Prince Albert(26)

“The Prince is under a bit of a delusion, I’m afraid,” Noah says, as he pulls down the drive. “He believes he’s more clever and unobtrusive than he is.”

I choke back a laugh. “I’ve definitely gotten that impression.”

“If you don't think my ‘stache is the very definition of unobtrusive, I’m afraid we can’t be friends any longer, Noah,” Albie says.

“I feel sorry for you, Noah,” I say, shaking my head.

“Why?” he asks, his eyes forward as he drives us outside of the walled estate and down the weaving, winding road toward wherever the hell we’re going. I realized that I have no idea what Albie's plan is, yet I’m blindly following his direction as if I don’t have a care in the world.

“I'm sorry that you got stuck with this assignment to guard the prince,” I say.

“It’s a sacrifice,” Noah says. “King and country and all.”

Albie laughs, hitting a button that automatically slides up a partition between us and Noah. “That’s enough from him,” he says.

“You guys are really close,” I note.

“Noah tolerates a lot of crap from me,” he says. "He came on around the time my mom got sick."

“I can only imagine the shit he must put up with,” I say, only half-joking. From the magazine articles and media frenzy that surround the playboy prince, I can definitely see how difficult it would be to manage him.

I expect Albie to laugh, but when I look over at him, his gaze is focused out the window, his expression guarded.

“How did your mom die?" I ask, even though I already know she died. The death of Queen Sigrid was all over the media after it happened. I was in my senior year of high school. I still remember the memorials, the songs written about her. And like everyone else around the world, I remember the photo of Prince Albert and Princess Alexandra, standing beside their father, staid and unflinching, pain written all over their faces.

It's one thing to read about the death of someone in an online news article, or to see their face plastered all over the media, but another thing entirely to experience that loss first-hand.

I should know. My father's death when I was a child rocked me to my core.

“Neuroendocrine Carcinoma," he says, his voice flat. "It's a rare form of cancer."

"I'm sorry," I say, my words insufficient, the way words always seem to be when it comes to loss.

Albie makes a sound in his throat, more like a 'heh' than a laugh, avoiding looking at me. "I'm sorry," he says. "I've heard it a thousand times. Just like you probably have."

"Yes," I say. "It doesn't change anything."

"No," he says, his gaze still fixated out the window. It's the first time since I've been here in Protrovia that I think maybe Albie is deeper than he appears at first glance. Until now, Albie didn't seem to have much running below the surface.

"And now they're both getting remarried," I say, my voice soft. I'm not sure how I feel about it. I'm not sure I've had enough time to get used to the idea.

It's not the fact that my mother is remarrying that takes some getting used to. She has certainly dated since my father's death. She even came close to getting married again, to a big Wall Street guy who ran a huge hedge fund. She called that off last-minute, which in retrospect, was a good thing, considering he was indicted a few years later for some white-collar crime I can't recall.

“Yes,” Albie says, looking at me, his expression serious for the first time since we met. “Do you think my father can compare to yours?”

The question takes me aback, and I can’t hide the question in my tone. “Your father is a king, Albie,” I say. “You’re literally the most powerful family in this country. And you’re asking me how your father measures up to mine?”

The question is ridiculous. My father was a self-made millionaire, who built an empire, a fortune from nothing. All of that was before I was born, though. I grew up rich, with the best of everything. I never wanted for anything.

But I know where I come from. And where I belong.

And where I come from is definitely not royalty.

“That’s what I’m asking,” he says, his gaze intense. “What I read about your father…his story…it’s amazing what he built.”

I can’t help but raise my eyebrows. “Your father is a king,” I say, my words clipped. Talking about my father, makes the car ride suddenly more intense than I anticipated. This isn’t what I expected when I agreed to a tour of Protrovia.

Being alone with the playboy prince isn't what I expected, either.

I look out the window at the countryside passing in a blur as we drive, the greens and blues of the landscape and the greys and browns of the stone cottages whizzing by, and try to forget the growing tightness in my chest.