jacket, but the messy hair and erratic way of talking gave him that ‘Hogwarts professor’ vibe that only a non-native could really appreciate. The locals all just took it for granted.
“I hope you all used the break constructively,” Professor Jackson began. “At the very least, I hope you made it through the assigned reading.” That much I had done at least. It had taken me three times as long as it should have thanks to the distraction that was George and his penis. “I’ve started receiving some of your essays, but there are many more still due. Make sure you have them to me by the end of the week. Now we’re going to move on to the period following the execution of Charles I.”
It felt so good to be back to some degree of normality. I still couldn’t hear the word “prince” without thinking of George, but fortunately that word didn’t come up too often. It would in future classes, and I’d have to deal with it, but for now I was safe.
Professor Jackson had steadfastly refused to let laptops into the classroom, so we all scribbled notes on paper as he spoke. I preferred writing by hand anyway—you retained more information that way.
I’d always enjoyed these classes, but I didn’t want to just enjoy them any longer. I wanted to ace them. Hell, I needed to ace them. There was no way my grades would stay private. They’d be leaked so quickly The Sun would probably know them before I did. I couldn’t just coast along and try to get a 2:1, but settle for a 2:2. I had to aim for a first class degree.
Mind you, even if I did well, people would just assume the grade had been bought and paid for. I was in a no-win situation. Do well and no one would believe I’d earned it. Do badly and people would think I was stupid. Not to mention the added embarrassment of failing a class that centered on the English royal family. The irony would cause no end of amusement.
Fifteen minutes into the class, my eyelids started to feel heavy, and my head slumped forward, before snapping back as I fought off sleep. I’d packed a thermos of coffee, but I didn’t usually have to dip into that until around eleven. Not today.
I poured a cup, and felt awake before even taking a sip. I wasn’t the only one struggling to stay with it. My usually attentive classmates looked bored and sleepy. Heads were resting in hands, or slumped so low to the desk it was hard to tell if they were reading from the textbook of just taking a nap.
Professor Jackson deserved an attentive audience, but he was the one who insisted on teaching the first class of the morning. Rumor had it, he actually wanted the class to start at seven in the morning, so that his day would be completely finished by lunch and he could focus on his research. The university had vetoed that one; even clever students wanted to go and get drunk once in awhile.
Halfway through the lecture, something changed. There was movement and rustling behind me as people tried to subtly take phones out of pockets and bags. Professor Jackson had banned all use of phones, but those sat behind me obviously figured they could get away with it.
Once a few people had pulled out their phones, the rest of the room followed their lead. Only myself and those in front of me continued to pay any attention to the lecture. University was cheaper in England, but you still had to pay for it. I never ceased to be amazed at how little people cared about learning after spending thousands on their education.
Professor Jackson tried to carry on talking, but he couldn’t ignore the commotion that was spreading throughout the room. Students weren’t just using their phones; they were giggling and whispering excitedly.
I was about ready to turn to the girl behind me and ask what all the fuss was about when Ellie burst into the room loudly and out-of-breath.
“Sorry,” she muttered to a bemused looking Professor Jackson. “I need to speak to Sophia. Sophia Whittemore. It’s an emergency.”
“Fine,” Professor Jackson said, holding his hands up in defeat. “Leave quickly and quietly please, Mrs. Whittemore.”
I grabbed my books and shoved them into my bag as I hurriedly left the room. Ellie looked panicked, and for a girl as calm as her, that had me worried.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, the second we were outside. “Has something happened to George?”
“No, George is fine,” she replied. Ellie walked so quickly I had a job to keep up with her. “I’ll explain back at my dorm.”
We rushed back to Ellie’s room which was only a few minutes away. Students stared at us as we walked, and I could swear I saw a few of them smile. I’d gotten plenty of looks from the public recently, but there was something unnerving about those smiles.
Ellie shut the door behind us the second we were in her room. I felt like we had just escaped a pack of zombies, and half expected her to barricade the door and push all the furniture in front of it.
“What the hell is going on, Ellie? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I wish that was all I’d seen.” She opened up a message on her phone and passed it to me. “This email is doing the rounds on the university server. I haven’t seen any news stories on it yet, but it’s only a matter of time.”
The email had a subject line of “Her Royal Highness’ royal tits.”
Oh fuck. Please no. Please. Anything but this.
There was no text to the emails, just some photo attachments. I opened the first one, but didn’t need to open any more.
“I’m so sorry,” Ellie said, wrapping her arm around me.
“Me too,” I replied. “About everything.”
The dream was over. There was no way I could be a princess now. I didn’t know if I wanted to be.
My own phone rang. No need to guess who it was. I hit the decline button on George’s call.
“You should speak to him,” Ellie said. “He might be able to help.”
“He promised me he’d sorted it. Just last night he said this wouldn’t be a problem any more. Now look what’s happened.”
“I’m sure he tried.”
“He should have tried harder.”
I probably wasn’t really mad at George, but he’d have to bear the brunt of my anger for the time being. He was a fucking prince; he should have been able to fix this. Instead, here I was, trapped in my friend’s room, while pictures of my breasts circulated the university, and soon the country. Then the world.
This was only the beginning. There were plenty more photos. Stan had other photos he could release if he wanted to. And then there were the video clips.
The embarrassment wouldn’t be ending any time soon.
After running from my own wedding, I hid from the world until the worst of it had blown over. How long would that take this time?
I might never see the light of day again.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
George
Sophia wasn’t returning my calls, but Ellie kept me up-to-date. The two of them were holed-up in Ellie’s apartment while the media ran the story continuously.
At least most of them had the sense not to show the pictures, although anyone who could use a keyboard and a search engine could find them online easily enough. The palace had engaged a small army of solicitors to shut down any site hosting the images, but they were just playing whack-a-mole and could barely keep up.
The simple fact was, anyone who wanted to look at an imag
e of my wife’s breasts could now do so. That horrified me, so I couldn’t begin to imagine how Sophia felt.
She’d blame me, and she had every right to. I’d promised to solve the problem. I’d told her it had been fixed. She’d trusted me, and I’d failed her.
The pictures weren’t even the end of the problem. Stan had sold his story to some hack “news” website, and according to him, Sophia had been a serial cheat who left him at the altar and broke his heart.
He’d made ten, maybe twenty, thousand—tops—from selling the story and pictures. How could he destroy someone’s life for so little?
“What are our options?” I asked Harry. “There has to be something we can do.”
“It’s all damage control from here on out. You need to control the narrative. Get the story out there that Stan is the wrong-doer and Sophia is innocent in all this.”
“That should be easy enough,” I replied. “It’s the truth after all.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m fucking sure. He cheated on her with her best friend. Surely the public will take her word over his?”
“She doesn’t look great right now.”
“Because she took a few naked photos on her mobile phone with an ex? Fucking hell. He’s the one that leaked them—he’s the one who shouldn’t have any credibility.”
“I agree,” Harry said. “I’m just telling you what the public is thinking right now. She’s not just a random actress or pop star, George. She’s going to be a princess. She might even be the Queen one day. People get funny about this kind of thing.”
“Jesus Christ,” I yelled as I slammed my palm against the wall in frustration. “I’m going to kill him. I’m seriously going to fucking kill him.”
“I wouldn’t recommend it, sir,” Harry replied dryly.