Page 26 of How to Date a Prince

“No.” I sit down as my mouth twitches. “I thought to come and say hello and good luck in the next challenge. Oh, and I’m here specifically to get you to swear your allegiance to the Crown, naturally.”

Thomas Golden coughs. Wilson’s stare is cutting.

“Princes don’t need luck. Let’s see if next week’s rigged too.” Wilson’s flushed an unbecoming red. “Bet you it is.”

Silence falls. Travis snags another biscuit. For his part, Thomas Golden sits across the table, watching me. His expression is unreadable. And I would dearly love to know if his thoughts are as hostile as Wilson’s.

“Renaissance Manisn’t rigged.” But it sounds unconvincing even to my ears. Maybe if I say it enough, I’ll start to believe it.

“Nobody wants to get rid of a prince first round because he’s a huge get, like it or not,” says Travis matter-of-factly, now reaching for a slice of pie. He neatly serves a piece and plucks a fork from the pile of cutlery on a napkined dish. “It’s poor form. Check Debretts. Also, they’ll want the Prince to stick around longer for ratings and for ad revenue and to stir up the fan forums into a frenzy. Bad publicity is still publicity. Viewings will skyrocket. TikTok will go wild. I can see why the producers kept you, even though it’s bollocks. Everyone wins, including you, Prince Auggie. Everyone except Mark, poor bastard. And the rest of us.”

Trying not to take the bait, I pour water from the aqua blown-glass pitcher into a matching glass. Ice cubes drop into the water glass and rattle. “That’s not my specialty. I don’t watch TV.”

“What, you’re too good for TV?” Wilson scoffs, turning to face me directly. His jaw’s tight. “Do you stream instead?”

With a shake of my head, I think of my father’s TV addiction. It’s filled a space where my mum used to be. And our family. “I’d rather read, usually. Or listen to music.”

“Probably he curls up withUlyssesfor a lighthearted romp instead ofMade in Chelsea,” Wilson says to the others in a way like I’m not even there. “He’s too important to watch TV.”

Finally, Thomas Golden speaks, holding my gaze. “What do you listen to, then?”

I look back for as long as I can dare before glancing at my water for answers, shrugging. My face is warm. “Everything from Mozart to Taylor Swift. The latest album from Ben Campbell. Lots of things.”

Wilson snorts. “Like you’re a thirteen-year-old girl.”

I lift an eyebrow at that, my grip tightening ever so slightly on my water glass.

“Cool, yeah,” says Travis, nodding emphatically. “Taylor’s great. I’ve seen her twice on tour.”

Thank God Travis has some sense, not as much of a wanker as Wilson. Wilson’s in the advanced league tables of wankerdom, with nobody else owning the space like he does. Like some people attract others, he repels them with his unique brand of anti-charisma.

“I’m glad someone’s keeping their misogyny in check.” I look pointedly at Wilson before I take a drink, letting the cold water ground me. Finally, I look back at Thomas Golden. “And, for the record, the monarchy is modernizing.” I ignore Wilson’s eye roll. He’s entitled to his opinion, at any rate. “We’ve been taking steps towards being more transparent.”

Thomas Golden’s lips twitch. They’re full and flushed pink, presumably from the heat of the day. Or due to the fact that he was chewing on his lower lip a moment ago. Whatever the reason, they’ve caught my attention, and I’m distracted. “Transparent,” he echoes.

“Mm, yes.” I bow my head. “Such as me coming on this show.”

“Why on God’s green Earth would someone who doesn’t even watch TV come on a reality show?” Wilson asks, incredulous.

“Raising his profile, obviously,” says Travis as the three of them peer at me like I’m a curious beast landed from another planet. “Nobody knows much about Prince Auggie. Not really. He’s squeaky clean, our future King. Or it’s a cover-up for something shit he’s done.”

I open my mouth at that, frowning. “I haven’t done anything.”

“You did that looker in the papers, actually,” Travis muses. “Great legs. I’d fancy a go myself.”

“That slag,” says Wilson.

“Fuck off,” I snap finally, eyeing Wilson, who doesn’t look the least bit sorry. “Say what you like about me, I’m fair game. But Katie isn’t.”

“Ooh, protective over your girl, I get it. Loyal,” says Wilson, nodding. He runs a hand through his hair. “Nice tits, though?—”

I stand up abruptly.

Travis has already called up the news story that I hoped would be buried by now. But nobody out in the world knows I’m on this show, thanks to the round of nondisclosure agreements that the cast and crew signed as our blood oath toRenaissance Man. Travis and Wilson study the phone between them.

“Prince Auggie’s Torrid Big Night Out,” reads Travis, impressed. He nods his approval as if he’s a PR firm. “Bet that got them lots of clicks. Nice.”

My face and chest are hot. I look at Thomas Golden. He doesn’t look over at the phone. It’s hard to say what he’s thinking. He doesn’t strike me as one to be meek. Katie would serve these arseholes their own livers if she heard them. And then I think of Katie, and the familiar guilt washes over me.

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