Page 118 of The Thing About My Prince

A message flashes above Becca’s head on my screen, then vanishes before I can read it. I only catch the name.

“Hang on, I just got a text from Julian.” I open up my messages. “If Giles has gotten to him already and told him he’s found me out, I’ll fucking ki?—”

JULIAN

Sorry to bother you with bad news on a Saturday. But I’m afraid the war correspondent’s job has gone to Lee Regus. Out of my hands. Orders from on high. We’ll talk when you get back.

I don’t even realize I’m staggering backward until the backs of my legs hit the bed and I drop onto it, just missing the suitcase.

“What’s wrong? What did he say now?” Becca asks. “Are you about to faint? You look like you’re about to faint. Or are you going to puke? You also look like you might be about to puke. Lex, are you okay? Seriously, talk to me.”

It does indeed feel like every drop of blood has drained from my body and every ounce of life has been squeezed from my soul.

“The war correspondent’s job that was mine? It isn’t mine anymore.” My voice is weak, pathetic.

“What? Even Julian can’t be enough of a jerk to not give you the job he promised you if you write the book. Right?”

“He’s been told he has to give it to Lee Regus.”

“Nooo.” Becca’s suddenly on her feet, lollipop held in the air like a warning flag, shaking her head. “Why would they do that? That dude wouldn’t know a story if it smacked his whole freaking face off. And believe me, I’ve felt like doing that a few times.”

“Because he’s the owner’s son, of course.” Now I might actually throw up. “The nepo babies win again. Who cares about having skills when Daddy can give you whatever fucking job you want? Who cares about experience and talent when you never have to earn your place in life for a single second?”

Becca’s sitting again now. “Well, he’ll die on his incompetent ass out there with no coattails to hang on to. Here, in the office, he can coast on the backs of others. Out there, in a war zone, with no one to do the work for him, he’s bound to fuck up and get found out. Or shot. Then they’ll have to give the job to you anyway.”

“But I won’t be working there anymore for them to give it to.”

“What are you talking about?”

“They’re closing the Deskus, so this means that after the book, I have no job.”

“Fuck it all then,” she says. “No point writing the book if the new job they promised you for doing it has gone. Walk away from that too. Give the finger toThe Current, to Julian, to the fucked-up royals and their staff, and go plant a new stake somewhere your talents are more appreciated.”

“I can’t. I have to finish the book. I need to be able to pay rent until I can get a new job, and who knows how long that will take. I’ve never been unemployed. Never left one job until I had the next lined up. So this is financially terrifying. As is the thought of looking for something new. If I carry on with the book, they’ll at least have to pay me. Plus, Oliver’s side of the story needs to get out there.”

And wanting to do a good job for Oliver, to try to get his detractors to see that he’s not the lazy, partying, waste-of-space they think he is, feels equally as important as keeping a roof over my head and food in the fridge. That’s not something the me of a few weeks ago would have said—the mewho was repulsed by the very idea of collaborating with a royal.

Becca silently puts the candy back in her mouth and sucks on it, holding onto the stick.

“I guess even you have run out of ways to find a positive side to this,” I say.

She pulls out the lollipop.

“Well, I do have whiskey to go with the caramel brownie ice cream,” she ventures with a half-smile.

My head drops forward. “Yup. That’s where we stand. Pretty much nothing more useful I can do than get drunk and eat sugar.”

There’s a knock on the bedroom door.

“Miss?” It’s Dane’s voice. “Your flight is booked. It leaves in three hours. I’ll be waiting at the front door to take you to the airport whenever you’re ready.”

“Gotta go,” I say to Becca. “Text you when I land.”

I shove the phone in my purse, then my trembling hands attempt to yank the zipper closed on my case.

“Now is good,” I try to say to Dane, but the words squeak out of my tight throat. This whole situation is anything but good. But there’s nothing I can do about it.

After clearing my throat, I try again. “I’ll be right there.”