Page 14 of The Prince of New York

“Am I up for my execution?”

Dr. Stanton ranme through every machine the hospital had, including subjecting me to an MRI. She wanted to get a complete snapshot of my general health. According to her, if I was in better shape than my sister during her first run through the testing gauntlet, she’d be happy.

Six hours later, the woman entered the room I’d been stashed in armed with a clipboard. Then, in what I believed was some horrific blend of dream and nightmare, Madelyn followed her.

Rather than question Dr. Stanton on the situation or flee through the nearest window, I stood my ground, rather grateful someone had found a suit for me to change into. “Am I up for my execution?”

Dr. Stanton snickered, shook her head, and tossed her clipboard onto the bed. Rather than yell at me, she came over and gave me a hug. “You have a mild concussion from where you got knocked out, but other than that, you are in good health. I almost cried while reviewing the results. There are a few things I want to monitor, and I’ve selected Miss Chalro to handle managing your diet and exercise for the next few weeks. Agent Niell was generous enough to give me the names of everyone who would be accompanying you to California, and her assigned duties worked best for my needs. With her in charge of your general care, I can manage my other duties without worry.”

Madelyn was going to be accompanying me to California? As I was in possession of some remnants of my dignity, I hugged the doctor back rather than spin her around to express my opinion on the situation. “I apologize for the inconvenience, Miss Chalro.”

When the woman wrinkled her nose, she reminded me of a puppy learning how to convey disapproval of the situation. Had anyone tried to convince me that plain could be beautiful as a teenager, I would have laughed.

With Madelyn, I understood. Like Olivia before her operation, the New Yorker’s features weren’t quite even, with one of her eyes slightly off angle compared to the other. Like Olivia, the woman had something wrong with her nose, but I had no way of knowing if it hampered her breathing.

If she was part of the New York team headed to California, I could take the initiative and make certain someone evaluated if she needed care like the Montana princess had required. I would pay for the operation myself if necessary.

Her prominent jaw—which showed more than I liked due to society’s insistence that being skinny equated to beauty—gave her a sharp edge, one that screamed no one was to approach if they valued their life.

“Madelyn, please.”

“Ian. I have an allergy to titles. I develop hives. Isn’t that right, Dr. Stanton?”

Dr. Stanton snickered, patted my back, and let me go. “Only use titles when he’s in an official capacity, as the allergy to titles is real. It gives him quite the upset tummy.”

“I thought that was the wine the chefs like adding to meals,” the woman of my dreams muttered in a rather doubtful tone.

I wouldn’t blame her for her doubts. In her shoes, I would be doubtful, too.

Few believed I could possibly actually suffer from alcohol intolerance.

“Ah, yes. The alcohol intolerance is going to be a significant issue. His intolerance is even worse than his sister’s. That’s something you’re going to have to be on guard for. If he gets a hold of alcohol in his food, he has a five minute window to purge it before he absorbs enough for it to be a problem. If he drinks alcohol, it’s over the instant it enters his mouth. If you notice a contamination or taste it, get him to the bathroom and induce vomiting, then have him consume water. It might help, but it’s unlikely.”

Madelyn’s eyes widened. “That’s real? He really can’t have any alcohol?”

Dr. Stanton sighed. “Unfortunately. And his intolerance is quite severe. It usually begins with vomiting, which can last three to six hours. Afterwards, he has to be put on a basic diet of bone broth until he can keep that down. After he’s rehydrated, he’s to have milk-based protein shakes. After twenty-four hours, he can resume eating regular food. Unfortunately, when he’s on diplomatic missions, he rarely has the required twenty-four hours, so he takes anti-nausea medicine and does his best to cope.”

Madelyn’s eyes narrowed. “And the chefs include the wine knowing this?”

“Most chefs do not realize the intolerance is real and that there’s enough alcohol left in the food after cooking for it to be a problem.” Retrieving her clipboard, Dr. Stanton flipped through the pages, removed one, and offered it to Madelyn. “We’re still trying to identify why he gets so ill from alcohol, but here’s what we’ve learned so far. His sister’s case is one step below his, and the New York chefs make certain to keep a set of pots and pans dedicated for their usage if there’s going to be alcohol served in the rest of the meals. While he’s in New York, you won’t have to worry about contamination; all new kitchen staff are read the riot act. California is aware of the situation, and New York will be providing a care sheet for his meals. However, it wouldn’t go amiss for you to step into the kitchen and remind them he cannot have even trace amounts of alcohol.”

“I can do that. I’m going to need a complete list of his dietary restrictions. I had thought it was personal preference.” Madelyn frowned and glanced my way before saying, “And as far as personal preferences go, choosing not to be a New York alcoholic is admirable.”

“I had opted against New York alcoholism before learning I’m intolerant to alcohol. The royal physicians couldn’t figure out why I was getting so ill daily, and it wasn’t until they eliminated meals cooked in the royal kitchens that they realized it was due to the usage of alcohol in cooking.” I had spent most of my early childhood, teenage years, and young adult life sicker than hell, relying on Pepto and stubbornness to get through most days. When I had learned the truth of my situation, I’d taken steps to avoid any foods that might have wine in them, which had lowered instances of illness significantly. “Dr. Stanton can get a copy of my medical history and share it with you.”

“Yes, I have a copy. It will likely make you angry, but as Ian has given me permission, I’ll share the records with you. For the most part, he’s easy enough to handle. If he seems skittish around the royal offerings or doesn’t seem to be eating, take him to a fast food joint.” Dr. Stanton winced. “May none of the other royal physicians find out I said this, but fed is best, and with these delicate New York royals, the fastest way to feed them is to give them fast food.”

“We were beat for even looking at fast food as kids,” I informed Madelyn. “It’s the ultimate forbidden fruit for us.”

I’d gotten more than my fair share of the beatings, thus preventing Rachel from enduring them. Because I’d dealt with my father’s heavy hand, Rachel had been able to walk the straight and narrow.

It hadn’t spared her from abuse, but it had spared her from the worst of the abuse.

“You’re serious.”

“The previous New York monarchs were not ideal people, and both Ian and his sister have done quite well with their therapy. We can get together before you leave for California to give you a better idea of the things to watch out for. For the most part, Ian’s one of the easier Royals to work with. As he is New York’s heir, you’ll have support from California. I’ll give you a list of suitable contacts. For today, keep him company while I get the documentation to release him. I’ll request that the palace open a suite for you until departure and help you take care of any business you have.”

“I have two cats,” Madelyn murmured.

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