Dirty Royal: A Bad Boy Royal Romance (13 page)

The café is strangely quiet. No one is engaged in conversation.

That’s…odd.

Patrons are staring down at their phones and tablets, noticeably preoccupied. Something is clearly going on. As I approach the serving counter, a woman sitting at one of the small tables bursts into tears. The man who had been sitting with her wraps his arms around her shoulders as he ushers her out the front door. The woman is now shaking as her sobs rise in volume.
 

Even the barista standing behind the counter appears solemn.

“Hello,” I say, my soft voice seeming to echo loudly in the eerie stillness of the cafe. I pull myself up onto the only remaining open stool next to the counter. “Could I have a bagel, toasted with butter, and a chai tea latte, please?”

He gives me a long hard look, then nods, not saying anything.

The sound of the bagel popping up in the café’s toaster seems uncharacteristically loud. I’m not often embarrassed in public situations—living in New York City makes one immune to that early on—but as the screech of the milk steamer fills the shop, heat rises to flush my cheeks.

This whole thing is just too damn weird.

The barista hands me my cup and a small paper bag containing the bagel, but when I fumble to open my wallet, he holds up his hands.

“No need,” he says, his voice choked. “No need.”

“Okay,” I say, my voice almost a whisper, my eyes full of confusion. “Thank you.”

I return my wallet to my purse, and then pick up my cup and bag and head toward the door.

Back out in the sunshine, I’m filled with a sense of dread. What the hell
was
all that?

I need to get back to my room. Alec might know what this is all about. I can send him a message when I get there—why did I forget my phone back in my room?

Someone is waiting for me when I push open the door to my suite. It’s Claire.

She is standing in the middle of my living area, and I can see she’s been crying.

“Ms. Reeves,” says Claire, her face serious and pale. “Jessica.”

“Claire, what’s going on? I went to the café—.”

She interrupts me. “Oh, it’s bad. It’s very bad. Jessica…Prince Marcus died this morning. The news has just broken.” Claire shakes her head, puts her hand to her mouth. “He
died
!”

Just then, I hear my phone buzzing where I left it on a low table. I rush across the room to the table and snatch it up.

The message appearing on the screen is from Alec.

Jessica, very bad news about my brother. I’m sure the people at the hotel already know.

I’m trying to decide how to reply when another message appears.

I’ll be back with you as soon as I can. Don’t know when.

Then a third.

I love you.

Chapter 26

Alec

My brother is dead.

My brother is
dead
.

What the fuck am I going to do?

What the
fuck
am I going to
do
?

This can’t be happening.

Phillip stands there dumbly until I push past him, my head spinning, my thoughts wildly floundering around in my head, my pulse throbbing loudly in my ears.

My pulse.

I’m still alive and Marcus is not.

I deny to myself what he told me. Phillip has to be goddamned wrong. Someone must have given him bad information, fucking wrong information.

I move blindly, numb with disbelief and confusion, through the hallway that leads from my rooms to Marcus’s. Marcus always had the rooms located closest to my father’s royal apartment because he was the crown prince. I envied him for having those rooms, even though they were not larger or decorated any more opulently than mine. We have similar tastes, both favoring a more simple style, so the furniture is modern and wall hangings are kept to a minimum.

We both favored a more simple 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 some kind of 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 some kind of terrible disease. I should reassure them. I try to give them a weak smile, but the corners of my mouth feel weighted down. Goddamn it.

“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…that 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 just 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.

Chapter 27

Jessica

For two days, I wait in a damn 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 release.
 

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.

Damn it, I feel 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.

“You don’t have to 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.