It's one thing to read about the death of someone in an online news article, or to see their face plastered all over the media, but another thing entirely to experience that loss first-hand.

I should know.  My father's death when I was a child rocked me to my core.

“Neuroendocrine Carcinoma," he says, his voice flat.  "It's a rare form of cancer."

"I'm sorry," I say, my words insufficient, the way words always seem to be when it comes to loss.

Albie makes a sound in his throat, more like a 'heh' than a laugh, avoiding looking at me.  "I'm sorry," he says.  "I've heard it a thousand times.  Just like you probably have."

"Yes," I say. "It doesn't change anything."

"No," he says, his gaze still fixated out the window.  It's the first time since I've been here in Protrovia that I think maybe Albie is deeper than he appears at first glance.  Until now, Albie didn't seem to have much running below the surface.

"And now they're both getting remarried," I say, my voice soft.  I'm not sure how I feel about it.  I'm not sure I've had enough time to get used to the idea.

It's not the fact that my mother is remarrying that takes some getting used to.  She has certainly dated since my father's death.  She even came close to getting married again, to a big Wall Street guy who ran a huge hedge fund.  She called that off last-minute, which in retrospect, was a good thing, considering he was indicted a few years later for some white-collar crime I can't recall.

“Yes,” Albie says, looking at me, his expression serious for the first time since we met.  “Do you think my father can compare to yours?”

The question takes me aback, and I can’t hide the question in my tone.  “Your father is a king, Albie,” I say.  “You’re literally the most powerful family in this country.  And you’re asking me how your father measures up to mine?”

The question is ridiculous.  My father was a self-made millionaire, who built an empire, a fortune from nothing.  All of that was before I was born, though.  I grew up rich, with the best of everything.  I never wanted for anything.

But I know where I come from.  And where I belong.

And where I come from is definitely not royalty.

“That’s what I’m asking,” he says, his gaze intense.  “What I read about your father…his story…it’s amazing what he built.”

I can’t help but raise my eyebrows.  “Your father is a king,” I say, my words clipped.  Talking about my father, makes the car ride suddenly more intense than I anticipated.  This isn’t what I expected when I agreed to a tour of Protrovia.

Being alone with the playboy prince isn't what I expected, either.

I look out the window at the countryside passing in a blur as we drive, the greens and blues of the landscape and the greys and browns of the stone cottages whizzing by, and try to forget the growing tightness in my chest.

“My family has ruled this kingdom for five hundred years,” Albie says.  “Do you know what that’s like?”

The question jerks me out of the melancholy triggered by thinking about my father.  “Of course I don’t know what it’s like to be royal,” I say.  My voice comes out harsher than I intend it to be.

“No,” he says.  “But your father – I read the articles about him in the business journals.  He started from nothing.  That’s something, Belle.”

“I don’t have a pedigree,” I say stupidly.  I don’t understand where this conversation is going, but it makes me feel anxious.  My father has been gone for a long time, and I can’t remember the last time my mother and I talked about him.

“Exactly,” he says.  “Do you know what it’s like to do nothing?  To have everything passed down to you, simply because you were born who you are?”

“I haven’t exactly had to earn my way in life,” I point out.  “I’m not a plucky girl from the wrong side of the tracks who’s had to fight her way through life to get what she has.  My father left me millions of dollars.”

“No, I don’t suppose so,” Albie says.  “Except what did you do with the money?”

I roll my eyes and look out the window, breaking away from his gaze.  I’m irritated by the thought that Albie seems to have looked up everything there is to know about me just to satisfy his damn curiosity.  “I’m not some kind of Mother Theresa."

“No,” he says.  “You took the money and set up a foundation, then went and spent two years in Africa working for a charity.”

“Yes.” I don’t elaborate.  I’m starting to feel overheated, claustrophobic in this car with him.  I don’t like talking about myself, don’t like being the center of attention, and Albie is putting me on the spot.  I don’t need to explain to this man – this stranger, whom I barely know – why I left when I graduated college, why I didn’t take the trust fund and blow it on some fabulous lifestyle, the way my mother encouraged me to do.

“You should have some fun, Belle,” she said, looking at me with sadness in her eyes.  “You’re too serious.  Life shouldn’t be so serious.”

She’d definitely never taken life seriously.  Wealth, power, parties, socializing…that was what kept my mother going.

She couldn’t understand.

I didn’t want my father’s money.  It was just a reminder of his death.  And that’s the last thing I wanted to be reminded of.

Albie doesn’t say anything else, and neither do I during the rest of the car ride.  Instead, I watch out the window as we pass houses that are closer together as we come to a small village.  I don’t know what to make of Albie’s questions, except to think that maybe he’s not as flippant about life as I thought he was.  I’m not sure if that makes me like him more or less.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Albie

I feel like I fucked up somehow with Belle, as if a cloud, a sense of heaviness, has descended over the car ever since I mentioned her father.  Belle has me on edge since I met her in the casino.  With her, I feel like I’m perpetually making missteps.

That’s not something I do when it comes to women.

I’m a master at bedding women, leveraging my status and privilege and wealth and looks to get into their panties.  Belle should be no exception.

But I’ve somehow managed to turn things melancholy instead of light.

I’m the fuck-up prince, the irresponsible one, the man who doesn’t want to be king.  I don’t do serious, so I have no idea why I’m having a remotely serious conversation with Belle about our dead parents.

That’s fucking depressing.

It’s like, the exact opposite of what I should be doing to get in her panties.

Noah taps the brakes as we head into the small village, traffic slowing the vehicle to a near crawl.  A banner with colored flags stretches across the archway at the beginning of the main road through town, a cobblestone path that is routinely closed to traffic.  Today, that stretch of road is crowded with pedestrians, throngs of families who are here for a summer festival.

I tap on the divider, and it goes down.  “Turn right down here, Noah.”

“I’ll go down and around town,” Noah disagrees, shaking his head.  This isn’t the first time we’ve gone into the village, and Noah knows the back roads and ways to bypass traffic far better than I do.

“Do you come down here a lot?” Belle asks, finally breaking the silence between us.  I don’t know why, but I feel myself exhale with relief.

“Alex and I used to sneak out here all the time in the summer,” I say.  “It used to piss off my father.”

“He didn’t want you running around with the commoners?” she asks.

“No,” I say, laughing.  “It was more of an issue with security risk than anything else.  He’s perpetually convinced I’m going to be assassinated.”