This story has been reduced to a sample on September 19th, 2021. You can read the complete novel on Radish Fiction. I am self-publishing this series in 2022. Follow me to keep up-to-date on details.
Series reading order: Fake Crown, Scarred Crown, Heavy Crown, Fallen Crown. You can read them out of order, but for maximum enjoyment (and no spoilers), follow the series.
Whenever I was summoned to my father—the king's—office as a kid, I expected trouble. As an adult and the first in line to the throne, my father and I meet all the time. Finding the request on my calendar isn't unusual, but given the swirl of controversy surrounding the monarchy right now, I'm uneasy that something else is about to be dropped on me.
When I arrive to his office, the crowd greeting me is a surprise. My younger brothers Brice and Nick along with his soon-to-be wife, Julia are lounging on the couch. My mother is at my father's shoulder, standing at attention. My father's semi-retired secretary, who also happens to be Julia's mother, is also present. Finally, Desmond, the secretary I share with Nick and Brice is here too. Every person who could either plot against me or rescue me from my own stupidity is in the room. Thankfully, it's a big office.
"This feels ominous," I say. They've left the seat directly in front of my father's desk free.
As a child, standard conversations on etiquette and protocol were had around the dinner table, on our private jet, or in various hotel rooms. If we were called to the office, we were in trouble. Big trouble. My father would be seated across the desk from one or more of us, a reprimand on his lips along with a slew of community service hours. In those instances, he wasn't my father, he was the king.
This crowd, though, is abnormal—whether in celebration or castigation.
"I wanted to make sure everyone was here for this conversation." My father taps a thick book on his desk with his index finger.
Is that the coronation manual? I haven't actually read it. Julia, my younger brother's fiancée and my father's current secretary, is in charge of organizing the exchange of power, both the ceremony and legalities.
I examine each person in the room, and no one meets my gaze. Not unusual—as my brother Nick likes to claim, I'm the asshole in the family. It's a title I don't relish, and I'm not convinced I always deserve, but I'm not going to deny I can be abrupt and direct. I am who I am.
"Must be a big mess if you needed everyone. Did you invite the butler too?" I check behind me.
"Alexander," my mother admonishes.
I run my palms along the armrests of the chair. "Who's in charge of delivering the doom and gloom?" Ever since my father was diagnosed with Alzheimer's, I haven't been sure whether he should be leading Bellerive, and he has, for the most part, shared that opinion.
The coronation is almost a year away, but his cognitive decline might not be so predictable.
With the public referendum on legalizing assisted suicide and my father's disease out on social media, our island politics are in disarray. The Advisory Council of Bellerive, our national government, passed a temporary measure to eliminate royal input until I'm king. They cannot risk a political misstep by having my father involved, especially with some of them up for re-election. Cutting us out isn't a problem as long as none of the issues require the tie-breaking vote the sovereign provides.
Fingers crossed the country can make it through the year.
My father passes the manual across the table to me. "The page is marked."
I flip it open to the highlighted section and breathe out a frustrated grunt. "Prior to the coronation, the heir apparent must be wed." I read aloud. "To become king, I need a wife? What kind of archaic bullshit is this?" I glance up and my gaze connects with my mother's. "Am I interpreting this correctly?"
"You are." My mother confirms. "You'll be the youngest king in hundreds of years, so the marriage rule has never been, as far as we can tell, an issue before. We've had several policy people tear the thing apart. With your father now declared..." She seems to fumble for a kind way to phrase his decline. "Unable to fulfill his duties, we can't even legally change the coronation framework. The line is binding. Of course, once you're king, you can change whatever you wish with the proper public approval process."
I toss the hefty manual back on the desk and rub my face. "I can change the requirement once I'm married, and I'm the king. But to update the rule, I need a wife. The wife rule is the one I'd prefer not to follow in the first place." I give a mirthless chuckle. "It's not as though marriage is going to suddenly turn me into a better ruler and policy maker."
