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Flip didn’t realize how late it had gotten until the light came on in the hallway, startling him into nearly falling out of his desk chair.

He must have startled his mother too, because she pressed a hand to her breastbone and shook her head. “Flip. I didn’t expect to see you in this part of the palace so late. Don’t tell me you’re working.”

“All right, I won’t tell you.” It was an old joke between them, one they’d each been on both sides of.

He glanced at the clock and wished he were surprised by the late hour, but he was exhausted.

He’d intended to go to bed hours ago to be well rested for tomorrow, but he had a few things he wanted to accomplish first. And then he kept getting distracted wondering how Brayden was faring at the light festival, whether he’d gotten swept up in the moment or if he felt like an outsider.

Probably the former. Brayden seemed to fit in pretty seamlessly anywhere.

He took things in stride in a way totally unfamiliar to Flip.

He was probably having a lot more fun than Flip was with the personnel files of everyone who worked in management at the Crown Mining Co.

His mother sighed and came into the library. She leaned down to press a kiss to the top of his head. “I wish you hadn’t inherited my work ethic.”

Inherited? His years of tutors and lectures on the responsibility of privilege had drilled it into him.

But maybe that was the same thing. He’d inherited the title, at least. “I want to get this proposal ready.” He slid his laptop away and closed it, resisting the temptation to knuckle at his eyes. “I think I’m almost done.”

His mother took a seat on the piano bench a few meters away and watched him. “It can wait until after the weekend. Parliament’s not in session again until January anyway.”

“I know.” He took a few deep breaths and ran through one of the breathing exercises his father had taught him in order to release the tension from his body. “I’m just nervous.”

“You still believe everything can be perfect.” She smiled—not her public expression but one she only allowed in the privacy of their residence at the palace or at their summer home on the island. “That’s why you don’t know when to stop.”

“I know when to stop,” Flip murmured, but maybe he didn’t.

For months he’d been working on this proposal, a plan to turn the royal family’s biggest asset, the diamond factory a few kilometers south of the city, over to the government to be run as a public holding.

Before that could happen, he wanted to assure himself that the people in charge were competent, capable, incorruptible agents who would serve the public’s best interest.

Signing off on people’s integrity was hard.

She chuckled. “I see that. I hear Celine has a new background check to run.” She crossed her legs in a way that indicated to Flip she didn’t intend to stand for some time.

He turned away from the desk and faced her.

As usual, her expression betrayed nothing—not to a casual observer.

But she was Flip’s mother, and he knew her better than almost anyone.

The slightest curve of her mouth, that was hope.

The single line on her forehead, easily mistaken for a wrinkle if you didn’t know better, that was tension. She worried too much.

“She’s already run it, as I’m sure you know.” And Brayden was as squeaky clean as anyone could wish for. “You’ll meet him tomorrow, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I’m worried that my only son has a new man in his life and didn’t tell his mother.”

“What am I, chopped liver?” Flip’s dad entered the library from the back door, clad in a kurta pajama and his usual house slippers. “When do I get to give the shovel speech? I’ve been practicing.” He put on an exaggerated Southern US drawl. “You treat my son with respect and have him home by ten—”

“Irfan,” his mother admonished, but her voice was warm. It seemed to serve more as an invitation. Flip’s dad crossed the library to press a kiss to her cheek, sit beside her, and take her hand.

“You’re right, we wouldn’t want to cramp his style. ‘Make sure you feed him breakfast before you send him on his walk of shame’—is that better?”

Flip groaned and ran his hands through his hair. “Thanks, Dad.”

“Hey, I have your back.”

“I know that. But seriously, there’s a reason I haven’t introduced him.”

“Why, is he hideous?” Irfan addressed this question to his wife. “I know we’re an intimidatingly good-looking family—” He cut off and made gestures to indicate her face, her figure, et cetera. Flip loved his dad.

“Irfan.” She was laughing outright. “Stop. I want to hear his explanation.” She lowered her voice. “Besides, I saw his new man’s photograph.”

Oh boy. “It’s just a date,” Flip said helplessly. He meant to tell more of the truth, that it was just a favor, that Brayden was in Lyngria on vacation for a few weeks and that nothing would come of it, but it got stuck on his tongue. “He didn’t even know who I was when I asked him to come.”

