He does a dramatic twirl and takes off his mask and everyone around us gasps, as if he’s just been revealed as a hideous monster and not Prince Magnus of Norway. “I’m going out the front. I know your paparazzi would love to take a photo of a handsome prince for once.” He gives me the thumbs up. “Good luck.”
I watch as he strides off down the stairs and I squeeze Maggie’s hand. “Let’s go.”
We hurry through the crowd and by now everyone has figured out who I am. A few are taking pictures, some are kneeling or bowing or doing a curtsey, all of which makes me extremely uncomfortable and quite weird given their attire.
Thanks to Magnus’s distraction though when we burst through the backdoor we only see a bouncer and no one else. Beyond us is the stately façade of the royal palace.
“So who lives there?” Maggie asks as I look around for the best way to get out of here without being caught.
“That’s where my office is,” I tell her absently. “I thought you were already there, it’s open to the public.”
“Honestly I don’t remember much of those first few days.”
I pull out my phone and call Nick, telling him to come pick us up in front of the palace.
“There he is!”
I turn around to see a whole fucking swarm of paparazzi running through the snow toward us, flashbulbs going off.
“Fuck,” I swear, looking at Maggie. I’ve never seen her look so scared and though I’m a fast runner, I’m not sure I can outrun them while carrying her and I know she can’t run in those shoes. I don’t even know where I would run to.
“Viktor,” she whimpers, holding my arm tight, her eyes widening as they approach. “What are they going to do?”
Try and ruin me, I think as I look around, trying to figure out how to get out of this mess.
And then I spot it.
An escape.
I grab Maggie and pull her, slipping and sliding, over to an old Vespa that’s parked along a row of bikes covered in inches of snow. I dust the snow off and then pick her up by the waist, placing her on the back of the seat.
“What are you doing?” she cries out. “This isn’t yours is it?”
“I’m borrowing it,” I tell her, sitting in front of her, hands on the handlebars. “The owner will get it back tomorrow.”
“You don’t have the keys!”
“Vintage Vespas don’t have keys,” I tell her and look over my shoulder to see the paps approaching. Shit. I toggle the ignition and after a few sputters the old Vespa screams to life.
“Hang on!” I yell at Maggie and she wraps her arms around me as the snow tires spin and spin before they find traction. We go off with a jolt.
“Ahhhh!” she yells into the wind as the Vespa churns through the snow until it finds a smoother path down on the main street. I weave it in and out of traffic, glad we don’t have far to go before we’re back at the house.
“I didn’t even think you could drive these in the snow,” she says, her arms gripping me tighter as we narrowly avoid a snowbank.
“Swedes can drive anything in the snow,” I yell over my shoulder.
“And apparently steal Vespas while wearing tuxedos,” she yells back. “I guess you think you’re James Bond now.”
“Well I’m not Gregory Peck,” I fire back. “Come on, let’s get you home.”
She presses her cheek between my shoulder blades and we leave the chaos behind.
Chaos that I’m sure will catch up to us in the morning.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Maggie
“Excuse me, do you speak English?”
I turn my head to see a Japanese couple with their cameras out, holding them toward me like an offering.
“Yes I do,” I tell them. “Would you like your picture taken?”
“Oh yes please, thank you,” they say, handing me the camera and posing in front of the royal palace. I snap a few pictures and they go on their way, shivering as more snow starts to fall.
It’s hard to believe that it was just the other night that Viktor and I were here at the masquerade party and escaping on the Vespa. It reminded me that even though I came to de Kungliga Slotten (the royal palace) right after I arrived in Stockholm (it’s one of the major sights in the city) the jet lag seemed to have erased it from my memory. So here I am again, peering at the swords and crown jewels down in what can only be described as a dungeon, then traipsing the “royal apartments” as part of an audio tour.
A lot has happened since that night.
For one, we woke up the next morning to see Magnus, Viktor and I on the front page of the tabloids and the newspapers. All wearing masks, of course
Some of them reported on the Vespa ride (it was returned to the owner), some reported on the opulent party (calling it an orgy, which is a bit of a reach), some wrote about the fistfight that Freddie got into. That part was true. Poor Freddie still has a black eye.
Everyone speculated on who I was. All of them wrote about the “mystery girl that finally captured Prince Viktor’s heart” and now it seems the whole country is scrambling to figure out who I am.
