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Older than me, his legitimate daughter.
So, he must have sired the child, him or her, while his wife was still alive—my mother, the princess of Austria.
So, naturally, because of that, people want me to die.
***
All my life, people have been saying things about me. And I have been listening.
I have to.
They said I was too weak, so I gave up basketball, which is my one true love, and started doing bench presses and martial arts.
They said my hair was too wild, so I straightened it, even though I loved my wild afro, a gift passed down on me from my French-Senegalese dad, along with my dark skin and sharp cheekbones.
They said I was too thin, so I ate more.
They said my skin was too brown, so I began to dress in beige and black, which I hate, in order to blend in with the background.
They said I could never get to higher education, as I am the heir to the throne, and should never stray far from Asteria for years. So, I applied to all the universities I could think of. In America.
They said that I shouldn’t go to an Ivy League, because of the security issues, and there was no negotiation on that. So here I am in UVM—actually, it was dad’s idea that I go to a place like Vermont. It would be easier, he and his advisors decided, to keep me safe and hidden here.
Once again, I agreed. For one thing, I would get to go to university, no matter what, and for another, Vermont was as far away from Europe as I could get. A win, in my mind, back then.
So it goes, my life.
People say things, I do them. That’s all there is to being a royal. Fun, right? Not.
Now they say I should die. Now what do I do?
/Marco/
Here is how it happened: The king was something of a playboy.
Isn’t that how the best stories always start? The worst ones too.
Anyway, he was one. A big one. He had like three or more girls at a time. Not girlfriends, he was just casually sleeping around with them. All of them royal, or somehow palace-related: Aides, interns, distant relations to royals, that sort of thing. One was American. The other, the princess of Austria. Another was the cousin of his best friend. And that’s only the three I have heard of.
I have not been told who the women were, or who the children he fathered with them are. Well, one of them is the princess, obviously. The other two? I have no idea.
All I know is that apparently, the king is gifted in the… sperm department.
Sorry, mom. For saying sperm. Twice. The whole world is talking about the royal semen right now, not that it makes it any less gross. Sorry again, mom.
Anyway, all three girlfriends of His Majesty’s fell pregnant at pretty much the same time.
One of them married him.
Guess which one it was. Yeah, the Crown Princess’ mom. She died shortly afterwards, giving birth to his daughter. I have no idea what happened to the other women or the other babies. No one heard from them until two days ago, when the news of their existence exploded across social media and news channels.
I don’t know much about the whole thing, except that it’s just broken out, so my team and I had to be made aware of ‘some basic facts’.
Well, most of what I actually know is based on hearsay, and not on the brief we got from the palace. That was focused on the danger this piece of news might bring on the royal family. That was it.
So I actually know nothing, except for this:
One of the kids was born the heir (heiress) to the throne and the others weren’t. The mothers got paid off and swept under the rug—maybe some of them got married as well. Maybe not. The not-heirs were kept a secret, as if they had never existed.