Without thinking, I glance at Julia, but she's avoiding my gaze. Probably for the best. I just promised Nick the other day that I'd stop interfering in their relationship and hoping for something with Jules that will never happen. Old habits die hard.
If the clause about a wife had come out any earlier, we all know I'd have pushed her to assume the royal duty. She would have been my best—if most complicated—option.
"Well," I say. "Even if Father can't legislate a change to the coronation, I would think the advisory council could?"
My father shakes his head. "Unfortunately, they cannot. Again, it's another change you are welcome to make once you're king, but as of right now, all royal rule changes, regardless of the circumstances, have to be made by the king and vetted by the royal family as a whole."
"No one actually knows the entire coronation manual." I gesture to what looks like a four or five-hundred-page tomb on his desk. "Is anyone going to notice that page 302 says I should have a wife and I don't?"
At that, Julia perks up. "There's always renewed interest in coronation protocol when one is about to happen. All available manuals have been checked out of the local libraries. Desmond has fielded and fulfilled four requests for the manual in the last week."
Instead of looking at Julia, I glare at Desmond, my shared secretary. "Perhaps you should have run that past me."
"I asked the king," he says. "The requests were approved."
My father sighs. "People are interested. Their interest helps to keep us relevant in a world where monarchies have become mostly obsolete or merely figureheads. There's no getting around the clause, Alex. What we need is a brainstorming session of suitable matches for you."
I smack my lips in displeasure and run a frustrated hand through my hair. "Let's not and say we did. My future wife is not a roundtable discussion."
"Unfortunately," my mother says. "She is now. Whoever she is."
"What about Anna Samuel?" Nick offers from behind me.
"No," I grit out. "I got my fill. Besides, I heard she's married with children now."
Brice passes me his phone. "She's not bad."
I look at the internet address and bark out a laugh. "This is an escort service."
"Is it?" There's a twinkle in Brice's eyes when he takes the phone back. "Wouldn't she be surprised to be escorted down the royal aisle?"
"Whoever Alex marries must either be of royal blood from another country or a native Bellerivian. No celebrities or models or whatever else from wherever else." My father waves a hand. "Bellerivian or royal."
The room falls into an uncomfortable silence.
After telling Nick I wasn't sure I was cut out for romantic love of any sort, I should be grateful to have this obligation thrust upon me. I'll need an heir. My duty to this country never ends. Nothing is ever mine—my privacy, my grief, and now my marriage is public property. There is no division between what I want and what's best for the country. They are melded together, unbreakable. I've known this since I was a child, but sitting in this room having them all contemplate who's doomed to marry me is one indignity I didn't anticipate.
"I'll formulate a short list," Desmond offers. He drags his phone out of his pocket and opens an app. "I can, with permission, put out some feelers to royal families and wealthy Bellerivian nationals."
Perhaps other people would refuse, claim they'll only marry for love, but that's not me. The prosperity of the country comes above all else. Besides, my expectations of marriage are low. I'm not cut out for the all-consuming love that seems to have swept my brother Nick and his fiancée, Julia into emotional turmoil for years.
"She must be someone I can tolerate and who is good for the country," I say.
"I knew you'd be reasonable about this." My mother gives my father's shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
"With Nick and Julia's wedding just under three months away, it would be best if we could have you debut whoever you intend to marry there," my mother says.
A chill runs through me. Three months to find a woman I can tolerate who is good for the country. Shouldn't be too tall of an order, but I know it will be.
I've casually and secretly dated several of the daughters of the Bellerivian elite already. At diplomat events in other countries, none of the other available royals have appealed to me. How will I find someone suitable?
"That sounds fine," I agree. My stomach clenches at the reality of what I'm agreeing to.
In three months, I'll be publicly declaring my intention to marry someone and to put up with the match for the rest of my life. Whoever I marry, we'll be stuck with each other forever.
Divorce is outlawed for the royal family.
Happy New Year! Who's with me for Alex's story?
Started posting Jan 1st, 2021
This story is now available on Radish Fiction.