Prince material, p.1
Prince Material, page 1
PRINCE MATERIAL
NORA PHOENIX
CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Epilogue
Thank you!
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About the Author
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PROLOGUE
FLORIS
I sprawled in one of the ancient, wooden loungers that had probably seen more royal butts than the throne itself. The evening sun painted long shadows across the perfectly manicured lawns of Het Oude Loo, the palace that had been my home all my life, and the garden’s familiar scents—freshly cut grass, blooming roses, and that earthy dampness from the castle moat that always reminded me of a forest in the rain—wrapped around me like the world’s poshest security blanket.
Even better was the company of my three best friends, all princes, like me. We’d met practically at birth and had grown up together in the public eye, though in different countries. Tore was from Norway, Nils from Sweden, Greg represented the United Kingdom, and I was a proud member of the Dutch royal family. Well, mostly proud anyway.
I took a long pull from my Heineken, savoring what might be my last beer for a while. In America, eighteen was old enough to drive, marry, kill, or die in battle, but not old enough to have a beer. Somebody needed to explain that to me as if I were still in elementary school because it made no sense to me. Anyway, I’d have to wait one more year to be allowed to drink.
“You’re seriously giving up beer for a year?” Greg’s British accent dripped with disbelief as he lounged in the chair next to mine. “That’s a human rights violation, if you ask me.”
I snorted. “Pretty sure my late grandfather would disown me if he knew. Though I’m confident that despite the legal age, beer will be served at frat parties, right? That’s what they always show in the movies anyway. But hey, what’s the worst that could happen? I become the first sober Dutch prince in history?”
“The press would have a field day with that one,” Tore chimed in from where he was sprawled in the grass. “‘Dutch Prince Abandons National Beverage.’ They’d probably call it a diplomatic crisis.”
The mention of the press made my jaw clench. I forced myself to relax, but not before catching Greg’s knowing look. He’d always been the most observant of our little royal quartet, and it had been the British tabloid press that had crucified me without ever bothering to check the veracity of their allegations.
“Speaking of the press,” Nils said carefully, “have you figured out how you’re going to stay under their radar at Vernon?”
“Yeah.” I sat up straighter, warming to the topic I’d spent months planning. “The American press doesn’t give a shit about European royalty unless we’re getting married or spectacularly screwing up. And most Americans couldn’t pick me out of a lineup if their lives depended on it. I’m going to be Floris van Oranje. Drop the Nassau, keep it simple.”
“And when someone googles you?” Greg arched an eyebrow. “Your real identity will pop up.”
“Then I’ll deal with it. But I’m not going to announce it. I want…” I trailed off, searching for the right words. “I want to be normal for a while. Have the opportunity to mess up without it making international headlines.”
The others went quiet, and I knew they were all thinking about the video. The edited footage that made me look like… I cut that thought off before it could fully form.
“We know what really happened,” Tore said quietly. “That’s what matters.”
I managed a weak smile. “Yeah. But sometimes, I wonder if being the first openly gay prince is worth all this scrutiny. Every move I make, someone’s waiting for me to fuck up again.”
“Which is exactly why this year in Massachusetts is perfect timing,” Greg pointed out. “You get to be a regular college student. Well, a very tall, very Dutch college student with questionable fashion sense, but still.”
“My fashion sense is impeccable,” I protested, though I couldn’t help grinning. “Even if it’s not quite up to your stuffy British standards. But yeah, that’s the plan. How’s your planning coming along, Tore?”
“Six weeks from now, I will be Tore Haakon, star football player for the Hawley Hawks of Hawley College in Ohio.”
I snorted. “You may wanna start by calling it soccer.”
Tore rolled his eyes. “Semantics.”
“Not to Americans,” Greg pointed out. “They’ll be mighty confused when you start talking about being a midfielder in football, as that is not a known position in American football.”
I studied Tore. “You wouldn’t make a bad quarterback, actually. You’ve got the build for it.”
“Sure, and if they actually kicked the ball instead of throwing it, I might stand a chance.” Tore threw up his hands. “Why on earth would they call it football when they aren’t even allowed to kick the ball?”
I wasn’t about to debate that with him since I didn’t see the logic either.
“It’s not even a proper ball, is it?” Greg said. “Their football. It’s more of an oval than a ball, really.”
“An egg,” Nils declared solemnly. “They play with a leather egg.”
“Speaking of eggs,” I said, “anyone hungry? The kitchen staff made those sandwiches you love so much, Greg.”
“The ones with carpaccio and truffle mayonnaise on that wholewheat Dutch bread?” Greg perked up like a meerkat spotting something interesting. “Why didn’t you say so earlier?”
I grinned. “Because I enjoy watching you pretend to be too posh to ask for them.”
