The weekend went by too fast.

I feel like I didn’t kiss her enough, even though she would say that I definitely made up for our time apart.

But now I have no choice but to go back to my duties. I’ve missed out on a lot. First, I was in the hospital for ages and then I finally went back to the air force base for week. So, I haven’t done my rounds at any of my charities or foundations in a very long time.

And now is my chance to get back into the swing of things.

“Your Highness, the crowds are waiting,” my assistant Oleg says from across the room.

One of the biggest races of the season is going on today, and I am scheduled to not only appear but give the opening speech. The Voscovich Derby has been one of my appearances for years, but this time I’m giving the opening speech, not my father. Although he’s here with me he has encouraged me to start taking over things like this.

“Well, we shouldn’t keep them waiting now, should we?” I suppose as I I tighten my tie. Turning on my heel, I walk towards the door and follow him out. The crowds are so loud I can hear them even from here, just across the road from the actual stadium. Dad joins us just before we reach the foyer.

“We’ll be entering from the main gate, Your Majesty, Your Highness, for a brief walk about,” dad’s assistant, Albert tells us. He briskly walks ahead of us with Oleg and opens the doors.

Great. Walk a bouts. Those things. I haven’t done one of those in months. Walk a bouts are fun if they’re not filled with crazies. Hopefully I won’t be walking through rows of screaming women this time.

As soon as I step outside the hoards of people begin to shout. Everything from, ‘your highness’ to ‘ben’ is yelled at me. The photographers opt for ‘highness’—a term I never understood. Are they just too lazy to say the whole title?

The owner of the race course and the board of co-owners are already there to greet us. As usual, dad breezes through the shaking of hands. I bet he’s eager to get to the normal people lining the walkway. Ever since meeting Anna, he’s become more aware of his need to interact with the middle and lower classes more. In fact, it’s reminded me of that as well.

“Your Highness!” The first group of people pushed up against the rope barrier shouts, almost in unison.

I oblige them with a hello and a smile. The very first person I shake hands with is an elderly woman, who’s beaming from ear to ear.

She dips into a wobbly curtsey, and when I tell her there’s no need for that she says, “Your Highness, of course there is. How are you feeling?”

With a nod I answer, “Very well, thank you—arm is still a tad bit sore at times, but it’s bearable.”

“That’s wonderful to hear!” She says with a bright smile. “And the Crown Princess is well too?”

“She’s wonderful,” I answer happily. It’s great to hear Vladesvyans taking such an interest in her. “Thank you for asking.”

“Your Highness! Your Highness where’s the Princess!?” Someone behind her shouts.

I answer, “At her older brother’s graduation actually—but I’m sure she would have loved to be here.”

“Will we see her at the next race?” The next person asks as I shake their hand.

With a nod I reply, “Yes, as soon as she gets back here.”

“Your Highness, we’re so excited for your wedding!” Someone in the next group of people says excitedly. “We’re going to camp out ahead of time!”

I can’t contain my laughter as I reply, “My goodness, that’s brave! I just hope everything goes smoothly.”

The praise continues as I go down the line. It’s walk a bouts like this that make me realize how lucky father and I are, to have a country that actually likes us. Vladesvya and Chirnova have always been small, closely knit countries and royal families have always been the glue that’s held us together. Prime Ministers and politicians come and go, but the royal families stay. And we’re extremely grateful for the people wanting us to stay.

“Beware, Your Highness,” Oleg whispers lowly, popping up beside me as we climb the stairs. “Your ex seems to have positioned herself in the royal box yet again.”

I groan, “What happened to inviting the Lord and Lady of Trivei instead of her family?”

“The Lord and Lady could not attend today,” Oleg replies with regret. “So, the Lord and Lady Vasilovich’s group took their places.”

Covering up my annoyance as we enter the royal box, I try not to make eye contact with anyone. Alissa has already been trying to contact me for months now. She still hasn’t moved on, although she makes it seem like that because of the press scrutiny. She doesn’t want to be seen as the clingy ex-girlfriend of the Crown Prince.

She most recently attempted to text me the week before I flew over to the U.S. for Anna’s prom. I will never forget that message.

