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Finally alone for the first time since I awoke in my Washington hotel room, I lean back on the sofa, kick off my shoes, and let out a thankful sigh.
Going on these publicity junkets, trying to drum up interest in tourists visiting our fair shores, may be my duty and it might even be fun at times, but there is really nothing like finally getting home.
And, if I’m honest, home isn't exactly a chore. How much of a chore can a palace with 41 bedrooms, 11 state rooms, a private swimming pool, a doctor’s surgery, a post office, a bowling alley, a cinema, who knows how many bathrooms, stables, ornate gardens, a 4 km long wine cellar, gaming arcade, sauna, three hot tubs, and a pond that's more the size of a lake be?
I hear it. Poor little rich boy.
But really, it's all designed so we don’t need to leave. Got a crick in your neck? We’ve got an on-call osteopath for that. Fancy a swim? First, you’ll need to decide whether it’s inside or out, and whether you prefer a pool or a pond. Fancy a midnight feast of baked beans on toast? A visit to the kitchen’s walk-in fridge supplies many choices, ready and waiting to be devoured.
In my quarters, I have a living room, dining room, three bathrooms, and two guest bedrooms, as well as my master bedroom. Really, it's more like an apartment, housed within the confines of the palace. My father gave it to me when I turned 21, a kind of “now you're a man you need your own digs” gesture I think, and I’ve lived here happily ever since.
Well, I say “happily”, but sometimes, I’ll admit, it is rather lonely.
I may have everything I need at my fingertips, but sometimes this place feels like a luxurious prison from which I can't leave. If I do, I usually have an entourage of bodyguards, my personal secretary, and my publicity officer, to name a few.
So I'm either surrounded by people, putting on a show, or I'm here, in my rooms, alone.
Of course I do have company here sometimes. My sisters barge in at inopportune moments, always with instructions to give (Sofia, my older sister who seems to know better than me on all subjects at all times), or stories to tell (Amelia and Max, my two younger siblings, who are both a whole lot more fun than Sofia, and an antidote to my life as heir to the throne). I have some friends, too, although I see less of them now that they're living their own lives with their partners, out in the world.
And then there are the female visitors, the ones who I meet, have a flirtation with, with whom perhaps things develop into something more for a brief while until they realize I’m not who they think I am and leave.
I didn't get my reputation as a player in the past by sitting on my thumbs all day long, you know.
And, for a while, I enjoyed that lifestyle. Who wouldn’t? I was the center of attention, the man women were drawn to simply by virtue of who I am. I didn’t even need to try. Any party, any occasion, I would automatically be surrounded by women throwing me flirtatious looks, asking me about my life as a prince. My DMs were so full I had to employ another assistant just to keep up.
But that lifestyle, as fun as it was at the time, got old.
Now, since I made the decision I want to find love, things have been… slower. Maybe it's me and the types of women I attract, but they all seem simply too dazzled by my title to be genuine.
None of them have given me that feeling I’ve been searching for.
I must have nodded off because the next thing I know my mother and Sofia burst into the room, waking me from a rather pleasant dream in which I'm back at the White House, dancing with Freya, and she asks my opinion on something that has nothing to do with me being a prince.
Clearly a dream.
From my prostrate position, I blink at them, contemplating the very useful benefits of deploying the lock on my door.
Oddly, Sofia is wearing a ball gown, in full flight on one of her rants, as usual. Seriously, my sister rants more than the official Ranter of Ledonia. And yes, we do have an official Ranter, a job carried out by the most annoyed of citizens who love to complain. It was a position created by my great-great grandfather, King Oscar IX, I imagine more as a joke than anything else. But we’ve had an official Ranter ever since.
“I cannot believe that you actually think an arranged marriage in this century is appropriate, Mummy,” Sofia says. Her hands are held in tight fists on her hips and she's glaring at our mother in that oldest child kind of way she does so very well.
“Who's having an arranged marriage?” I question with a yawn from my rather comfortable spot on the sofa.
“All the women of this family if we’re not married by the time we’re 28,” Sofia declares. “It's fine for you. You and Max are both males. You get to do whatever you like, simply by virtue of the fact that you have a?—”
“That's quite enough, thank you, Sofia,” our mother snaps before my sister begins to label the male appendage.
She's done it before.
Our mother is never happy about it.
“And another thing,” Sofia continues, clearly fully committed to her rant. “This whole ‘the son gets to inherit the throne’ business is a throwback to Medieval times. Medieval! Even though I’m a full 12 months older than him, it's like I don't even exist!”
Drama queen.
Only now that I think about it, that's the only queen Sofia will ever be.
I feel a sting of sorrow for her.
