Page 4 of The Royal in Room 3

Three months ago, I’d had a valet, a security detail, a formal schedule, and a country that expected me to become king one day.

Now all I had was one phone call in jail.

And like an idiot, I had used it to call Bastian, the royal household’s most terrifying butler. But he was also trustworthy and my father’s confidant. He would be discreet, so this little news wouldn’t get out to the press while he was sending help.

“Lower your voice,” I whispered. “No one else must know.”

“I will not lower my voice,” Bastian said, sounding as though I had personally dragged the entire monarchy through filth. “You will explain yourself immediately.”

“There is nothing to explain. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“And yet here you are, calling me from a police station.”

“A temporary police station.”

“That is not a category of police station!”

“It is temporary because I don’t intend to remain here, and as soon as someone listens to me, they’ll let me go.”

“Prince Soren.”

I closed my eyes.

God, that tone.

Bastian had been with the Royal Household since before I was born, and when he said my name like that, I became eight years old again, standing beside a shattered porcelain urn while insisting the family dog looked suspicious.

“I did not commit a crime,” I said.

“Then why are you in jail?”

“Because Americans don’t listen very well,” I said, aware that my tone was impatient. “And when you try to explain that your friends are the ones responsible for the restaurant bill and not you, the police aren’t very helpful.”

I stared directly at the junk-food-eating cop, who only snickered at me, proving my point. Something told me it wasn’t the first time he had heard that complaint.

From somewhere on Bastian’s end of the line came the faint clink of china.

“A restaurant bill,” he repeated. “You were arrested over food?”

“Not food. The bill following the food. There’s a distinction.”

“Not enough of a distinction to improve this situation.”

I turned my shoulder toward the room, trying to make myself smaller, which was difficult when one had spent an entire childhood being trained to stand tall.

“Some people invited me to dinner,” I said. “They left before the bill arrived, and I didn’t have enough to cover it.”

“Have you blown through the money your father gave you?”

“Maybe, but it was for a good cause. See, I met this woman who had a sick daughter⁠—”

“Prince Soren, enough with the excuses. I thought you wanted to prove to everyone who doubted you that you were not a screwup! This does not help your case in any way.”

“I didn’t leave. I was told to get out.”

But he was right. When I left Belvaria, crushed at walking away from my family, I had vowed to make something of myself and show them that I wasn’t helpless. I could take care of myself and be successful on my own.

This was hardly what success looked like.