“Oh, so you’re ashamed of us,” his dad began, mock indignant.

But Flip couldn’t take any more. He didn’t know why it should bother him that his parents were excited to meet his date—why he didn’t want to tell them it was nothing more than a convenient arrangement—but he didn’t want to lie more than he had to. “Dad,” Flip pleaded.

Irfan sobered. “All right. But you don’t have to hide him from us, you know. No one is upset you’re not marrying Prince Harry or whomever.”

“Remember when you used to date that Belgian duke’s son—what was his name?”

“Armand,” Irfan supplied with a shudder. “I don’t think I ever saw him crack a smile.”

“He smiled,” Flip said defensively, though it truthfully hadn’t been very often. Armand had been a poor match in that regard, not that many people could keep pace with his father’s sense of humor.

“Or that executive from Toronto you brought home a few years ago. He was nice enough, but—what’s the phrase—he was dull as a post?”

“It’s dumb as a post, dear.”

“No, I mean he was boring. I thought I was going to have to learn to sleep with my eyes open.”

Irfan had never missed a single beat during a state dinner, which Flip knew because they’d discussed at length how important it was to be engaged and informed, especially because certain factions would be hypercritical of them regardless. Trevor really was fairly boring, though.

“Can we be done dissecting my love life?” Flip pleaded. “You can meet Brayden tomorrow. But no shovel talk. We’re taking it slow.”

“I’d expect nothing less,” his mother said, and though her tone was warm, Flip could have sworn it held a hint of disappointment.

She stood, patting her husband’s leg as she did, and crossed to the desk to kiss the top of Flip’s head again.

“Get some sleep, sweetheart. I won’t have you begging off dances because you’re tired.

You don’t want to fall asleep on your date. ”

In fairness, Brayden had probably already seen him asleep with his mouth open on one of their transatlantic flights together. But still. “That would be rude of me.”

Irfan stood too and squeezed Flip’s shoulder. He waited until Mom was gone and then for Flip to meet his eyes. “Whatever happens with this boy, your mother and I just want you to be happy.”

Flip’s throat tightened. “Thanks, Dad.”

Then he was left alone.

He had a feeling sleep could prove elusive tonight.

Brayden was half terrified when his phone rang at eleven o’clock in the morning. He was just puttering out of the shower, debating how fancied up to get when he knew Celine would be picking him up in an hour to be professionally fussed over.

He was so flustered that he answered without checking the caller ID—rookie mistake.

“So this party you’re going to with this guy who’s not your sugar daddy,” Lina said, without waiting for him to say hello.

Brayden blinked and then checked the time. “Isn’t it, like, four in the morning where you are?”

“I wanted to make sure you didn’t have an excuse to blow me off.” She yawned into the phone. “Anyway. Talk.”

Brayden sighed, plucked his fancy new underwear from the box, and put them on. Then he immediately took them off and put on regular, plebeian underwear, because they felt entirely too good to wear while he was on the phone with his sister. “About what?”

“ About what , he says . I don’t know, about whatever event you’re going to that’s so fancy you’re not only going to wear a tuxedo, but having someone tailor one for you?”

Brayden decided he’d better not tell her that actually, he was pretty sure Bernadette was going to make the whole thing from scratch.

“It’s a charity ball. A fundraiser for a scholarship program that sends underprivileged kids all over the world to art school, or something.

” He could have described it better, but that ran the risk of Lina googling the thing and realizing who Brayden must be attending with.

No, thank you. He could do without his sister marrying him off to a prince, even in her head.

“Mm-hmm. So we’re talking multiple thousands of dollars a head. Not including your tuxedo.”

“Look, I met him at work, okay? He flies my usual Toronto to Paris and back. First class every time. Yeah, he’s rich. So what? A couple grand means nothing to him.”

Lina huffed. “Must be nice.”

“Right?”

“But okay. He’s rich. And you said he’s super hot.”

“Like the face of the sun,” Brayden confirmed.

“And this is just a favor. You’re not his real date, and he doesn’t expect you to put out at the end of the night, even though you totally would.”

“Succinctly put, thanks.”

He could practically hear her rolling her eyes. “Shut up. I’m trying to understand. He’s rich, he’s hot, he dates… but not you . He’s been recommending local places for you to go, so he’s obviously not a total asshole.”

“So…?”