EXCERPT 1:
In my next life, I’ll be reborn as Harry Styles. Or maybe as the reincarnation of Taylor Swift. I’ll still be famous if I must, but I’ll be famous due to my talent instead of my chance birth as a royal. I’m quite sure I’m a negative ten on the talent-o-meter.

Everything else is just genetics. And training.

It’s Friday night in London, and Mayfair glitters. When I step out of the black SUV, straightening to my full height, I pause in the drizzle for the cameras on the red carpet at the charity ball. Snapping shutters echo, and a familiar blinding flash dazzles my eyes.

I give my best public smile and stop in a flattering pose, then strike another pose for my best angles like the Danish prince once taught me during a secret fling. Work it, babe, Prince Theodor coached me then as we drank spicy margaritas, which incidentally led to more spice.

More confidence, more sultry. Hand on my hip and a three-quarter turn to the cameras.

The crowd cheers their approval as I’m blinded by the lights. I wave, smile broadly, and carry on, mindful of not tripping over my own feet.

“Prince Auggie! Over here!”

“Prince Auggie—where’s Katie? I’ll be your date!”

“Prince Auggie, come back!”

Tonight, I’m shamelessly selling the image of charming Prince Auggie, future British monarch. I’d like to meet him too, to be honest, because he’s great in the press. Cool guy. From the outside, he has it together. The media and public are fascinated, so somehow, I must be doing something right. Or quite possibly, I’m doing something wrong enough that the media sticks to me waiting for my next mistake.

I’m all kitted up in an edgy mohair tux that an up-and-coming London designer sent over to me. I’m at least looking the part of the dashing prince, even if I can’t get over the idea that the dashing prince is supposed to be me.

To be fair, I do look good enough, taking after my mum—see genetics above—though I wish I loved crowds like she had. The looks balance out the panic, my friend Gav told me. He said it’s heaps of fun not knowing what I might blurt out next. For him, maybe. Meanwhile, I try to keep my mouth shut as a preventative measure in case something messy accidentally spills out.

“Prince Auggie, is it true you’re still single?”

“Prince Auggie, would you take a photo with me? It’s my birthday!”

I pause and go to the young woman at the barrier for a photo taken by her friend. The paparazzi goes wild. We both grin, and for a moment, I pretend I’m carefree. “Happy birthday,” I say, on my best behavior as she gives a small curtsy. “How do you do.”

She blushes, too tongue-tied to speak.

My father, the King, told me not to be too extra tonight, as if he can sniff out rising rebellion like the dawn breaks each day. I’m kind of horrified that he knows what being extra means. And that he’s applied being extra to me, specifically. Nothing good can come of that. Especially when I’ve been on my best behavior the last few months.

Which is why I asked the stylist at the earlier magazine shoot I’m coming from to give me a smoky-eye look for evening, after we bonded over our favorite makeup. She tousled my medium-length, light reddish-brown—blond if you’re generous during the summer—hair with product. Plus, a touch of contouring never hurt anyone. Use those cheekbones for the good of the kingdom, she told me, because it’s your royal duty to the people.

 

EXCERPT 2:
It’s a well-known secret I’m into fashion, which is why my father has a valet, Lauren, assigned to choose my clothing for public engagements. Meaning he’s a veto vote, like the UN, on style. He favors drab and uncontroversial over avant garde looks.

But sometimes I give Lauren the slip. Like tonight.

Soon, I’m under the dramatic lighting of the charity art gala for a Prince’s Trust project where I’m the benefactor for British art and design. The venue’s full of celebs and socialites, creatives and art lovers and more. Established artists and designers and celebs anonymously donated works for the silent auction. I’ve even sculpted my own donation to the cause, an elegant white pottery vase. And no, that doesn’t count as talent—it’s practice.

People bid throughout the evening. I’m already planning my escape when the dancing begins, something that past me—well, let’s be honest, also current me—would be into, but getting down would probably lead to a whole buffet of princely faux pas that might bring my father to an early grave and guarantee to put me on the throne in record time. Which I definitely don’t want.

