Page 50 of The Prince's Castaway Baby

Kristian closes the door quietly, and I hear his soft footsteps retreating down the hall. The drawing room. That means it’ll probably take him two, maybe two and a half minutes to get back down there, which gives me a couple of minutes’ respite before I have to go down there myself and face them.

I pull a pillow over my face and let out a growl of frustration. Why can this not be enough for them? I’ve been trying my hardest for months now.

When will I be good enough?

With a grunt, I get up, throw on a hoodie, and head downstairs, holding my head high while also taking the tiniest steps known to man.

This is so typical of them, summoning me to a telling-off the second I get home. Couldn’t they at least have waited until I’d had a sleep first? Don’t they realize I’m less likely to be in a bad mood that way?

It’s not even like I’ve done anything wrong this time, though. About the only thing I’ve been doing lately is touring thenorthernmost points of the world with various scientists and taking videos to drum up support.

I guess that’s the problem right there. All I do is take videos and post about it. If I were better, I’d actually get involved. I’d have a degree.

I’d be perfect, just like my brother.

When I reach the door, I waver, my hand hovering next to the ornate wood paneling. I take a deep breath, clench my fists to steady myself, then push open the door.

The first thing I notice is that they’re smiling. It’s weird. They’re smiling and they don’t even stop when I come into the room. I’ve seen them smile before, obviously; they do it all the time. They more or lesshaveto.

But this is the exact kind of look that they give Erik after he’s done anything at all. This isn’t the kind of look like give me, not ever. Not even when the media are around and we have to play happy families.

Something suspicious is going on here.

“What’s up?” I ask as I approach, my heart pounding as I wait for the other shoe to drop.

“Jensen,” says my mother. “Come here, darling.”

Okay, this is beyond weird. Am I getting told off here or not? Has someone died? AmIdying?

She gestures for me to sit at the table with them, and slowly I lower myself into my favorite chair, the one with the chipped leg and embroidered elephants on the upholstery.

“Jensen,” echoes my father, and I tense, preparing for the worst. “How was your trip?”

“It was good, thank you. Great, actually. We saw some more seals, which was good. The scientists were very excited because they’re experts in Arctic mammal habitats, but personally, I think I prefer birds. All the same, it’s so interesting getting to go with them and hearing what they’ve got to say about everything. I’m learning so much, and I’m having a great time doing it.”

Both my parents nod as if they’re really, actually listening for a change, and I keep going, an avalanche of words streaming from my mouth.

I tell them about the day we saw the polar bears, the hundreds of different bird species I’ve seen now on my travels, how the polar ice caps are an incredible part of the world and how drastically our world is going to change as they get smaller. I tell them how excited I am to have been invited to go again.

I tell them how I wish I could do more, but also how doing anything at all feels great. I am making a difference, even if it’s small.

“That’s wonderful,” says my mother, smiling like that is what she genuinely thinks.

“I— It is?” I say, blinking in surprise.

She nods, her lips twitching in amusement. It’s a tiny expression, but I’ve learned every face she has ever made over the years, and that one is definitely for real. “Yes, Jensen. It is wonderful. We have been waiting for such a long time for you to come into yourself — your father was starting to worry that you would be a troublemaker for the rest of your life.”

My father chuckles at that. “I’m glad not to have been right for a change.”

I squeeze my lips together to stop myself from smiling. This is not how I was expecting this day to go.

“We’re glad you finally found something to do,” says my mother.

“I don— I guess I— Um… thank you,” I stammer, my brain short-circuiting.

“We really mean it, Jensen,” says my father. “We’re proud of you.”

My mouth opens and closes at least four times.

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