Page 3 of The Thing About My Prince

“Excellent. I knew you’d see the light.” Julian slides a sheet of printed paper across the table to me. “You have to sign the NDA before I can tell you anything else.”

“Seriously? A non-disclosure agreement? Is this some YouTube influencer who’s got everything completely out of proportion?”

“I can’t tell you till you sign it.” He offers me his gold pen.

I quickly scan the page. It’s all the usual stuff, so I take Julian’s pen and scrawl my name at the bottom.

He glances over at the small square window in his door as if checking to see if anyone might be close enough to listen.

“You’re not recording this, are you?” he asks.

“What? No. Of course I’m not recording this. Why on earth would I be recording this?” I yank my phone from my pocket, wake it up, and set it on his desk. “See?”

“Okay.” He clasps his hands on top of my NDA and looks me dead in my eyes. “It’s Prince Oliver.”

I lean forward, sensing my brow crinkling as I replay his words to be sure I didn’t mishear.“What? Who?”

“Prince Oliver. As in, the British prince. As in the grandson of the King of Eng?—”

“Yes, I know who he is. The whole world knows who he is. But this can’t be whose book I’ve been asked to write. It can’t be.”

“Why not?”

“Because that would be ridiculous.”

“Why would that be ridiculous, Alexandra?”

“Because I can’t write Prince Oliver’s memoir.”

“Of course you can. Like I said, you’re an excellent writer and the Sabrina Summers book was a massive bestseller.”

“It was bad enough that I had to work with someone who only got her break because Daddy is an executive at the label and everyone’s scared of him. But this guy is a fucking prince. There is no more privileged sector of society than the royals.”It’s impossible to suppress the surge of disgust rising within me. “I have morals, Julian.”

“And are those morals more important than your career?” He raises his bushy eyebrows. “The conflict correspondent’s job, remember?”

“Yes, I remember. But I can’t be responsible for a puff piece promoting a wealthy member of an outdated hereditary monarchy whose existence on the planet is utterly pointless.”

“I don’t think he is rich anymore. Not since he walked away from that monarchy and moved here. Hence the memoir. He needs the money.”

“So I’m supposed to write something that will shore up an entitled playboy who has no useful skills?” I let out an exasperated sigh and hold up my hands to the sky. “Julian, you know me better than this.”

Of all the members of the royal family it could have been, Prince Oliver is the worst. For the last couple of decades, the media’s been littered with photographs of him partying it up in clubs, on yachts, and in exclusive ski lodges, surrounded by models and champagne.

Though, now that I come to think of it, things have been a bit quiet for the few years since he moved to the US. One of the staff here even thought she saw him in their local coffee shop a while ago, ordering a mango and dragon fruit drink, but couldn’t be certain because the guy had a baseball cap pulled down low.

“I do indeed know that you threw your heart and soul into the exposé on how influential families buy their not-very-bright offspring places at elite educational institutions,” Julian says. “And the piece you spearheaded about rich kids getting away with crimes anyone else would be jailed for because their parents funded top lawyers was excellent.”

“And I did a ton of research for Carol’s piece on how the Grossman family spent a fortune funding political campaigns for candidates who’d vote against environmental laws thatwould increase costs at the Grossman’s paper production factories,” I add.

“Yes, yes. That too. You have a fantastic record when it comes to exposing the corruption of the wealthy.”

“Thehereditarilywealthy.”

“Yup. Got it. I know it’s your thing.”

“And there are few more entrenched institutions of hereditary wealth in the world than the British royal family. All built off the back of goodness knows what exploitation way back when.”

“Yes. But.” Julian raises his clasped hands off the desk and rests his chin on them. “You do want me to send you to Belarus, don’t you?” He laughs softly to himself. “Most people would think that was the losing option, but you are one of the rarities who sees it as a win.”