Hell, I stopped smoking completely after that. Nothing's worth risking another week at rehab in the lowlands. Sure, the scenery is gorgeous, but it doesn't make up for the distinct shortage of women, booze, and bright, shiny lights.
All the things engraved on my heart and soul.
It's a short hop to through the capital to our royal palace. The light nighttime traffic clears the streets when they see my motorcade coming. Outside, I watch the people sitting off to the side in their cars, a few stragglers waiting on the streets.
They wave. They put their hands over their hearts. Every so often, they shoot me the middle finger.
This division in the kingdom is what it's all about, what's gotten Her Majesty so nervous.
Grandmom wants me to shape up before she croaks, and the people are looking at King Silas. We both know Prince Hung will be done for then, but his memory will live on.
They'll be forced to decide whether they want me wearing the crown, or if they're going to use their votes to abolish centuries of wealth, guts, and glory.
“Right this way, Your Highness.” A man opens the door for me.
I step out, moving quickly through the line of guards to the back entrance. The lights in the palace are always so subdued; soft, gold, and otherworldly. It smells like a damned museum, and the décor matches one, too.
Whether I'm a lock for the throne one day or not, I can't imagine living here again. I'm walking swiftly down the long hallway, portraits of our ancestors towering down at me, glaring.
I can recognize my face in some of theirs. We all share the same vibrant blue eyes. I won't be caught dead in their furry robes and heavy gold jewelry, outside formal ceremonies, but it never fails to creep me out how easily I'd look exactly like my ancestors with just a change in wardrobe.
Victor leads me to the big three hundred year old door with palace scenery hand carved into it, stopping in front of it. Great.
It's the royal reception hall, a place she must've chosen to really make her damned point. It takes two men just to open the heavy door, revealing the chandelier, the amber and gold walls, and the huge fireplace inside.
The whole atmosphere takes on a different quality. Like it's somehow absorbed a piece of the royalty, billionaires, and Presidents who have stepped inside it across the centuries. Creaking, yawning, and ominous, the big doors smack the walls when they finally come to rest.
There, on her burgundy chair in the center, sits Her Majesty. Grandmom looks like a living ornament, holding up her monocle with one white gloved hand, her evening crown perched in her thick white wig.
“Come in,” she says simply, the only person left alive who can take that commanding tone with me.
I step inside and wait for the doors to close, taking the leather chair she motions to, perfectly positioned several feet away from her.
“How are you this evening, Your Majesty?” I ask, pretending I give a shit.
“Unwell. Have you seen what's been going through the news today?” She knows I have, but it's not really a question.
It's an early warning before her claws really come out and she tears into me for fucking up the throne's reputation yet again.
Her valet, Patricia, walks up like it's all been rehearsed, and gently pushes a tabloid into the Queen's hand. “Special issue, Your Majesty.”
“Swept off her feet! Shocking new conquest for Prince Silas after American girl falls into his arms?” Hearing her reading the headline sounds...ridiculous.
Christ. I want to bust out laughing, but thinking about the Warwick girl helps me hold it in. The tabloid shows my hand on her ass – that perfect ass – the girl's chocolate eyes beaming into mine like she can't wait to taste my lips.
“Come on, we both know what happened,” I say, straightening up in my seat, hoping like hell I can stop thinking about that precious ass so I won't have to hide an erection from my royal grandmother. “It'll burn itself out like it always does. You know how these things work, Your Majesty. They'll be onto something else next week.”
“I only know one thing,” she says sternly, giving me that sour look I know so well, lowering her monocle. “This – this, Silas – has got to stop.”
Her white gloved hand crumples the tabloid in half and slaps it against her knee. It barely makes a sound against the thick, flowing fabric she wears.
“I'm all over it. Victor told me this morning that they're being treated at the royal hospital. I ordered the very best for them. Way more than that jackass really deserves after his line of questioning.”
Jackass? Shit.
I know I've slipped up in her presence – again – but I act like it doesn't faze me. Honestly, why the hell should it?
A little course language is the least of grandmom's worries, judging by the anger tugging at the lines on her face, a look that could give the Medusa a run for her snakes.
“You, Prince, are not on top of anything. Nothing that truly matters, anyway,” she says, glaring. “Perhaps you're on top of your drinks, your parties, your greedy little tarts who don't have a drop of royal blood in their veins. Let me be perfectly clear, grandson – I've had it with the drama.”
Her Majesty stands up, folds her arms, and twists that invisible dagger she just put through my guts deep. I'm taken aback. She's been cold and pissed off before, but never like this.
This isn't grandmom talking to me. This is Queen Marina Bearington the Fifth, preserver of the kingdom, holder of billions in wealth and millions of hearts.
“What are you saying? You don't think I'm sick to death of this shit myself?” I'm shaking my head. “I don't understand, Your Majesty. We've seen these storms a hundred times, and this is just one more. We'll wait for it to blow over.”
“Look at you, Silas. You're all grown up. Some days, I tell myself, I should've seen this coming.” She pauses, narrowing her eyes. “Your father would've been just as big a disgrace, if I may be frank. He was off with his mistress on that yacht when it sank in the Mediterranean, taking him to his grave. You, I'm afraid, are heading down the same ugly path.”
The whole damned floor drops out beneath me. She's never mentioned the accident since the funeral. Never breathed a word about the wicked rumors everybody in the kingdom knows are probably true.
My old man was a player, too. Like father, like son.
He would've been next in line to inherit the crown, saving me from all this, if only he hadn't sailed into a once in a hundred year storm off the Greek islands.
“Your Majesty...grandmother...” I'm trying like hell to find my words. “I haven't disgraced anything. I haven't even had a chance to fill your huge crown. Why do you think I sat there like a good little boy through the interview, while Warwick took his shots? I'm trying to shape up, embrace all the pomp and duty you've groomed me for. Really.”
“Really?” she repeats, questioning me, slowly descending the three steps leading up to her secondary throne. “Silas, I'm entering my ninth decade in this world. You ought to know by now I'm not a fool.”
Goddamn. When we're on the same level, she's a lot shorter, barely coming up to my chest. But those deep blue Bearington eyes rip through me, one with her aura, making me feel like I'm only half her size.