Page 35 of Prince Material (The Prince Pact #2)
I did know. The memory of that edited video, of headlines screaming accusations, made my chest tight.
“I’m afraid,” I admitted quietly. “Not of telling him, but of what might happen after. He’s such a private person, and his family’s been through so much already.
I don’t want to put them through more trauma. ”
“Oh, sweetheart.” Mom reached across the table to squeeze my hand. “You can’t protect him from everything. He has the right to make his own choice about whether this—whether you—are worth the complications that come with our life.”
“I know.” I stared down at my barely touched Christmas bread. “But what if he decides it’s not? What if?—”
“Then that would be his choice to make,” Mom said gently. “But from what you’ve told us about him, he sounds like someone who knows his own mind.”
Laurens snorted into his coffee. “That’s exactly what I told him.”
I shot him a grateful look, appreciating his support. “You should see him when he’s working on a problem. He analyzes every possible angle, considers all variables. He’s probably the most thorough person I’ve ever met.”
“Then trust him to apply that same thoroughness to this decision,” Dad said, his voice softening. “Give him all the information he needs, then let him choose.”
“And if he chooses you,” Mom added with a warm smile, “we’d love to meet him.”
Warmth spread through my chest. “You’ll love him, I promise.”
“Speaking of the press,” Dad said.
I sighed. “They’re asking about me, I know. Laurens told me.”
“Not merely asking,” Dad said, setting down his coffee cup. “They’re starting to dig. Margriet’s had inquiries about your absence from certain events, and someone spotted you at Logan Airport last month.”
My stomach dropped. “How close are they?”
“Close enough that we need to get ahead of this,” Mom said. “We can control the narrative if we announce your studies officially, maybe arrange some carefully managed press coverage?—”
“No.” The word came out sharper than I intended. “I mean, not yet. Please. Let me talk to Orson first. He deserves to hear everything from me, not from some press release.”
Dad studied me for a long moment, and I recognized his analytical face, the one he used when considering all factors before making a decision. The man was nothing if not thoughtful and thorough, rarely making an impulsive call. “You really care about him.”
“I do.” I met his gaze steadily. “More than I’ve ever cared about anyone.”
Something in his expression softened. “Then you need to tell him soon. The press will find you eventually. They always do. Better he hears it all from you first.”
“I know.” I ran a hand through my hair. “I don’t want to ruin what we have. Things are so good right now, you know?”
“Sometimes,” Maaike spoke up unexpectedly, “the hard conversations are what make relationships stronger.” She smiled when we all turned to look at her. “What? I’ve had my share of ‘by the way, you might be photographed grocery shopping’ talks with Laurens.”
My brother’s expression softened as he looked at her, and I felt a pang of longing. That’s what I wanted with Orson, that easy understanding, that shared knowledge that whatever came, we’d face it together.
“How did you adjust?” I asked her.
Maaike considered for a moment. “Honestly? It was terrifying at first. The idea that someone might be photographing me buying tampons or having a bad hair day?” She shuddered dramatically.
“But then I realized something important: the press might be interested in my life with Laurens, but they don’t get to define it. We do.”
“That’s… actually really helpful.” I smiled at her, grateful for the perspective. “How did you tell your family?”
“Oh, that was fun.” She grinned. “My dad nearly choked on his coffee when Laurens showed up for Sunday dinner. Turns out I probably should’ve warned them that I was dating a prince.
Though in my defense, how exactly do you casually mention that in conversation?
‘Pass the salt, and by the way, my boyfriend’s fourth in line to the throne’? ”
We all laughed, and some of the tension eased from my shoulders. “Orson’s family already knows, actually. His mom figured it out from Google.”
“Smart woman,” Mom said approvingly. “And how did she react?”
“She was amazing, actually. Treated me like any other guest. Made sure I tried her gumbo, teased me about my attempts at American slang.” The memory made me smile. “She has this way of making everyone feel welcome, you know?”
“Sounds like someone I’d like to meet,” Mom said softly, and my heart lifted at the implicit acceptance in her voice.
“You will,” I said, then quickly added, “If things work out. If he wants that.”
“If he’s half as special as you make him sound, he’d be a fool not to,” Dad said, surprising me with his warmth. “Though I have to ask: does he like football?”
“Marc!” Mom rolled her eyes. “That is not a requirement for dating our son.”
“It should be,” Dad protested with a grin. “We can’t have someone who doesn’t appreciate the beautiful game in the family.”
I tried to picture Orson with a football, or, as he would call it, a soccer ball, but I couldn’t even imagine it. He was so not the athletic type, but I didn’t care one bit. “I don’t think he’s even aware the game exists, but that’s okay. He has plenty of qualities to make up for that.”
As the talk transitioned into updates about the Eredivisie, our premier football league, and how well Ajax, our club, was doing, my thoughts drifted back to Orson. God, I missed him. Did he miss me too?