Page 1 of The King's Secret Baby

CHAPTER 1

LUCA

My father and I emerge from the hotel into a mob of screaming fans. Women shove pens and photos in my face, pleading for autographs. Phones come out, a dozen of them probably streaming directly to social media.

Smiles stretch across the women’s faces, eyes wide with anticipation. My father’s security guards surge forward, forming a human barrier between us and the manic crowd.

“Luca, look here!” One voice rises above the others, hoarse from the exertion.

I turn to see a flurry of red hair, a young woman waving a glossy photo of me. I nod at her, scribble my signature on the photograph. Her giddy squeal slices through the city noise.

The concrete beneath my feet vibrates, echoing the rhythm of life in New York. I inhale deeply; car exhaust fumes and the smell of pretzels mix with the lingering scent of rain on the sidewalk.

Even though I’ve been to the city numerous times, I’ve never truly seen it, and I’m hoping that this trip will be an exception. That is, if I manage to slip away from my father for a bit.

“Prince Luca.” A young woman bounces up and down. “Sign my arm?”

“We need to go,” my father, the king of Werdenfeld, points out.

“One minute.” I flash him a quick smile, doing my best to be diplomatic. The whole reason we’re in NYC is to foster our relationship with the United States. So why is he rushing me?

If I just push past these women without at least spending a few minutes with them, it’ll look bad. I’ll probably find myself in an article tomorrow about how much of a jerk I am.

“Where on your arm?” I ask the girl.

She quickly pulls up her sleeve, revealing a slender arm, pale and freckled. I take the pen she offers me, scribbling my name hastily. The ink stings my nostrils with its sharp smell, but my polite smile never wavers.

“Thank you!” she squeals, clutching her arm close to her chest as though it’s a precious artifact.

“All right. We need to move, now,” my father insists, his voice stern and impatient.

Jostling people part like a sea as he strides along the path our security team has created for us. A curl of anxiety twists in my stomach. The crowd is getting more excited, and I can’t just leave them.

“Please,” another girl begs. “One more?”

I glance at the rapidly disappearing figure of my father and try not to sigh. “One more.”

After her, though, I sign another autograph. Take another picture.

There’s an odd comfort in the chaos. The burden of always trying to maintain a good image seems to lighten temporarily among these eager faces. At least I’m making someone happy, even though it is just with a picture or a quick side hug.

Eventually, I have to pull away from their reaching hands and their shouts and climb into the black SUV that’s waiting.

“We love you, Prince Luca!” one of the girls screams after me.

As the door slams shut, cutting off the shrieks, Father turns to me. “Don’t let those girls distract you, Luca. You must focus on your duties.”

I roll my eyes. “No one can distract me from my princely responsibilities, Father — for that to happen at all, I would need to have true responsibilities, and at thirty years old you still haven’t given me any.”

He frowns, the lines on his forehead deepening. “This is not a game. You are representing Werdenfeld. That is your responsibility.”

“I know.” I frown back at him. “That’s exactly why I stopped to sign autographs. It’s important that we give off good impressions everywhere.”

“As long as it doesn’t distract from proper behavior.” He’s looking at his phone — not me — probably going over talking points his publicist has sent him for today’s press conference.

I stare out the window as we drive, the city sliding by in a blur. Skyscrapers tower around us as the car weaves through traffic. We pull up to the press meeting, a nondescript office building. This time, there are no women waiting outside to catch a peek of me.

But there are certainly reporters inside. Many, many reporters, all crammed together in one room.

---