“I’m not too posh for anything,” Greg protested, but he was already getting up. “I simply have refined taste.”
“Right.” I stood as well, stretching until my back cracked. “That’s why the press had pictures of you eating McDonald’s in your Bentley last month.”
“That was a moment of weakness.” Greg sniffed. “And those photos were clearly doctored.”
The mention of doctored photos made my stomach clench, but I forced a laugh. That was what we did, after all. Made jokes, kept it light, pretended the constant scrutiny didn’t wear us down like water on rock. “At least yours was actually eating McDonald’s. Not some fabricated—”
“Floris.” Nils’s quiet voice cut through my darkening thoughts. “Massachusetts. Fresh start. Remember?”
I took a deep breath of garden air. He was right. In a few weeks, I’d be a regular student. No press following my every move. No need to watch every word, every gesture. No one recording me with their phones, waiting for me to mess up again.
“Yeah.” I managed a genuine smile this time. “Though I still can’t believe we’re actually doing this.”
“Not me.” Greg slowly sat down again, the thought of a sandwich apparently forgotten. “The King won’t allow it.”
The King being the King of the United Kingdom, aka Greg’s uncle.
“Maybe when Floris and I have a positive experience, he’ll relent,” Tore offered.
“Maybe.” Greg didn’t sound convinced, and I couldn’t blame him. His life was far more scrutinized than that of any of us due to the British press that followed him like bloodhounds on a hunt. The last few months had not been easy for me, what with the scandal and all, but up until then, I’d had it relatively easy. The Dutch media was relaxed and tended to stick to the rules the royal family had agreed on with them, which meant the kids—my older brother plus my cousins and me—were off limits. Usually. Unless we did something stupid when visiting our best friend in the UK… like I had done.
Dammit, why could I not let it go? It had been three months by now, but it kept playing through my head, kept popping into my brain, kept resurfacing at the most inopportune times. Laurens, my brother, had assured me over and over it would take time. He meant well, but he was the golden boy in the eyes of the media, the guy who could do no wrong. Easy for him to say I should let it go.
“It may help to find a specific program you want to do rather than make a generalized request,” Nils suggested. “You’re studying International Relations, right?”
Greg nodded.
“So find some college or university that’s specialized in that or that offers some highly acclaimed special program. Maybe that will help.”
Not a bad idea, actually.
Greg seemed to consider it. “It’s worth a try. Thanks.”
“At least you know what you want to do,” I said, finishing my beer. “The Dutch press is still waiting for me to find my ‘purpose.’ Apparently, becoming a civil engineer isn’t it.”
“Hey, you’re Dutch. Water management is practically in your DNA,” Nils pointed out.
“I know, but they probably expected something more… princely. You know, like international diplomacy or humanitarian work.”
“Water management is humanitarian work,” Tore said. “Ask New Orleans or, I don’t know, Bangladesh.”
A comfortable silence fell over our group. The sun was setting now, painting the old castle walls in shades of amber and gold. In a few weeks, I’d be trading this familiar view for a dorm room in Worcester, Massachusetts. The thought was both terrifying and exhilarating.
“Promise me one thing,” Greg said suddenly, his voice serious. “If the press does find you, call us. Don’t try to handle it alone.”
I swallowed hard, remembering those first horrific weeks after the video surfaced. “I promise. But they won’t find me. I’m going to be regular college student Floris who happens to be really into water management and terrible American beer.”
“And maybe find someone special?” Tore waggled his eyebrows suggestively.
I threw my empty beer bottle at him. “Not everyone needs to find the love of their life in college. I’m going there to study, not to hook up.”
“Sure,” all three of them said in unison, and we burst out laughing.
“Besides,” I added, “who’d want to date someone who can’t even legally buy them a drink?”
“Ah yes, because that’s the first thing people look for in a partner.” Greg’s voice dripped sarcasm. “The ability to purchase alcohol.”
“All the more reason to keep things simple in Massachusetts. Study. Make normal friends. Maybe join some clubs that don’t involve anything more scandalous than a heated debate about structural engineering.”
“Sounds thrilling,” Tore deadpanned. “You’ll be the talk of the town. ‘Dutch Student Really into Concrete.’”
“Better than ‘Royal Romeo Ruins Reputation,’” I shot back, then immediately regretted it when their faces fell.
Greg leaned forward, his expression serious. “Look, mate, you did nothing wrong. That wanker should’ve come forward and told the truth.”
“And risk his career? His reputation?” I shook my head. “No, it was better this way. Let people think what they want about me. I can take it.”
“You shouldn’t have to,” Nils said quietly.
