“And since when do you care about love, Magnus? Have you ever been in love? Do you want to be in love? Is that what you’re doing every night with all these different women, are you bedding them because you’re searching for love?”

I blink at him for a moment, my thoughts becoming heavy, clouded. “No. I don’t know what I’m looking for.”

“And I know you don’t love any of them either. So what’s the difference?”

I give him a poignant look. I really don’t want to explain, but he’s leaving me no choice. “I like sex. Okay?”

My father rolls his eyes and snorts. “Dear boy. That is more than apparent. I know this is the last thing you want to hear, but just because you’re getting married doesn’t mean you stop having sex.”

I throw my hands up. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t want to marry someone I don’t know, let alone someone I do know. I don’t want to have sex with the same woman for the rest of my life.”

He cocks a brow. “Not even if it’s good sex?”

I don’t want to talk about this anymore. It’s still beyond mind-boggling that we’re even having this conversation to begin with.

“I don’t know what else to say,” I tell him, “other than I don’t want to do this and you have to understand why. It’s 2018. This sort of shit shouldn’t happen.”

“You’d be surprised how many marriages out there—genuinely happy ones—started out just this way. Royals, celebrities, we’re all very good at pulling the wool over the public’s eyes. And that’s precisely what we’re going to do with you. You will marry someone, Magnus, or you won’t be king. You will marry someone and your relationship will look believable to the world, and I promise you, in time, if you let it happen, you will learn to believe it too.”

He hands me the clipboard and I’m surprised to find my hands are shaking as I hold it, my eyes glancing absently at the girl on the first page, some pretty, dark-haired brunette princess from Spain. Who isn’t too far from the women I date but marriage is a whole other ballgame.

“Your mother is looking for prestige. And looks,” my father says to me with a wink. “So she can have grandchildren the world will fawn over. But, Son, don’t go for that. Go for the nicest, smartest one. The one with the biggest heart and the boldest mouth. Being kept on your toes is more attractive than anything, believe me. Have a smart woman in your marriage and you’ll never be bored a day in your life. Be with someone you can have a conversation with, who will challenge you, no matter what she looks like.”

So far in life, my ideal woman has been someone who keeps me on my toes until I’m ready to move on to someone else who keeps me on my toes. I don’t think any type of personality—or looks—will change the fact that after a week or so, I’m already moving on and looking for someone else. I’m not even doing that to be a non-committal asshole, I honestly have never met anyone who captures the attention of my heart, soul, and dick for long enough.

When I look up from the clipboard, my father’s eyes are closed and his head is back against the chair.

“Father?” I ask softly, and his eyes open briefly.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “I’m afraid I’ve gotten to the useless part of the night.” He yawns and then closes his eyes again. “Remember, we’re not only doing this for all of us. We’re doing it for you, too. You just can’t see it yet, but one day you will. You’ll see that...” He trails off and starts to snore.

I stare at him for a few moments, wishing I could talk to him more, selfishly, of course, just to argue and try and get out of this. But there is no getting out of this.

After I leave his room, the nurse comes back in to help him to bed and I wander the halls aimlessly, not sure what to do with myself and how to handle the ticking time bomb I’m holding in my hands. My mother and sisters all seem to have disappeared, so I hunt down Einar and he takes me back to my place.

With my father’s words ringing through my head, I turn on a lamp, sit down in my armchair with a beer, and start flipping through the pages of princesses.

Three

Ella

St. Andrews, Scotland

I’m having that dream again.

The one where I’m standing on the pebbled shoreline of some northern island, maybe the Outer Hebrides of Scotland, maybe the Faroe Islands. The clouds are low, dark, and broken, stretching from the gray horizon of the sea across to the barren lands behind me. The wind is strong and sharp, the kind that would drive you insane over time.

As usual, I am alone on the beach. Alone, except for the dozens of beached pilot whales that stretch out in the surf, their shiny black bodies floundering for air, struggling to breathe. The waves pound over them but it’s not enough to carry them back into the sea.

They are dying and I am powerless to stop them. I can only stand there and stare. My mouth is mute.

Then the black oil bubbles up from their blowholes, a sticky ebony glaze that coats them, the waves, the shore, until it’s swirling around my ankles, then my knees. I will drown with them here.