If you ever need a Camilla to your Charles, I’ll be waiting.

As if I needed more reasons to hate her. She cheated on me, and now she wants to cheat with me. 

Once a cheater, always a cheater.

“Ready?” Dad asks, knocking me from my thoughts.

Shaking off the annoyance, I walk towards the podium at the very front of the box. The reference paper is there waiting for me, along with the daunting-looking microphone.

Once the announcer gets the crowds to quiet down, he’s able to say, “And now, His Royal Highness the Crown Prince will begin with the opening statement.”

I take a deep breath before beginning.

“Good Afternoon to all of you. It is my pleasure to open the one hundred and twenty-second Voscovich Derby on this wonderful day. I wish the best of luck to all the athletes—including the horses,” I joke. The crowds heave a collective laugh before I can continue. “So, without further or due, it is my pleasure to open on this day the one hundred and twenty-second annual Voscovich Derby. Let the races begin!”

From the stands to the grassy knoll, the crowds roar with applause and I flash a big smile for the cameras all around me. No sooner am I reaching for my first glass of alcohol than a voice calls out my name.

My first name.

“Hi, Benny.”

Cringing hard, I turn on my heel and see the expected. Alissa.

“You shouldn’t call me that,” I hiss through a fake smile. “You know, since we no longer associated with each other.”

Her bright smile darkens ever so slightly, and I notice the hatred sneaking into her hazel eyes. “I’m terribly sorry, it’s just that I thought I would remind you of who started calling you that first.”

Biting back the urge to snap at her, I remind myself that cameras are still trained on me—and they will be for the entire time we’re here. Instead of snapping like I would like to, I speak through gritted teeth.

“My mother called me that first,” I growl lowly. “And then my father, and my family—which does’t make you first it makes you about thirtieth… much like your family’s position in line for the throne.”

That last bit makes all the blood rush to her face. Her family is extremely bitter about being so low down on the succession line. When we fought, I used to use it as ammunition. Now, I’m using it as a weapon in a totally different kind of war.

“At least I didn’t grow up as a plebey like your fiance.”

“No, you grew up as a spoilt little brat,” I grin widely and glance over at dad—who is giving me ‘the look’ like he always does when trying to tell me to get out of a situation.

“Don’t ever try to contact me again, or you’ll have the wrath of my fiancé to deal with—not mine,” I warn before make my way back towards dad. If Anna knew she was trying to text me she would take Alissa out herself. In the time I’ve gotten to know her, I now understand that she is far more capable of ruining a person than people think. When she gets angry, she gets angry.

I recall when she told me about how she met Alissa and her parents at the memorial while I was stuck in the hospital. It was obvious she didn’t react to their prescience very well.

The first thing he says to me is, “You know that little meeting is going to be front page on the tabloids, correct?”

With a roll of my eyes I reply, “Yes. In fact, it might even appear on the internet within hours.”

“She’s trouble,” he states the obvious. “And she has no idea how brutal Ann can get… I’d like to see what would happen if those two collided.”

“They already did,” I tell him. “At the Memorial Service back in April. Her uncle on her mother’s side was there with her, thankfully. But I still heard her ranting about it.”

As the crowds settle down for the first leg of races, I sit down beside him in the front two chairs reserved especially for us. I can’t help but be anxious to see the day when there are three chairs instead of two, Annie is beside me and her family gets to join us. That will actually be a good race day.

“You think our horse will win?” Dad asks for the third time today.

I can’t stifle the chuckle that bubbles up from my chest as I answer, “We haven’t won a race in ages—so no, sadly I don’t think so. Are you going to keep asking that until the races begin?”

He sighs deeply, “Why aren’t my horses ever fast enough?”

“Maybe you should ask Queen Elizabeth for some horse-raising advice,” I suggest.

The look he throws me says a thousand words. He won’t be calling our distant cousin anytime soon. Something tells me he’s just a little bit jealous of our British relatives being so lucky when it comes to  horse breeding, racing and polo.

I don’t blame him. We’re probably the least lucky of all the royals in Europe when it comes to sport. Maybe one of the Chirnovian’s horses will win. Of course, anyone other than the British teams winning is a miracle these days. Maybe the Austrians have a good chance this time.

