Prince Albert(86)

"My point is this," he says. "I've seen you with a lot of women, but none like Belle. She loves you and you love her. It's apparent to anyone who sees you together, and if it isn't apparent, well, then they're fucking blind."

"She should have fucking stayed," I say, more anger in my words than I expected.

"She's scared," Noah says, his voice softening.

So am I. But I didn't run away.

I can't believe she just left. Without so much as a goodbye.

I'm angry at her for leaving, but I'm more angry at our parents – especially Sofia – for deciding that the best response would be for the PR team to descend on Belle like a swarm of locusts. And I'm angry at myself for telling my father about the Vegas marriage.

I don't even wait until dinner to see my father and Sofia. Instead, I go straight to the King's wing of the house, where he and Sofia sit inside the living room of their suite, Sofia on an armchair surrounded by a copy of every newspaper and magazine available, splayed out on a coffee table.

Our faces are plastered across the front page of all of them, a million different headlines, all of them promising tales of scandal.

"Albert," Sofia says. "There you are. I knew you'd see reason. See, Leo? We've been discussing a plan for PR."

"You know she's gone," I say. "You drove her away. With all of your concern about image and PR and bringing in Erika – Belle left."

"I'm sorry about Erika," she says. "I didn't think it would be such a big deal."

"You didn't think it would be such a big deal?" I ask, shaking my head in disbelief.

"At the engagement party, I'd heard you and Erika had…" Her voice trails off, and her cheeks redden. They actually redden. Maybe the woman doesn't have ice in her veins after all.

"That we'd fucked?" I ask, not caring about the use of vulgarity in front of the soon-to-be-Queen or my father. "No, Sofia, it wasn't Erika I screwed at the engagement party. It was your daughter."

"Albert!" my father booms, his voice echoing in the room. "That will be quite enough."

"I don't think so," I say. "I married Belle. And it wasn't anything in the beginning, but now it is. Was. Maybe it's past tense; I don't know. All I know is that I don't care about all of this. I don't care whether you approve or not."

"The wedding is weeks away," Sofia protests. "It's obscene, right before the –"

"You know what?" I don't even know what I'm saying before I say it. None of this is planned or thought out. It should be. It would be more mature that way, more reasonable. "Screw the wedding. And -- "

A single knock interrupts what I'm about to say, the 'screw the throne' rant I'm about to dive headfirst into, and Alex bursts into the room. "Get out, Alex," I say.

“I’m sleeping with Max.”

“Oh my,” Sophia says, her hand over her chest. “Apparently today this family is all about disclosing way too much personal information. Who’s Max?”

“He’s my bodyguard,” Alex says, her tone imperious. She turns around and points as Max follows her into the room and stops short, looking back and forth between us.

“Oh shit,” Max says, only partly under his breath.

“You’ve got that right,” Sophia says.

“So if you’re mad at Albie, you can be mad at me, too,” Alex says. “Did you tell them you’re in love with Belle?”

Sofia looks at us her eyes wide. "You're not in love with Belle," she says.

"Oh please," Alex huffs. "He's in love with her. I've never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at her. And now she's off running around Europe because he didn't have the balls to tell her how he felt."

"Didn't have the balls to tell her?" I ask. "She went running off before I could even say – "

"You heard what I said," Alex says. "No balls. You missed your shot with her. And she ran off because she didn't want all the drama."

"You mean, all of this drama?"

"Silence!" my father yells, his voice cutting through our bickering. "The two of you are not children anymore, so stop acting like it!"

"I didn't even do anything!" Alex squeals. "I'm trying to tell him what's good for him."

"Enough!" My father yells in the voice that we all know means business. He walks over to the bar against the wall and pours himself a glass of scotch from the crystal decanter, his movements slow and deliberate.

None of us speak.

Alex and I watch as he sips from the glass, then sets the tumbler down on the bar. He places his palms on the top of the bar, standing with his shoulders slumped as if he's carrying the weight of the world.