Page 1 of Will You (Not) Marry Me

CHAPTER1

EVA

Eva trudged home with a grin on her face, her camera bag slung over one shoulder and a heavy lighting stand in each hand. Pedestrians didn’t move out of her way as she wove her way along the sidewalk. They were New Yorkers. They had places to be too, after all, so she did her best not to accidentally smack any passersby in the face with her equipment.

She’d just finished her first ever professional shoot as a photographer and was wrecked from setting up and pulling everything down herself in record time, and she may have fractured her finger from getting jammed in a C-stand that had been holding up a backdrop; she wasn’t sure yet. She was grinning anyway because it had been her first everpaidshoot.

Had she been paida lot? No. But still, it was something. It was a foot in the door and a legitimate job to add to her resume. A job that she had gotten through hard work, not through family connections or her background. Eva had done it all on her own. So even though it had been a long day and she was carrying all of her equipment home by hand, she couldn’t stop the smile lighting up her face.

Would it have been easier and wiser to just get a cab home? Yes. A thousand times yes. But the meager fee she’d made on the shoot would have gone straight to cab fare, and she was determined to make the most of every penny. She was determined, overall, to be self-sufficient. Every labored step back to her apartment was a step that she had decided to take herself. Just like every other normal person. An independent, self-funded step.

Eva had spent the last four years studying photography at the New York Academy of Fine Arts and Film. NYAFAF was an unfortunate acronym, but it was one of the best schools out there for learning her craft. She’d dabbled in painting, sculpture and computer graphics along the way to earn credit, but her heart had been set on photography ever since her twelfth birthday, when her uncle had gifted her a camera. It was the first time she’d realized she could have a job, acareer, that she enjoyed and not just follow the well-trodden path laid out before her by her family.

Her royal family. That one little word in the middle always tended to make a world of difference.

Eva was the second child of the king of Skärov. Her older brother, Magnus, was the one in line for the throne, but Eva had been raised with her own sense of duty to her family and country.The Littlest Princessis what the press had dubbed her twenty-four years ago when she’d been born prematurely in the private wing of the hospital, photographers literally camping outside on the street hoping to capture an image of her and her parents leaving for home. Maybe that’s why she loved photography so much; she’d heard the click and flash of cameras since her earliest moments. It’s just that she preferred to be behind the camera, not in front of it.

Even though she wasn’t first in line, and quite frankly it was never likely that she’d be crowned leader of their tiny little country, towards the end of her teens the public exposure and duty had started to wear on her. In a fit of independence, she’d applied to the arts academy of her dreams to learn photography, not expecting to get in but feeling rebellious in justdoingsomething without asking permission first. Her dad was a Skärov native, of course, but her mother had been born and raised in the US, the daughter of a stupidly wealthy business magnate who was royalty in his own way. So Eva had dual citizenship, and there was no reason she couldn’t leave Skärov to go study in the States. Those were the arguments she’d prepared for her parents anyway when they actually let her into the school.

So getting into the arts college had been relatively straightforward… The tricky part had been figuring out how to tell her family that she wanted to move, on her own, halfway across the world to get a degree that they all saw as essentially useless.

It had gone down surprisingly well, if a little underwhelming.

It wasn’t that her family had beenagainsther going to New York to do an arts degree. But they hadn’t exactly been congratulatory about it either. To them, Eva was just killing time in her early twenties until she was required to take part in the usual lineup of royal duties that awaited them all. Hosting and attending charity events and galas. Touring around opening buildings or giving speeches and press releases. Eva had been prepared her whole life for it, but since moving out on her own, she’d learned how big the world really was. How many different opportunities there were. Not that she’d begrudge donning the role of dutiful princess now and again, but… now she wanted so much more.

