Dating A Prince: A Royalish Series

  Dating a Prince

  R Castro

  Dating A Prince – A Novel of the Royalish Series

  Copyright © 2018 by R. Castro. All Rights Reserved

  Cover Art & Design by Johannus Mayes-Steger of Steger Productions

  Editing by N.W. Moors

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, recorded, or stored in any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without express written permission of the publisher, except for the brief quotation for review purposes.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real.

  Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  First Edition, 2018

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Epilogue

  A Note from R. Castro

  Chapter 1

  Magnus Dahl was the bachelor people didn’t trust: never showing his true emotions, with a deep resistance to conforming with tradition, and unwilling to take his place in the family business seriously. Girls were warned against his perceived indecisiveness, except for the one detail which gave every girl hope to change the mysterious lad: he was the Crown Prince of Martierra.

  Oh yes, the not so minor detail of him being heir often got him into more trouble than out with his father, King Ferdinand VI of Martierra. The King wasn’t giving up on his twenty-seven-year-old son. His duty to the Royal Family wasn’t all as complicated as Magnus made it seem. Martierra’s population was just under 50,000 people. A small yet sovereign state, the Dahl family had ruled as a just and constitutional monarchy for hundreds of years, with King Ferdinand VI as the current head of state. It was a role and title Magnus had no desire to inherit.

  Unfortunately for Magnus, he could not abdicate his role as the Crown Prince. Their monarchy forbade it, and unlike popular movies where a person easily makes a motion, and they put it to a vote, his crown and role weren’t up for discussion. His one and only sibling was his sister, Cossette, and she was forbidden to rule by law. It was another issue Magnus had with their outdated tradition.

  “Magnus, please, son,” The Queen and his mother, Elizabeth, begged, “do not run off again. Your father needs you here. I know this isn’t the life you’ve chosen, but son, this life chose you. None of us control this any more than we have control over the weather.”

  “Mother, you know there is such a thing called climate engineering, right? Technology is such that creating consequential climate change is plausible. Albeit, still debatable how these ranges can or should be managed, it is most definitely a thing, this geoengineering.”

  His father frowned upon these types of conversation; his family had never been too scientific. Being a predominantly Christian nation, the Royal Family preferred conversing about humanity and goodwill unto others. Nothing wrong with it except, Magnus believed, it was important to be more open-minded, accepting of exponential research and data, proof that showed science being more plausible than not.

  “Where are you off to this time? Geneva? Zurich?” His mother patiently waited for a reply.

  “The United States. It's been a while since I’ve visited, and I feel the need to embrace total anonymity.”

  “The United States of America? Magnus. But why? Why on earth would you go there, now? With so much uncertainty among their people? I don’t know. It doesn’t seem safe. I’m not sure I’m comfortable with this.” The Queen reached over to her son. “Please, Magnus. Rethink this decision.”

  “I’ve decided that is where I am going. I promise, Mother, I will try harder to be a better Crown Prince upon my return.”

  The Dahl family, like many royals, wasn’t outwardly affectionate, but this time Magnus reached over, embracing his mother and said, “I need this.”

  “Very well. But you must be the one to tell your father. He’ll be home for dinner. I don’t know if there is a best time but try to find it.”

  The palace’s traditional six-course dinner typically started in the art room, where hors d’oeuvre awaited as the family listened to a pianist or cello player. It was a practice Magnus found ostentatious.

  Magnus once requested, in advance, the pianist play Bohemian Rhapsody, much to his father’s discontent. The poor pianist thought surely he’d never be invited back to the palace. But the King, being the people’s King, didn’t fret. He knew well where the order had come from.

  This evening, however, there was no music. The Queen had conveniently ensured the family’s privacy, in the event, Magnus found it an opportune moment to speak to the King.

  “Why do you look so nervous?” Cossette said with her sharp English accent. She’d gone to boarding school in England, and while she spoke seven languages, her accent was very much English, while the rest of the family had more of a Spanish accent.

  “Nothing for you to worry about, I can assure you.” He adjusted his tie to breathe better.

  “As if.” Cossette zeroed her eyes in on her brother. “I know this look, Magnus. You are about to upset Father. I can sense it. What is it you are about to tell him?”

  “It truly is none of your business. Besides, what I must tell Father will hardly upset him. Just because we don’t always see eye to eye doesn’t mean he’s upset.”

  There was no time for a rebuttal; the King entered the room dismissing the attendant at the door. The Queen observed her husband who was set on his mission.