“So have you decided on your best man yet?” Dad asks after a moment of silence. He’s been asking since I mentioned my tough decision a couple of days ago. Just like Anna, he believes that all these wedding decisions should be made months in advance.

“I think I’m going to take Anna’s advice and pick Eric and Leopold. One family member and one friend—you know, just like she has the twins,” I explain. “Leopold can hold the rings and Eric can hold up the martial crown with whoever Anna picks to hold up hers… problem is, I don’t know if he wants to be a best man more than he wants to be in the honor guard.”

“You know he’s going to pick best man,” he insists. “You’ve known each other since you were fourteen—of course he’d rather be standing right next to you as opposed to sitting on a horse outside the cathedral.”

“Point taken,” I nod. “Alright, I’ll call them both later to confirm it. I bet Kassy will be thrilled we’re making progress in terms of the wedding parties.”

With a chuckle he just says, “I never realized how much work went into a wedding until now. I didn’t even have to pick out my uniform when I got married.”

And then, he gets that look in his eyes; that distant stare that tells me he’s thinking about mum. It’s been years but this wedding preparation just keeps reminding him of his own magnificent wedding. Sometimes I catch him staring at Anna’s ring—or, my mother’s ring, rather. It probably reminds him of all the emerald green dresses she would wear, and all the emerald jewels she loved so much. Other times, I find him sitting in his suite which is still themed green and gold like mum designed it; he likes to hover near the window right next to the vanity she used to use in their bedroom. It still has all her brushes, perfumes and oils on it.

“Ben,” he says, snapping me from my thoughts. “Just… don’t take this time for granted like I did. Plan with her. Talk about it with her. And most importantly, make sure she knows you care about it.”

__________________________________________________

It’s hot, obnoxiously sunny and very crowded. Three things I hate more than almost anything else.

“I’m going to melt,” I tell mom. 

She agrees, “Same here.”

“I can see the headlines in the tabloids now: Crown Princess Melts Into Puddle at Brother’s Graduation,” I joke stupidly. 

She starts to say something, but is rudely interrupted by the loud noise of a microphone going in and out of frequency. Everyone around us grabs their ears in annoyance, and the man near the microphone gives an embarrassed shrug.

I just can’t wait until we go out to eat after this. It’s too uncomfortable to even enjoy watching Adrian cross the stage and grab his diploma. His bachelor’s degree in business is the first bachelor’s degree in our family. Dad only had an associate’s in business when he started his contraction company, and mom only has a certification in food serving. Needless to say, this is a proud moment for our family—probably even more important than my wedding. That’s how huge this is.

We scream and yell as he holds up his diploma, and dad won’t stop taking pictures with his new camera—a birthday present courtesy of me and Ben and Victor. The sound of the Nikon is the only thing I still hear as we settle back down in our seats and try to make it through the rest of the ceremony without fainting.

Adrian breaks away from his friends as soon as he can, and mom gives him a flying hug. I come in close second, and I can almost hear Gabe and Marc groan in exasperation as Adrian spins me around once. They take even the slightest risks of me getting hurt seriously. It’s beginning to get annoying. And I don’t want to say they’re annoying because I do appreciate them—hell, I love them like my own family now. But if they could calm down just a tad that would be great.

If my flying hug made them upset, then this crowd is setting off panic attacks. They struggle to stay by my side as we go with the flow of the crowd. All the while, Adrian is stopping to say goodbye to friends and take pictures.

“So this is how Americans graduate college?” Gabe asks, bumping into me as another family passes by us.

With a shrug and a nod I say, “Pretty much. Then, we eat, drink and—well, Adrian will definitely repeat but I don’t know about us.”

“Hey, you’re only legal in Europe, remember?” Marc quips.

Raising one brow, I ask, “Has that ever stopped people my age from drinking over here?”

“You’re allowed one with your family, that’s it. You remember Victor’s rules. We can’t have you appearing in the tabloids doing something illegal. Your image is everything now.”

“I wish I was back in Europe,” I complain as we fight our way through the parking lot after more pictures and goodbyes. We’ll probably see half of these families again once we go downtown to eat something. The place we called for reservations was almost full—and that was a month ago.

