Quietly.

Cunningly.

He scanned the spreadsheet, scrolling down to rows highlighted in red and reviewing information in the Update columns, typing his responses in white font so that Greta would be able to keep track of them. The European Women’s Heart Disease Awareness Fund, the first charity he’d supported, had broken fund-raising records that week. Of course it had, with his mother dominating the news and the awful irony of her death commented on again and again with macabre headlines.

The day before his mother’s funeral, Johan had marched into the Liechtienbourg Bugle’s offices and punched the editor who’d allowed the headline “Queen of Our Hearts Didn’t Take Care of Her Own.” That had been when Bad Boy Jo-Jo, just a chrysalis of a persona he’d used to fit in at boarding school, had emerged on the front page with flamboyant red wings and a taste for trouble—he’d never left it.

Johan squinted at the screen of his tablet, which needed his attention more than useless memories.

The Liechtienbourg Migrant Health and Home organization, his latest charity interest, had come under attack during debates about the referendum—Milos Arschlocher was the man leading the charge on that, claiming that the royal family was allowing Liechtienbourg to stray from tradition.

Johan tamped out another spurt of anger.

After addressing what he could, he reviewed his dossier on Njaza, the diplomatic visit that he’d arranged to take place after Thabiso’s wedding. No Liechtienbourgish official had been to the former colony since Linus’s father, decades ago. It hadn’t been possible, or rather it hadn’t been permitted, until the recent coronation of King Sanyu, and Johan wasn’t sure how he would be received. The previous king had banned travelers from Liechtienbourg, with good reason after the Liechtienbourgish rich had squeezed Njaza dry and then left the country in the throes of civil war.

Sanyu, who had been two years ahead of Johan and Thabiso at their elite prep school in the Swiss Alps, had been one of the few who had avoided bullying Johan in those first weeks before he had figured out that the other boys didn’t care what he was actually like as long as he would roughhouse, say crass things, and only cry if it was from anger—the only acceptable emotion, it seemed.

The flight attendant walked in carrying a tray that held the kale-carrot-mango protein shake he’d asked her for, and Johan shut down his tablet. As she placed the drink down, she gave him the conspiratorial look she’d been sporting since he’d left the bedroom.

“Is Ms. Jerami still . . . sleeping?” she asked coyly. When he’d first boarded, the woman had gone into the state of nervous shock that overtook lots of people when they met him, even those accustomed to dealing with VIPs. Johan was a bit of an outlier even amongst royalty. He fell into the category of semi-celebrities people thought they knew, and now that he’d seemingly lived up to his reputation, the flight attendant felt comfortable enough to basically ask if he’d worn Nya out.

Johan reminded himself about his big bad wolf line—he was hardly the one to pass judgment on this woman for seeing him exactly how he’d taught people to see him. He modulated his voice to vague disinterest. “I hope so. She looked like she could use the rest.”

The attendant raised her brows, and Johan inhaled deeply.

“Nothing happened between us,” he said on the exhale, his bluntness only slightly softened by the charm he ratcheted up. “She didn’t know I was in there because, as you know, I asked for privacy when I boarded. I’d appreciate if you kept any misunderstanding about that to yourself.”

“Oh yes! Of course, Your Highness.” She executed a little curtsy, but as she straightened, she winked at him. “My lips are sealed.”

Scheisse de merde. By tomorrow there could be all kinds of “mile high club” puns screaming from the front page of the tabloids.

“Nothing happened,” he reiterated. He almost added that he wasn’t “your highness” either. He was the stepson to the King of Liechtienbourg and half brother to the actual prince; he was Liechtienbourg’s literal redheaded step-prince. He’d once printed up cards to hand out to people in a fit of youthful pique, but that had gone over like burnt schnitzel with the king.

He sighed, then fluttered his lashes in the flight attendant’s direction until he had her full attention. “Mariha—what a beautiful name that is. Now, Mariha, I don’t mean to push this, but I must make sure that there are no falsehoods spread about me and the princess’s cousin. That would be terrible for everyone involved, wouldn’t it? If it was discovered royal staff had spread lies that might hurt Ms. Jerami?”

He tried to muster his look of affable pleading underlined with stern threat.

“Right, Your Highness,” Mariha said carefully. “I understand. I’ll go wake Miss Jerami because we’ll be landing soon.”

Her gaze lingered on his, as if they now shared a thrilling secret, and then she strode away. Johan groaned and pressed his head back into the headrest. He was off his game. Even though he’d run away from Liechtienbourg and memorials and memories, he couldn’t escape the general malaise that came with this anniversary every year.

He pulled out his phone and did a quick check in on Lukas, whom he expected to be in bed given the time difference, but who appeared as ONLINE in their chat app.

Jo: ?a va, petite bruder?

The message was first marked as RECEIVED and then as READ, but no telltale “Baby Bro is typing” appeared as it usually did. After a moment, Lukas’s status switched to OFFLINE.