So, no dancing tonight.

I drink my champagne after I’m through all of the official greetings and speeches, but I’m acutely aware of the eyes on me as ever. I find a brief respite in the wings of the stage with a glass of champagne and check my messages. One more hour of being seen, as opposed to finding the scene, and I can go home. It’s been a long day. But I was happy to go cheer up children in the hospital this morning, to do the press gauntlet this afternoon, and now attend the gala.

I take a sip of my drink while admittedly getting some side-eye from a group of assistants who are taking a break.

“No, no,” says a young woman beneath a pile of curly hair to her coworker, “it’s a new reality show I’m going on as crew next after this. For Renaissance Man. I can’t wait.”

“That’s the new show with all the hot guys? You’re so lucky. It looks amazing.”

Now my ears perk up, because I’m very much into hot guys, even if it’s covertly. And despite reality TV, which I’m not into for personal reasons, I’m paying close attention to their conversation.

“Yeah. They’ve been doing a media blitz. It’s a big show on one of the major networks this fall. Can’t say more than that.”

“Who are the hot guys? Do you know?”

“I can’t say anything other than what’s public through marketing and live online. You can join the Bravoverse and guess the guests like everyone else.” She laughs, as does her coworker.

“Oh, go on and tell me.”

“Okay. Thomas Golden,” says the future crew member triumphantly. “Announced today in a press release. Major get. No wonder everyone’s gone wild online today.”

“Oh, I’d watch him day and night. Though—isn’t he gay?”

“Yes, but maybe he’s bi or pan. A girl can dream.”

The name Thomas Golden doesn’t mean anything to me. It sounds like aspirational branding for a lifestyle company. I focus on my drink in the shadows as my phone chimes before I have a chance to search who he is. Shit. I forgot to turn the ringer off.

The women glance over at me, nudging each other in whispers. I hear, “No, you go talk to him, you look brill tonight.”

I focus extra hard on my phone as if I have some super-important royal messages to get back to, like the fate of the monarchy hinges on the speed of my doomscrolling.

My best friend, Katie Hart, texted me five minutes ago.

I’m grinning at my phone because Katie knows how to make me laugh, even if the joke’s a bittersweet one. There’s a twinge in my chest. Too bad she’s not here, but that would add more of a stir than the smoky-eye situation already has created. 

 

EXCERPT 3:
And before she has a chance to fill me in on who he is, he’s joined us. I pray Gav’s hat and glasses and my new hair color do something to disguise me, along with my unprincely clothes. My sequined blouse glitters.

“Hi,” says the stranger as I busy myself with my drink, looking down so the brim of my—Gav’s—hat hides my face in case of any accidental come-hither expressions. “How’s it going?”

He has an American accent and fantastic cheekbones. At least he doesn’t seem like the paparazzi or the press. I glance at him again from the corner of my eye.

“I hope I’m not interrupting.” His lips curl into a terribly appealing smile. It irritates me to no end that he can simply let that sort of energy out into the world without a public health warning. Like he’s got nothing to lose. “I’m Thomas.”

I do my best to pull a princely—or even a placid expression—rather than the reactive scowl that he deserves. The toes of my leather boots gleam, I discover.

“I’m Katie. This is Dave.” Katie basks under his attention as she throws out my new code name. “He’s shy.”

“Shy?” he asks.

I glance up fleetingly, then try to study my boots harder. Maybe if I play dead, he’ll move along.

Except both of us can see he’s still intently looking at me. A wave of panic clenches my stomach. Going out was a terrible idea. It was different in uni with Katie and our friends, going to a college bop isolated from the world. Heat rises in my face as I race through exit strategies. Our night out didn’t involve security. I could use the old “I need to pee” line as an out, but there isn’t any dignity in it.

Tactical error. Forget dignity.

“I like your shirt, Dave.” His gaze is open and admiring.

Oh help.

I stare at the stranger.