Even though Eva was twenty-four with a recently finished degree under her belt and no intentions of moving back to Skärov any time soon, her parents hadn’t seemed to catch on. Her mother was still mildly horrified whenever she saw an updated photo of Eva’s appearance: the bleach blond, chin-length hair, the all-black punk wardrobe with stacks of silver rings on her fingers and vintage store leather jackets. She looked every part the typical photography student living in New York. Her father was accepting so far as he assumed it was some sort of camouflage to blend in with the locals and that Eva would return to looking “normal” whenever she returned home. Eva desperately wanted a nose ring but thought her poor father might actually have a heart attack if she went through with it, so she’d suppressed that particular impulse. Not to mention her mother might murder her… She had the masochistic curiosity to want to know what would happen if she ever showed up with a tattoo. Probably actual murder, not just the figurative version.

Her father wasn’t entirely wrong about the blending-in thing. It had definitely started out that way when she’d first arrived and, curious about her European accent and stylish—if slightly conservative—wardrobe, people had asked about her background. Eva had made the mistake at first of being honest and telling people she was daughter to the king of Skärov, the small Scandinavian country that most people outside of Europe had never even heard of. It had ended up with a lot of false friendships, people being nice to her because they thought it would get them connections and clout. So Eva soon stopped telling people her background, instead saying her accent came from moving around a bunch as a kid (which wasn’t a total lie; they’d certainly traveled all over Europe growing up). Then as the years went on, she started dressing the way she wanted, cutting her own hair with kitchen scissors and having her roommate and best friend Abbie teach her how to do smokey eyes with cheap makeup in their poorly lit bathroom.

It was the most fun she’d ever had. The freest she’d ever felt, like a bird who’d never realized how small its cage was until it was allowed to spread its wings for the first time. And now she’d finished a paid photo shoot with cash in her back pocket to prove it, and she hadn’t even been mugged on the way home. She was skipping on cloud nine, leather boots and all.

By the time she reached the door to her apartment though, the glee was starting to wear off. There were deep pink indents in her hands from carrying the awkward metal stands; she was out of breath, her hair windswept and half stuck to her face, and she had to stretch her fingers out of the claw-like grip they’d been frozen in before she could properly get her key into the lock. But the door was already unlocked.

Which was odd, because she and Abbie always locked the door whether they were home or not. Eva swung the door inwards, hefting her light stands up with renewed vigor, ready to swing them like a weapon in case some crazy weirdo had broken into their apartment while she had been out. It wasn’t a big apartment by any stretch of the imagination, so it was only a few steps through the shallow entry hall into the combined main living area and kitchen.

A shadowed figure was standing in front of the window, looking out onto the street, their back to Eva, who had a small heart attack when she saw that whoever was standing there was a good foot taller than her roommate. She prepared to heft a light stand over her shoulder, to do what exactly she had no idea—swing it like a mace from a medieval fantasy movie or something? The figure turned around, sleek blond hair catching the light.

Eva felt her heart attack subside, and she planted the light stand on the floor. But the fear was just replaced with dread.

“Mother,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

Queen Andrea Nilsson walked towards her daughter, not a single step wavering in her impossibly thin stilettos. She was wearing a navy-blue skirt and a white silk blouse, her makeup all neutral beiges and pinks. She was the perfect image of a European royal coming to visit her daughter.

“Darling,” she said, hugging Eva gently around the shoulders and kissing her on both cheeks. Eva hugged her back, her heart still working triple-time.

“What are those things you have?” Andrea asked, waving a manicured finger at the metal contraptions.

“Lighting stands.”

“Hmm, yes. Well, don’t you look… refreshed.”

Eva looked like a squirrel that had narrowly missed being hit by a car, and she knew it, but she appreciated her mother’s attempt at a compliment.

“Thanks. The breeze certainly is brisk,” she said dryly, locking the door before she fully came into the apartment, suspicion starting to creep down her spine. Andrea still hadn’t said what had brought her all the way here.

“You startled me,” she added, saying it like an accusation. “I didn’t think anyone would be home.”

“Oh, the young lady you live with…” Andrea was visibly searching her memory for a name.

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