Page 9 of The Unlikely Heir
Do I actually want to do this?
Just because I’m the next in line doesn’t mean I actually have to do the job, right?
It’s going to turn my life upside down. And while I can’t pretend I’m not slightly aimless, with my job at the call center simply a stop-gap until I work out what to do with my life, I definitely never considered king as a future career prospect.
My mother had a brief experience of royal life when she was married to my father, and she then spent the first twenty-two years of my life before she passed away protecting me as much as she could from this reality.
If she were still alive, what advice would she give me? A pulse of grief shoots through me as I contemplate the thought. Losing her guidance is one of the hardest things to cope with, the fact I now have to face the world on my own.
Should I step aside and let my younger half-brother Nicholas be the heir? Surely the British public would be happier with that than with an American as heir to the throne?
I scrape my hand across my jaw. I really need to talk to my grandmother.
“We’re driving you straight to Buckingham Palace,” Spencer says. “First, you’ll have a meeting with Her Majesty. And then the prime minister is scheduled to meet with you both at ten o’clock.”
“The prime minister? Oliver Hartwell?” I squeak.
“Yes, the government and the monarchy must work closely on this. The queen can’t change the order of succession. Only an act of Parliament can do that.”
My mind bounces like a ping-pong ball in a hurricane.
Oliver Hartwell’s election as the British prime minister caused a stir even in America. The politics of other countries don’t often penetrate the bubble of American media because our own politicians keep us entertained enough, but two things about Oliver Hartwell made the American public take notice. First, there’s his movie-star good looks. He’s what you’d get if you played around in one of those apps where you can merge two celebrity faces. In his particular case, Henry Cavill and Chris Evans would combine to produce his dark, brooding handsomeness.
We do seem to be a country that’s a sucker for a pretty face.
The second reason Oliver’s election made headlines was that he was married to a guy.
The first openly-gay prime minister of one of our closest allies, at a time when the backlash against LGBTQ+ rights in America was raining thick and fast.
When he came to America for his first state visit, there were more waving rainbow flags than Union Jacks.
The idea that I’m going to meet Oliver Hartwell has my hands shaking.
The Rolls Royce sweeps around the side of Buckingham Palace, around the Queen Victoria Memorial fountain, and past the main entrance to a smaller set of gates on the north side. There’s a wall of paparazzi outside, and the noise of yelling and the mad clicking of cameras pierces through the car as we slow down for the police guard.
I duck down, despite the tinted windows.
After my father passed away when I was eight, my mother refused to let me come to England or participate in public events with my family.
“The British press will consume you alive if you let them,” she’d said.
Occasionally an article would spring up on the internet about “The American Prince.” But with my more charismatic and accessible relatives providing ample entertainment and my mother’s reputation of being trigger-happy when it came to lawsuits, I was effectively kept out of range of the claws and teeth of the media wolves.
Until now.
The car drives through an arch to park in an internal courtyard sealed off from the prying eyes outside the gate.
I’m bustled into a palace foyer where the marble floors gleam and the air is perfumed by fresh flowers.
A man steps forward. “Your Royal Highness, Prince Callum?”
I haven’t been referred to by my title before, and it’s definitely going to take some getting used to.
“Yes. That’s me,” I say.
He gives a small bow. “I’m Raymond Edwards, the chief of staff at Clarence House. I’ll be working with you going forward.”
Raymond is a slight, dark-haired man with pale eyes. The most distinctive thing about him is his mustache. It’s a thick, bushy thing I almost expect to crawl off his face.