  Thanks, Magnus thought to himself as he observed his mother’s demeanor.

  “What is this I hear, Magnus, that you’re off to the United States to gallivant those lands with no escorts and no reason but to enjoy yourself?”

  Magnus caught Cossette snickering; she was happy to see he’d once again caused anger in their father. She was bitter because she couldn’t inherit the throne and wanted it badly.

  But his father’s twitchy ear lobes quickly distracted Magnus. Whenever he was angry or, in this case, furious, his earlobes twitched. The King’s face would go red, his chin and collar would become one. The twitchy earlobes were often a welcome distraction to Magnus while he was being scolded. At this moment, Magnus hadn’t even noticed he was smirking.

  “You think this is funny?” the King shouted.

  “Sorry, Father. No, I find no comedic relief in this. I’m just trying to keep my nerves at bay. Since this conversation is happening, to answer your question, yes,
I leave tomorrow. I don’t know how long I’ll stay, but I feel like I’m on a soul search. I’ve already told Mother how I plan on doing my best upon my return, to adhere with royal protocol, and take my role as the Crown Prince more seriously. I ask of you a little more patience. I need this,” Magnus asserted.

  His father’s face slowly dropped a few shades of red as his wife massaged the back of his neck. He paced toward a window overlooking the south gardens, his favorite place to think.

  “Son. I must trust you will return, soon, and take your place in this monarchy. I pray you do not stray for too long, and that you find what it is you are searching for, so long as it does not bring our family shame. You have my blessing.” The King turned toward his son and stretched his hand out as an offering of peace.

  “Thank you, Father. I assure you, I’ll return a changed man.”

  Magnus could hardly know if that was true, but he was willing to succumb to the pressure of the throne, finally.

  Chapter 2

  Freya Sinclair had spent her life dreaming of becoming a prima ballerina in a world-renown ballet company. A severe injury at nineteen took her out of her pointe shoes for over a year and landed her right smack in the middle of a college campus, hardly what she had dreamed of. But donning those slippers were no longer a choice, so she submerged herself into her studies, focused on creating a career path, and graduating summa cum laude with a prestigious job offer in hand. Except the pressures of being an adult seemed to want to sweep her up into oblivion, so she took a year off after graduating with the money she’d saved from working while in college and traveled.

  Upon her return, she found her passion for dance again, only this time it was to teach. She took a decent paying job, saved up enough to put a down-payment on a house that had been a former studio, and lived there. She worked full-time by day and taught in the evening and at night. Her ballet school became a kind of popular place, and soon she hired two additional part-time instructors.

  “You know, Freya, you need to get out of this place more often. Why don’t you come out with us next weekend? We are going out for dinner and drinks. I promise it’ll be classy.” Marissa, a younger twenty-three-year-old instructor, said.

  “Yes! You should totally come and hang with us. Even bunheads have got to have a little fun,” Justine, the other instructor, chimed in.

  Freya wasn’t sure. She was hardly old, twenty-six herself, but she didn’t get out much. Most of her former friends continued to be active artists, either still part of a corps or slowly moving up the ranks as demi-soloists and soloists. Most of her former co-dancers were first soloists or principals. The memories of what never would happen made her heartache. She quickly chucked the feeling away and tried her best to engage.

  “Sounds like fun. What’s the attire?”

  “Nothing over the top, but fun and flirty. You never know who you might meet.” Justine winked.

  “We can leave from here if you don’t mind. It’ll be fun getting ready together. What do you say?”

  “You know what, Marissa, that is a great idea. As soon as the last class wraps up, we can hit the showers and make it happen.” Thinking forward to the next weekend made Freya nervous. She’d need some new clothes. Considering she did most of her shopping online, purchasing clothes in person was all new territory she needed to explore.

  Monday, during her lunch break, Freya walked over to one of the downtown malls closest to her office. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for, but she figured she’d know when she saw it.

  Isn’t that how this shopping works? she thought to herself, trying to remember the last time she’d stepped foot in an actual mall. She was comfortable with online shopping and occasionally visited the clothing boutique on the main floor of her office building.

  She joined the crowds, walking through the revolving doors opening to a seven-story shopping mecca. When did this place get here? she wondered as she wandered aimlessly around, almost forgetting her original mission.

  Overwhelmed, she ducked into a store. She didn’t even recognize it was a shoe store until an associate approached her.

  “How may I help you, miss?” the petite-framed young lady asked.