There were a few interviews done with people who were at the masquerade party and they mentioned that “the Prince and her seemed to be very cozy” and “he couldn’t keep his hands off her, it was obvious that he was smitten” (I liked that one the best) and “I don’t know where she was from but she wasn’t Swedish.”
I guess in some ways we got lucky but in other ways it’s really fucked shit up. The paps are out on full force and have taken to hanging out by the main gates, which is why I’ve spent the day braving the cold and wandering around Gamla Stan and the Photography Museum, trying to keep myself occupied. I feel like a prisoner if I stay in the palace. I’m just lucky that Nick is able to sneak me out and lose anyone that starts to tail us. His training definitely comes in handy.
And now that the public knows that Viktor has someone serious, his parents are finally aware of me.
That’s the scariest part. Viktor went over there for dinner last night (while I ate in the kitchen with Bodi as he explained Swedish soap operas to me) and didn’t come home until late. He said it went fine and his parents weren’t upset but I know him well enough by now and I could tell he was upset.
I also know that since they know the truth about me, about where I come from, all my baggage, that I’m a commoner to the extreme, that they can’t be too happy about it.
I guess I’ll find out all that stuff in person tonight.
I’m supposed to meet them.
The King and Queen of Sweden.
At a private dinner party they’re holding at their palace for King Aksel of Denmark who is visiting.
I’ve been trying not to think about it because the more I think about it, the more nervous I get. I mean I’ve gone from being sequestered in the house to having to meet a queen and two fucking kings. All at once. I mean, I know meeting your boyfriend’s parents is nerve-wracking for anyone but in this case, I feel like I need to be drowning in aquavit just to get through it.
“Don’t be so nervous,” he says to me later that evening as we’re getting ready. “You’ll be fine. They will love you like I do.”
I give him a look.
“Well,” he corrects himself, “maybe not exactly like I do.”
“You’re nervous too, admit it.”
He raises his chin and stares down at me. “I will do no such thing.”
I sigh and turn to stare at myself in the mirror. I’m wearing the same long green satin dress that I wore to the masquerade party because I don’t have anything else that’s nice enough. I’ve put my hair up high and let a few strands of hair frame my face. I’m wearing peachy lipstick that I know drives Viktor wild and soft colors elsewhere. I’m trying for an elegant and classy lady and though I know I’m anything but, perhaps I can fool his parents.
Oh who am I kidding, I still probably have White Trash written across my forehead. If anyone can sniff that out it’s probably a King and Queen.
“So tell me about King Aksel,” I tell Viktor as we sit in the back of the car, Nick at the wheel. My leg is bouncing so much that he has to place his hand on it and hold me down. “Is he nice? I looked him up over the summer, he seems kind of young to be a king.”
Viktor straightens his tie, peering at himself in the rearview mirror. “King Aksel is a good guy. A bit reserved, maybe comes across as cold to most people. The Danish press seems terrified of him and loves taking photos of him looking harsh. But I swear once you get to know him he has a wicked sense of humor. And yes, he’s pretty young. I believe he’s having a big fortieth birthday bash this year that…” he trails off. “Well anyway, I will be attending.”
“Is there a queen? I read that he has daughters.”
“There was a queen,” he says. “She died last year.”
“Oh. Shit. I better not bring that up.”
“No. It was a shame too, she was beautiful, perfect, Denmark’s answer to Princess Di. Now Aksel has these three daughters and, well I guess you two might have more in common than I thought.”
That makes me feel a little bit better about this king although I’m not going to start up a conversation with him like “I heard you lost your wife, I lost my parents, let’s talk about how hard it is to raise kids on your own.”
It’s not long before the car is pulling up through the gates of Drottningholm Palace and even though it’s dark out and a layer of snow is blanketing the landscape, there’s no mistaking the in-your-face majesty of the palace.
It’s huge.
“Wow,” I say through a gasp as the car drives around a large statue, “This place is like…the palace of all palaces.” I look at Viktor with my brows raised. “And you’re going to live here one day?”
“We’ll see,” he says after a moment and I have no idea what that means. Why wouldn’t he want to live here? The place is so grand and opulent, lit up by dozens of lights against the night sky. Even though I’d never been to Versailles in France, that’s what it reminds me of. I tell Viktor this.