On the short drive there, Marc suddenly turns back to me from the passenger’s seat and says, “You should check your Twitter mentions.”

Confused, I click on the app and go to my mentions tab. The first few are just annoying spammers, or crazy teenage girls asking me to follow them back. But when I get down to about the tenth one I see it’s from one of the leading tabloids in Eastern Europe. Gabbler has tweeted a picture at me with the caption, @TheGabbler: Crown Prince Benjamin caught chatting away with ex-lover Lady Alissa Vasilovich at the Voscovich Derby earlier today.

“What the f—.”

“Don’t get upset,” Marc says. “Just wait for Ben to get his phone back and I’m certain he’ll text you saying she was just trying to pull a cheap publicity stunt.”

I’ve never felt such anger before. I know I shouldn’t be upset, but the fact that this happens when I’m away from him for less than a couple of days is ridiculous. It doesn’t help that I had to find out about it form a tabloid, since Ben’s phone is held by Oleg while he’s at official events. He won’t be able to tell me what the hell happened until he leaves the derby.

My phone pings and, speak of the devil, Ben has texted me. Finally. It’s been hours.

I got ambushed today, his text reads.

I know, I reply. I got a tweet from The Gabbler. Marc pointed it out. 

Sometimes it’s a really good thing that my security detail monitors my Twitter account.

Are you mad? He asks, seemingly afraid of using more than a few words. He gets like that when we argue sometimes.

No, but now I REALLY hate her. What did she say anyway?

I regret asking, but he still answers. The usual evil ex-girlfriend stuff. I said the usual ex-boyfriend stuff.

Meaning?

His reply is, All you need to know is that she’s trying to (and I quote) “become the Camilla to my Charles” and she won’t stop until I have a restraining order.

I pause, staring at the text as Marc opens the door for me. He must notice my mood has dropped because he says, “sorry but I figured I should tell you before anyone else did.”

Waving him off, I get out of the car and quickly jog to meet up with my family, who parked a few spots away. Dozens of other families dressed to the nines begin walking towards the entrance to the only Eastern European restaurant in downtown Bangor. But I can’t even pay attention to my mom, who’s raving about how she’s going to get her favorite meal. I’m too focused on that text.

Wtf? Seriously? Who says that? I ask, even though it’s a pointless question. I don’t know what else to say.

She does, obviously. Don’t worry, I’ve blocked her calls and texts. I can’t do anything about meeting her in public, though. If I walk away from her I’ll get called the bad guy. It’s a lose/lose situation for me.

I understand, I’m just pissed that she’s still pulling this shit. 

When we enter the foyer I’m not even stunned by the manager, who’s probably been waiting for my arrival with excitement. I’m not even surprised by the row of servers who have lined up to meet me. This place serves Eastern European foods from Poland to Russia—but that doesn’t mean they don’t want to meet me. In fact, there could be a few Chirnovians or Vladesvyans here.

It’s a tight squeeze, and I hear people mumbling curses under their breath as our party walks towards the front desk. The manager almost knocks dad onto his backend as he extends a hand towards me and gives a curt bow.

“Your Highness, it is a pleasure to meet you,” he speaks fluent Chirnovian/Vladesvyan Slavic. The two languages are almost interchangeable, but his accent gives him away. Now that I’m surprised at. 

My eyebrows raise as I answer back, “And you as well. Are you Chirnovian?”

This time he switches to thickly accented English, “Yes, my parents and I moved over here when I was very little—may I introduce some of our staff?”

“Yes, of course,” I politely accept.

He goes down the line, and so do I; shaking hands with some of his relatives, and others. Some say they are Russian and others are Polish. Some are Ukrainian and some are Slovenian. All of them share one common notion, though: they love the Vladesvyan and Chirnovian monarchy.

Gabe told me once that ever since the Romanians, Yugoslavians and other royal families were abolished, my family and Ben’s has been sort of a fill-in for them. A lot of Slavic people look to us as a stand-in royal family for the ones they lost. 

“Shall I show you to your table?” He asks, as the crowd behind us starts to snap pictures with their cell phone cameras. I’m sure my Instagram feed will be blowing up in a few minutes with