Page 98 of King of the Crease

She is just as confused. Meeting invitations rarely surprise her. Agnes taps around on her tablet. I go to stand behind her to get more information.

A Google search brings us to the website of Denizen and Associates.

Restore your reputation with lightning fast response, top level strategizing, and high impact messaging, reads the masthead.

“What the hell is this?” I ask her.

She looks up at me. “A public relations firm that specializes in crises.”

I have an idea of who set this meeting. It’s a Christmas gift from dear old dad.

I’ve gone from royal highness to a royal crisis.

A tall, blonde woman named Renata greets us with firm handshakes in one of the private studies in the palace. She wears a crisp blazer and heels so high they could be lethal weapons.

“Your Highness. Great to meet you,” she says in her American accent. Agnes sizes her up before shaking her hand.

After a brief introduction explaining what she does as a crisis PR manager, Renata sits in one of the chairs and tosses her hair over her shoulder.

“My team and I have assessed your current issue. Our goal is to get the press off your back, have the social media response die down, and let you go back to living your life. Because that’s what this is all about. You will be taking over for your father soon—I’m sending him and you my strongest prayers, by the way—and you don’t want this scandal to cloud the transition.”

“I’ve been keeping the prince out of the spotlight, minimizing his schedule to small, private meetings. Eventually, the news cycle will move on,” Agnes says, her back straight, refusing to be cowed by this woman.

“That’s a nice start, but it’s not a real strategy.” Renata tosses her hair and shoots Agnes a big, condescending smile. “Sure, you think the news cycle will move on, but as soon as Prince Nicholas returns to public engagements, it’s all the media will ask him about. This story is too juicy to sit on. It will continue to hound him unless we take offensive action.” She makes a chopping motion with her hand to emphasize each word.

“Did the king hire you?” I ask.

“His staff did.”

Perhaps I need a dose of forthright Americanness to get me through this debacle.

“Well, what’s your plan?” I sit down across from her.

Renata slides two folders across the table for Agnes and me.

A concise document, no more than ten pages, sits inside. Could one document cover my entire life?

“The best course of action is to change the narrative.” Renata stands and begins to pace, getting into presentation mode. “We can’t let this story define you. You have to define the story. For the time being, we’re going to keep having you lay low. No public events. Stay in the palace as much as possible.”

“You’re locking me away in a tower,” I mutter. “All I need is Rapunzel’s braid.”

“We’re doing this to salvage your reputation.”

“The palace’s reputation.”

“Same difference,” she shoots back. “While you stay hidden, we’re going to change the narrative. Step one: In the next forty-eight hours, we’re going to draft up a public statement explaining that the prince is being treated for substance abuse.”

“Substance abuse? That’s your solution?” Agnes says, her guffawing expression matching mine.

“You were very drunk in that video, Prince Nicholas. You were acting like a complete fool.”

“I was at a bar crawl!”

“Royalty does not go to bar crawls,” Renata says, again with the chopping motion. She might as well be castrating me.

“I don’t have a drinking problem.”

“It’s not about truth. It’s about perception,” Renata explains. “Saying that you have a problem with alcohol will keep the ‘party boy’ labels away from you. It will deflect from what you were doing in that video. The press can’t mock you for being drunk when they know it’s a condition you have. Most importantly, it will garner sympathy for you. Nobody likes a drunk, partying royal.”