Page 38 of The Prince's Castaway Baby

JENSEN

“Ithink it’s time to get out now, Your Highness,” says Anders, looking at me with a level stare in the rearview mirror.

Anders has been our driver for as long as I can remember. To me he’s about a thousand years old even though he can’t be much more than sixty, and he is the greatest man in the world. When I was a kid, he would take me for ice cream and always treated me with absolute kindness. Deep lines form a network of a life lived over his face, his hair thin and white. His eyes are a bright blue, and he has a smile that always makes me feel better.

But Anders can only do so much.

Nothing can prepare me for the way my parents are about to react. Not even Anders can protect me from this wrath that’s about to get thrown at me. The one thing they made me swear never to do was make our family look stupid.

And lo and behold, guess what I’ve gone and done!

Not only about the original reason I ran away — the paparazzi’s fabricated pregnancy scandal — but now everyone’s spinningrumors about Billie as well, which is the exact opposite of what I want. If she wasn’t already furious with me, this will definitely have ruined any chance of our friendship lasting. I spent the entire flight home thinking about her.

I hope she’s okay now. I hope everyone wants to buy her photos. I really,reallyhope that the press aren’t bothering her.

I hate those guys more than I can say.

Anders smiles at me again. He knows as well as I do that I’m about to get the worst yelling-at I have ever had. They can’t exactly ground me. I’m a full-grown adult, after all. But this time I’m willing to admit I screwed up, at least.

Maybe that’ll count for something.

“I’ll see you later,” I say with a grimace.

“May the stars have mercy on you,” Anders says softly. It’s a Sólveigan phrase that we use to wish people luck, and right now it feels more appropriate than ever.

I get out of the car, my limbs heavy with trepidation and bone-deep fatigue. I barely slept on the plane, and I doubt I’ll sleep much tonight either. I may be back in my own bed, in my own clothes, in my own home, but there will be something missing.

Someone.

At least I’ll be able to eat some real food. I might have screwed up, but my parents can hardly send me to bed with no supper.

We’re at one of the smaller stately homes in our possession, Redwall House. It’s called that because of the bricks that were used. Here in Sólveigr, we have an abundance of deep red clay. So much so that most of our historically important warsare called something like the Red Battle because of how often soldiers would get completely covered in the stuff.

It doesn’t look that much like blood when it’s on clothes, but I confess I do enjoy the poetic license.

Slowly, I drag myself to the drawing room. I had a chance to freshen up slightly on the jet, and someone brought some fresh clothes for me, but I still really want to shower and sleep and eat. My hand shaking, I grip the ornate doorknob and twist it until it clicks. I let the door swing open, watching it go and steeling myself for what’s next.

My parents are both there, standing waiting for me, staring as I step forward towards them. “Hi,” I say nervously.

“Jensen,” says my mother, shaking her head. “Maybe one day you will listen to us when we speak.”

“I’m really sorry,” I start, but my father cuts me off by holding his hand up.

“How many times, Jensen? No pregnancy drama. We’ve been tolerant of your other antics, but this really is going too far. How many times do you need to be told?”

“I know,” I say, hanging my head like a naughty kid. “And I’m sorry. But if it helps, it’s not true.”

“No,” says my mother with a hard glint in her eye. “It doesn’t really help. We’ve given you so many chances to behave appropriately, to act in the way your birthright dictates. We’ve let you behave like a fool and make a mockery of yourself, but to bring this scandal upon us all… Why do you still insist on acting like this?”

“You’re old enough to know better, aren’t you?” adds my father, trying and not really succeeding to soften to blow of my mother’s words.

“Yeah. I don’t know,” I mumble.

“How many more chances do you need?” asks my mother, her face crumpling in that way it always does when she’s disappointed. “When are all your antics finally going to be enough for you?”

There’s a long pause, then I ask quietly, “Can I say something?” It’s better not to make assumptions and speak when I’m not supposed to. That’s something I’ve finally learned after years of getting it wrong.

My father nods slowly, and I take a deep breath. “Okay, so I screwed up. No, the rumor wasn’t true, but it’s my fault that I’ve lived in a way that meant people believed it. But listen; I won’t need any more chances after this. I promise. I know what you’re going to say next — that I’m useless or whatever, and I don’t deserve this title — and that’s probably true. But I guess there’s an opportunity here, isn’t there? To go and talk to some journalists and promise to be better. And the thing is, I want to be. Iwillbe.”

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