  “I’m not sure. I guess I need shoes?” Unsure, she tried to convince the associate.

  “What’s the occasion? That always helps.”

  “Oh! Nothing extraordinarily special. But I know I want to make a lasting impression. I think?” She said.

  What am I doing here? she wondered.

  The sales associate tried her best to pull shoes of one style or another, to no avail. The task was more daunting than she’d expected. Pleasing Freya was difficult.

  “We have new shoes arriving this Thursday. I’ve seen the inventory catalog, and there are a few pairs in there I think you might find more than suitable,” she said as she closed several open boxes. “I’d love to continue helping you if you are agreeable to returning then?”

  Freya wasn’t interested in continuing the escapade of shopping, so she reluctantly agreed. Worst-case scenario, I can wear whatever I have that is best, she concluded.

  “Arabesque. Allongé. Those who need to should not hesitate to use the barre. Just make sure you are extending properly.” Freya circled the young ballerinas, helping attune their form.

  “Miss Freya?” a young girl with beautiful form asked from the center of the room, “has anyone ever tooted when stretching or practicing?”

  The class broke into a laughing fit; even Freya grinned at the question. “It's happened, but most dancers I’ve been around have taken their training seriously. We always continued without acknowledging the slip-up. Many of my instructors wouldn’t tolerate what I’m allowing all of you to do.” She winked, asserting her tone that the class was serious business.

  The girls composed themselves and continued as Freya stood back observing, appreciating the youth before her, and wondering just who of her students had what it took to make it in the industry. It didn’t matter that her studio was small; Freya would put it on the map, making it a force to be reckoned with.

  After class, she raided her closet. Shoe shopping was more than enough; there had to be something in there she could wear to the weekend's soiree.

  Tucked away toward the back, forgotten in the obscurity of time, was a garment bag. Within the bag hung a beautiful white dress. Freya had planned on wearing it after her first major performance, but the opportunity never arrived, as she’d sustained the career-ending injury.

  She ignored the bag and gave up. That’s enough for one night, she thought, walking away to ready herself for bed.

  Thursday arrived, and once again, Freya made her way to the dreaded shoe shop. She looked around not noticing anything new, but then she wouldn’t really know. She didn’t have an eye for spotting stuff like that. Heck, she once ended with the same pair of shoes. And she was sure the same sales lady had sold her both. Too embarrassed to admit it outwardly to anyone, she kept the second pair. Those were also somewhere in her closet.

  “Hello! I’m so happy you came back. I think I found the perfect shoes for you,” the petite girl excitedly stated.

  Oh, joy! Freya thought as she tried to smile.

  The young lady pulled out a caged, fuchsia, satin-covered heel stiletto sandal. They were back-zip, with a leather lining and sole. The shoe was beautiful, but something else caught Freya’s eye. Off to the side, something crimson stuck out of a box. As the associate fussed with the satin sandal, Freya stood to retrieve the black shoe box.

  She pulled out the most exquisite, covered-toe, suede stiletto, with a big bowknot that wrapped around the ankle. The powerful feminine design was stylish, yet distinctively sexy.

  The associate took one look at Freya and put the caged sandal away.

  “Those are lovely. The vibrant red color will make you instantly recognizable. And from your expression, I think it's safe to say the shoe has found you.” She said as she helped Freya try them on.

  Freya
couldn’t lie nor hold back her excitement. She finally understood the concept of she’d know when she found the perfect shoe, as she stood in front of a mirror, appreciating the way her toned legs looked.

  “I’ll take them,” she said without hesitation.

  She wore a smile on her face while walking back to her office, causing a few heads to turn. Not that she was unapproachable. Well, yeah, she had to admit to herself; she was unapproachable, but mostly because her job required a level of confidentiality, and one thing she’d learned early on was to allow no one to question her level of trust.

  “Ms. Sinclair?” the receptionist called to her as she caught up with Freya, “you have somewhat of an urgent message.” She handed a folded piece of paper to Freya and walked away.

  Freya dipped into her office, closing the door behind her.

  “Avoiding me or anyone else won’t solve anything. We’ll be expecting you for Thanksgiving dinner.”

  She crumpled up the piece of paper and tossed it into the recycle bin, immediately digging into work.

  “Seriously, Mom. My work? You called my work to remind me of Thanksgiving dinner?” She tried to remain calm, but there was enough edge in her tone her mother would understand she wasn’t pleased.