His grin’s ridiculously charming. Infuriating, actually.

“Um. Thanks.” I tug my jacket sleeves over my knuckles. In hindsight, I probably shouldn’t have worn this flowing top with the low cut revealing my toned chest. Or the low-slung jeans, suitably tight against my arse.

But then royal training kicks in.

I relax my shoulders, lift my head fully to meet his keen gaze. And he’s still appreciatively looking at me till I’m breathless. I relent into a genuine smile before I can suppress that tell, a rare moment of unsuppressed freedom in my chest as I admire him right back. “That’s very kind.”

There’s no harm in looking for one moment. Or two.

The stranger’s gaze stays on mine. He has a soft mouth and great skin and, most of all, eyes that glimmer with good humor. It’s more than enough to make a closeted prince’s head swim. Or drown.

And then his smile broadens as he searches my eyes with something like hope. My heart thunders as my mouth goes dry, to have his attention riveted like that on me, like we’re the only ones standing together here—despite the hectic club around us, the thumping music, the dazzle of lights. Beside me, Katie coughs and shuffles, which barely registers.

It’s been ages since someone’s looked at me like that. Like he wants me. Not because of who I am or what I represent because he doesn’t know who I am. It’s plain and simple attraction, as if it’s any two people meeting in a club and wanting more of what they see.

Then, reality registers again.

Or maybe he recognizes me after all, despite Gav and Katie’s attempts to disguise me, and he wants to take advantage or sell me out. My heart sinks.

 

EXCERPT 4:
“What have you done?” I demand, not trusting that determined look on my father’s face. I recognize it—and it never leads anywhere good. The crimson walls close in, gilt paintings looming in ornate frames. Queen Victoria smirks as if she knows what’s coming.

“I submitted your application to Renaissance Man in response to their call for notable guests. And wonderful news: they would love to have you on.”

“Wait. What does that even mean?”

His lips twitch. He coughs slightly.

Is my father… nervous? I know his tells for anger, for joy, for disappointment. But nervous? I haven’t seen that before. What the hell makes my father nervous, especially about me?

“It’s a new television show filming from next week—”

My eyebrows shoot up so fast it’s a miracle that they don’t fly off my face.

Air sucks into my lungs. Oh no.

“A television show?”

Isn’t Renaissance Man the show Katie mentioned last night? And at the gala. With Thomas Golden?

“Yes. Where well-bred young men demonstrate their various skills. In competitions from athletics to the arts to show your talents.” He brightens with a sudden smile, obviously thrilled to bits about the show. “It sounds quite charming, actually. An excellent opportunity to reform your profile and find an appropriate wife. With, err, exposure through the right channels. I need heirs. Our bloodlines matter. The monarchy needs heirs if it’s to survive. I’ve taken the liberty of clearing your schedule. Lauren will see that you have everything you need.”

My brain ricochets inside my skull as I try to make sense of whatever he’s on about. Not least of all that my father thinks I have talents—and not only talents, but enough talents to go on a show and prove myself to the whole of the kingdom. It takes a long moment. Two long moments, in fact. But then, dread strikes, and oh God, what he’s done finally registers—

“You’ve signed me up to a reality TV show?” Alarm ripples through my body. Everything is too hot, too close.

Me, with no social media accounts and trained for a lifetime to value privacy above all, for the family’s sake.

Last night being an exception.

Father beams like the sun at the height of summer. And suddenly, he’s robust and youthful again. He smooths his lightweight blue jumper. “I thought that a young man like yourself would be perfect for Renaissance Man. Who better than a young royal, and what better showcase for the public to get to know their Prince and future King in a format that many people watch, especially younger viewers, an important demographic for us—”

“I’m not doing that!”

“You must if you’re part of this family—it’s your duty.” The King is impassive. His familiar weariness creeps back in.

And at last, dignity or not, heir or not, I bolt for my rooms. If there was ever a sign of the apocalypse, it’s arrived—and its name is reality TV.