I stood up, suddenly restless. “Well, that’s what being royal is about, isn’t it? Taking it. Looking perfect. Never complaining.” I forced a smile. “But hey, for one blessed year, I get to be Floris. No titles, no expectations, no press. Just me and my weird obsession with water management systems.”
“And terrible American beer,” Tore added helpfully.
“And terrible American beer,” I agreed, grateful for the return to lighter territory. “Which, if the movies are correct, will be served in copious amounts in red cups at those infamous frat parties.”
“That’s the spirit,” Tore said. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll even join a fraternity.”
A fraternity? Now there was a thought I hadn’t considered. That whole Greek life, as the Americans called it, was rather foreign to me. Sure, we had fraternities at Dutch universities, but the American ones seemed to be at a whole other level. Something else I was eager to find out for myself.
Greg stood again. “Now, about those sandwiches…”
1
FLORIS
The things I did to prove a point.
I’d expected Massachusetts to be pleasant in the summer, like those idyllic New England postcards with their perfect, white churches and autumn leaves. The reality? Satan himself would’ve needed a cold shower.
Vernon Technical College looked as impressive in real life as it had in that fancy brochure they’d sent me, offering a fascinating mix of gothic-style buildings and modern, glass structures sprawled across gently rolling hills. My dormitory, Smelter Hall, stood like a proud sentinel among them, all Gothic arches and weathered stone that wouldn’t have looked out of place in one of the older universities back home, like Leiden.
But the stately appearance had been deceiving. The ancient building clearly predated air conditioning and possibly the invention of comfort itself. Maybe back in 1910, they didn’t believe one should be able to breathe in order to learn?
What a difference from the classic Dutch summer I’d left behind back home: windy, wet, and with a temperature hovering around eighteen degrees Celsius, woefully chilly for mid-August. A happy medium between the two would’ve been great. Which reminded me, I needed to figure out how to measure temperature in Fahrenheit. There was a formula that I had learned in physics back in high school, but that felt like ages ago. Eighteen degrees was… somewhere in the mid-sixties, maybe?
Sweat trickled down my spine as I hauled my two overstuffed suitcases—because apparently, I couldn’t pack light to save my life—up yet another flight of stairs. The stairwell felt like a sauna designed by someone who’d never experienced joy. Through the tall, multi-paned windows, I caught glimpses of the pristine campus green, where other students lounged in the shade of century-old oaks, looking far more comfortable than I felt right now.
My polo shirt, which had started the day as a perfectly respectable piece of clothing, now clung to my back like a clingy ex who couldn’t take a hint. When I stopped for a quick breather, the wrought-iron railing beneath my palm was hot enough to fry an egg, making me wonder if perhaps I should’ve listened to my father’s advice about hiring movers. But no, I’d wanted the full college experience, hadn’t I? Besides, I wasn’t moving in with furniture or other big things. Just two suitcases and one oversized backpack.
I was seriously starting to regret my royal declaration of “I’ll do everything myself, like any other student!” That had seemed noble and democratic when I’d announced it back home in the Netherlands. Before I’d discovered my room was on the third floor. Before I realized this architectural masterpiece had been designed by someone who thought elevators were for the weak. Before my harsh confrontation with the hell-like temperatures here.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I muttered as I nearly dropped a suitcase on my foot. At this point, death by luggage was starting to look like an attractive alternative to climbing one more step.
Fuck me sideways with a windmill. At least back home, everything was flat.
I staggered up the last few steps to the third floor, my legs burning in protest. Note to self: three flights of stairs while lugging two seriously overweight suitcases? Not my brightest moment. They had spinner wheels, I had told myself. Fat lotta good that did me when I had to carry them.
The long corridor stretched before me like something out of The Shining, identical wooden doors marching along both sides. Room 314 waited halfway down, my home for the next year. Only a few more steps.
I took a deep breath, shifted my backpack, and knocked before using my key. The door swung open to reveal my new kingdom—all twenty square meters of it—and my roommate, who was already there. Orson Ritchey from New Orleans, according to the housing info. Twenty-four years old and in the first year of his master’s degree in civil engineering. The Dean had placed me with an older student on purpose, he’d mentioned, perhaps worried the undergraduates would have a bad influence on me? Maybe he’d read some stories about me, the so-called Party Prince.
Orson stood at the window, tall and lean, with a riot of wild, brown curls that caught the sunlight streaming in. When he turned, his sharp features and intelligent, brown eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses stood out. He assessed me with the kind of focused intensity usually reserved for complicated mathematical equations. I fought the urge to check if my shirt was on backwards or if I’d grown a second head. Maybe he was judging me for being such a sweaty disaster?
“Hi,” I said, dropping my suitcases and plastering on my most winning smile. The same smile that had charmed countless dignitaries and gotten me out of trouble more times than I could count. “I’m Floris. Your new roommate.”
