Page 23 of The Prince's Green Card Scheme

In truth, many of these cubbyholes and little passages were just a fun diversion for me and my brothers when we were young. For as long as I’ve been alive, and even longer than that, nobody in this country has subscribed to the notion that servants should go unheard and unseen.

I am damn grateful for the hiding hole now, though.

Maria and I stand there for a while, trying to devise the best way of breaking this news to my parents. Eventually, we decide that we should just come out with it.

I suggest coming in through the side entrance, the personal one, and Maria tells me it would be best to use the front door. She tells me that she will come and welcome me in, as if she’s surprised, and call for my parents.

It’s not my favorite plan in the world, but it does seem better than sneaking around. She shows me out back onto the street through the side entrance, and I walk slowly around to the front door. It’s a huge, imposing wooden thing, complete with carvings of horrible gargoyles and hinges that, no matter how much they get oiled, always creak.

I knock tentatively on the door, and a few seconds later, true to her word, Maria returns.

“Paolo!” she exclaims, gasping in shock and doing a startlingly good job of acting like she didn’t know it was going to be me. “You’re back!”

“I’m back.”

She rushes over to the intercom by the door and buzzes up to my parents’ living quarters. “Your Majesties,” she says, “we have a visitor.”

There’s a faint sound of a reply that I can’t quite distinguish, but I can easily imagine my father sayingwhy should we care?“Trust me, Your Majesty. You should come down. It’s your son.”

We head through to the drawing room that my parents use to entertain guests. It’s a grand, stately room with some hideous gold wallpaper and carpet that hasn’t been replaced in fifty years. They’re very proud of this room. It’s got some historical significance or something.

Personally, I think it’s ugly. It’s a good job I’m never going to be king, because if I were, I would probably redecorate the whole place.

We sit for what feels like forever until my parents enter the room. They push the door open slowly, and when I see them I get to my feet. I grin sheepishly. “Hi, Mom. Dad. How are you?”

“Paolo,” says my father, staring harshly at me. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“No, I know,” I say, clenching my fists as I try to hold my nerve. “I’m sorry for lying, but… well, I’ve come to pay my respects to Grandfather. I can’t believe no one told me that he had passed.”

“It seems you’re struggling with the concept of being exiled, then,” my mother says coldly.

I take a deep breath. I have to not fight with them. The most important thing about this conversation is that I don’t fight with them. If they kick me back out now, there’s no way I can face them like this again.

I decide not to say anything about the inheritance. “I loved Grandpa. I get that I’m not supposed to be here, but it felt unfair that everyone else should get to say goodbye to him and I didn’t. I don’t care that I wasn’t invited to the funeral. I just want to see his grave. I can go again after that. I won’t complain. But a year in exile has taught me a couple of things. That was the point, wasn’t it? To teach me a lesson?”

“And what lessons have you learned? asks my father. I don’t think he believes a single word I’ve said. I’m not surprised. I probably wouldn’t either, if I were him.

If they’ve been following my travels — and I don’t doubt that they’ve been keeping an eye on me in one way or another — it doesn’t exactly look like I’ve done a whole lot except party for the last year. To any outside observer, I guess it doesn’t seem like I’m changed at all.

“I found a wife,” I blurt.

“A wife?” says my mother, the faintest expression of surprise peeking through her mask of neutrality. I get the sense that she wants to end that sentence asking why I didn’t tell them, but of course, I had no way of telling them. It’s not like they would have listened to me anyway, and it’s not even like my marriage is real.

“Yes, a wife,” I say, holding my head up high. “Her name is Chloe. She’s just a normal person, and I met her doing normal-person things. She lives in New York, and her dad was from Bellamare. We’ve got a lot in common, actually. It’s been reallyinteresting getting to know her. With her, it’s not about me being a prince at all. She’s taught me how to be a real human.”

“And do you think that is enough to warrant us lifting your exile?”

“No, I guess not,” I sigh. “But surely it meanssomething. I’m responsible now. I’m grown up. A real human woman fell in love with me and married me, of her own free will. It had nothing to do with my title.”

They don’t have to know that that’s more or less a lie.

Actually, it’s pretty much one hundred percent a lie. Chloe doesn’t know who I am. And the reason she married me couldn’t have had anything less to do with love.

“You do realize,” says my father, “any marriage you’ve had will not be recognized by this country. Any wedding you had away from us will not count, in our eyes.”

“Then we’ll get married again,” I say defiantly. “And this time we’ll do it properly. I’m not embarrassed to have Chloe recognized in front of everyone. I’m not embarrassed to show who I am now.”

They both stare at me, neither one of them convinced. It’s not the first time I’ve had a passionate outburst in front of them.

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