But this time the dream changes. Off in the distance, from around the bend of the clay cliffs, I see the figure of a tall man, sloshing through the oil toward me.

He’s come to save me.

For the first time, this dream brings a ray of hope along with it.

But before he gets any closer, the oil rises, and I am covered from head to toe, unable to breathe, unable to speak.

Unable to scream.

I wake up as I usually do, sweating and out of breath and it takes me a few moments to realize where I am.

In my room.

In the evening.

The last vestiges of twilight coming in through the window.

What on earth just happened?

I blink and fumble for my phone, finding it underneath my arm. It’s seven forty-five in the evening. The wine and cheese party started fifteen minutes ago.

“Shit,” I swear, jumping out of bed. Thank god I’m fully clothed and still wearing makeup so I can just join the fun. I didn’t mean to fall asleep, but I guess that’s what happens when you have too many late nights of studying in a row.

I double-check myself in the mirror to make sure I don’t look horrendous and then head out the door into the lounge and kitchen area that I share with my three other roommates, ready to apologize for falling asleep and being late.

Except that there’s no one here. The flat is empty.

Odd.

“Audrey!” I call out, not wanting to go around banging on their doors. “Catherine?”

I look at my phone again. It’s Thursday night and it’s wine and cheese night here in our dorm. Or at least it’s supposed to be. That was what Audrey had said before I closed the door to my room and proceeded to pass out.

Actually, that was what I had said to her. “I got the best gouda I could find for tonight,” I’d told her, overly proud, like the big dork that I am. Only I don’t think she ever responded to me, just gave me a tight smile and kept walking past.

Shit. What if wine and cheese night isn’t tonight?

I take in a deep breath and try to think. I’ve only been living in this dorm for a month now and the girls had said they wanted to do a wine and cheese night on the first Thursday night of the month. And it’s the first Thursday of October, so…

Maybe they went out and they’re late coming back, I think to myself, trying to stay positive. I go over to the fridge and take out the gouda and sopressa plate I had made earlier, surprised to see all their cheese plates are gone. They were there this morning.

I don’t know the girls that well. I’ve been trying to for the last month but making friends doesn’t come easy to me, especially when they discover who I really am and that ship sailed the moment they found out that Jane was living down the hall.

I lean against the kitchen counter and peel back the plastic wrap I’d put over the cheese, sneaking a slice and munching on it with a defeated sigh. I’d really been looking forward to tonight. I’d been studying so much lately and just throwing myself into all my classes, and my social life has come at a cost. Now I’m trying to catch up, as is what seems to happen every school year. I just thought maybe this year, my third year, would be different.

I gather my courage and text Audrey since she’s the one who is usually the nicest to me: Hey Audrey it’s your flatmate Ella! Just wondering where you are. I thought the wine and cheese party was tonight and I fell asleep so I think I missed you.

Thankfully she doesn’t take too long to get back to me. I’m in the middle of a second piece of gouda when I get her text: Party is already happening. It’s over at Zelda’s at Hawthorne Hall. Didn’t want to wake you.

I swallow hard as I stare at the text. Ouch. The party was moved. I wasn’t told. They didn’t want to wake me up. I don’t know who Zelda is and I think I’ve been told to bugger off.

With shaking hands, I text back: Okay, thanks! I’ll see you when you get home. And then add a bunch of wine and cheese emojis.

Shit. I know I shouldn’t feel upset by all of this, but I’m always the one tagging along, never feeling welcome. There’s a reason I’ve been a loner for most of my life.

Most of it has to do with the fact that as hard as I try to be average, I’m not your average girl. My father is the Prince of Liechtenstein, which makes me a princess. Princess Isabella, to be more precise.

It's more in title than anything else. There are no kings and queens in my country and it's not a monarchy. Prince is just another word for leader and my father is the head of state, having full power along with the government. Nonetheless, I grew up as the sole daughter of the leader of a tiny European country, which means I was raised in a world that was exclusively for the powerful and wealthy.

I wasn't alone in it, not at the beginning anyway. I have three older brothers who are mirror images of my father. Our mother died when I was just three years old. Cancer. Apparently it took a long time for her to succumb to the disease, barely hanging on while the world's best doctors couldn't do a thing for her. They say my father was a different person after she died, which makes me wish I knew him before.