The Scandal

My phone buzzes at 3 AM with a photo that would make a nun faint.

Prince Henrik of Ardenia. Shirtless. On a yacht. With three women who are definitely not wearing enough clothing for international diplomacy.

And I'm the one who has to fix this.

"Vivian Cross." I answer on the second ring, already reaching for my laptop.

"We have a situation." Marcus, my contact at the palace. His voice is thin with panic. "His Royal Highness..."

"I'm looking at it."

"How bad?"

I scroll through the photos. Count the nipples. Calculate the global outrage.

"Pretty bad."

---

I land in Ardenia twelve hours later.

The kingdom is small, tucked between Switzerland and Austria like a geographic afterthought. Mountains. Medieval architecture. The kind of place that sells a million postcards and maintains a royal family purely for tourism.

Prince Henrik is supposed to be the future of that tourism.

Right now, he's a PR crisis in a designer suit.

The palace is exactly what you'd expect: marble floors, priceless art, servants who look at me like I've tracked mud on their heritage.

"Miss Cross." A woman in severe gray approaches. "I'm Maggie Ashworth, press secretary. The Queen Mother will see you now."

"The prince?"

"Is... indisposed."

Hungover, probably. Wonderful.

---

Queen Mother Ingrid of Ardenia looks like someone carved her from ice and disappointment.

She sits in a room full of antiques, surrounded by advisors in expensive suits, and studies me like I'm a specimen under glass.

"You come highly recommended, Miss Cross."

"I'm good at my job."

"And what exactly is your job?"

"Making problems disappear. Or at least making them manageable."

She holds up a tablet showing the yacht photos. "Can you make this manageable?"

I study the image. Henrik is laughing in it, head thrown back, genuinely amused. He looks young. Happy. Reckless.

He looks like a man who doesn't care what anyone thinks.

"I can try, Your Majesty."

"Try." Her voice could frost glass. "My son has been 'trying' for thirty-two years. I need solutions, Miss Cross. Not attempts."

The door opens.

And there he is.

Prince Henrik of Ardenia. The scandal himself. He's taller than I expected, six-two, maybe three. Dark hair, artfully disheveled. Green eyes that have graced a thousand magazine covers.

He's also still wearing last night's shirt, buttoned incorrectly.

"Mother. You summoned?"

"Sit down, Henrik. We're discussing your future."

He drops into a chair like he owns it, which, technically, he will someday.

"Let me guess. The boat thing."

"The 'boat thing' is on every front page in Europe."

"I was on vacation."

"You were on camera."

He shrugs. Actually shrugs. "They looked better with the yacht."

I watch this exchange like a tennis match. The Queen Mother's fury. Henrik's practiced indifference.

He's performing, I realize. The carelessness is a costume.

"Miss Cross." He turns to me, attention suddenly focused. "You're the fixer."

"I'm a crisis management specialist."

"Same thing." He smiles. Charming. Empty. "Think you can fix me?"

I don't smile back.

"I think you're harder to fix than you pretend to be."

Something flickers in his expression. Just for a second.

Then the mask is back.

"Well," he says. "This should be interesting."