Note: may contain spoilers.

Although a lighthearted novel, please note this story has references to past drug use, alcohol use, grief and bereavement, a nautical disaster, a manipulative ex, anxiety, night terrors, internalized homophobia, and mature sexual content.

Never trust an Aidan. With all due respect to the Aidans out there—and there’s inevitably bound to be a few decent ones as statistical outliers—Aidan Fitzwilliam definitely doesn’t make the cut. He’s what gives the other Aidans out there a bad rap.

The shock ripples down my spine in waves, my face hot as I keep staring at my phone. The message is bright against black glass. I watch and wait, as if another, better text will manifest. This has to be an April Fool’s joke misfire—getting started early in January.

A prank fail.

Tonight in my Mayfair flat, I scowl at the text, white-knuckling my phone. I’m at the entry, ready to leave, dressed for a night out—dressed, in fact, to meet Aidan. Date night and all that to celebrate our six-month anniversary. Frankly, I look amazing.

The text is still there.

i can’t see you anymore theo i fell in love with someone else sorry x

Somebody told me once that it would be best if we could break up with someone before we dated them. To see how they act. To truly see what sort of person they really are deep down. If someone can’t be arsed to break up with you in person, a stream-of-consciousness text has got to be way down on the list of fallback options.

When I ring him, it goes immediately to voicemail. The coward.

Turns out Aidan is a bit of an arsehat. Or a lot of an arsehat. The signs were there. The problem being I tend to ignore all the red flags. I fell for him anyway. Or, quite possibly, because of the red flags.

Like how I was the center of his attention at first. Then, Aidan was jealous of all my ex-boyfriends. And all of my male friends. He would text me constantly if I was out somewhere without him. And Aidan wouldn’t ever take responsibility when he did something wrong. I wrote it off as Aidan being generally a poor communicator with everyone.

I text instead.

This is some exquisite bullshit. I don’t

believe you x

No reply comes. Not five minutes later. Not ten minutes later.

Ghosted. At least for now.

Screwing up my face as I run my hand through my hair, I slump before I catch my reflection in the hallway mirror. My sandy-brown hair falls back into place in its usual waves. I’m in a Prada single-breasted wool mohair suit, slim fit, for crying out loud, and a shirt so white it cuts. Killer look. And my fingernails are painted in a rainbow, a different color for each finger. My titanium hoop earrings catch the light.

I could call it a night and go back to bed and stream something terrible for hours. And wait for Aidan to come back to his senses.

Which is when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I fumble and nearly drop my phone in my race to see the message from Aidan.

Except it’s not from Aidan.

It’s a screenshot from one of the tabloid rags from one of my friends, Prince James, a cousin of the future British King, Prince Auggie. So, James, as a fellow royal, is a reliable sort.

My mouth opens as I read on.

“The Truth” About Prince Theodor: Ex-Boyfriend Tells All in Exclusive! 

The headline is followed by a photo of Aidan and me last month at a fashion show, front row, dressed to kill. We’re caught laughing, holding hands, Aidan leaning into me, all dusky-eyed smolder.

“What the actual fuck?” I erupt, when the phone rings at the same time.

“Before you google yourself,” James begins in a droll voice, “I’m staging an intervention. Don’t do it.”

“It’s supposed to be our anniversary, the fucker! Is this even real?”

Obviously, it’s real. Too real. Aidan may have had his issues, but tabloid reveals about me seemed far-fetched. In theory.

“It’s real,” James confirms while my head spins and everything wobbles. The room is too close, and all the oxygen has disappeared from the flat, like someone’s siphoned it all out. “Sorry to say.”

“Right,” I declare. “Well. We’re going out. Sexy Fish. Bring Frankie. Tell the tabloids I’m dating both of you.”

“You need a reso—” James’ laughter rings over the line.

“Got one. Anniversary, remember? What’s another person? 8:00 p.m.” I hang up, proverbial smoke coming out of my ears. One last check in the mirror, mussing up my hair just so, and I’m on my way.

Conveniently, Sexy Fish isn’t far from my flat. No need to call for a car service or to drive. Instead, I collect my bodyguard, Miles, and I walk down Piccadilly Street like I own it, turning north onto Berkeley Street, with the shadows of my security nearby. It’s dark and crisp and drizzly out. My wool overcoat provides some buffer versus the chill, thin leather gloves protecting against the occasional gust of wind as I walk down the street.

Showing uncharacteristic self-restraint, I keep from doing an internet search on myself on the way over, partly because I have to deal with the umbrella situation and wind as I walk, partly because it’s cold to stand around googling oneself shamelessly in the street, and partly because I’ll have time when I reach the restaurant while I wait for James and Frankie to turn up.

When I walk into the restaurant, warmth hits me like a wall, and a shudder of some suppressed emotion I don’t want to examine too closely rips through me again. But I give my famous grin to cover up as I’m smoothly whisked to my table. Miles stays out of the private dining room, led to his nearby table.

“We’re so pleased you’re here. Your table is ready. This way, Prince Theodor.” The impeccably coiffed hostess in her black dress takes me to the private dining room I’ve booked for my anniversary dinner date.

“May I have one more chair, please?” I nod at the table set for two in a moody, intimate room painted deep maroon. “And I suppose another place setting, if it’s not too much of a bother?”

Her eyes widen ever so slightly. “Did we make an error—”

“Not at all. My, er, plans changed this evening. I’m now expecting Prince James and his guest, Frankie Lee-Smith, instead of Aidan Fitzwilliam. Thank you.” My lips twitch only the slightest amount at the effort of mentioning his name. Like I’m used to kissing poison.

With a tumble of apologies, the staff add a place setting and a chair to the table while I order a Corpse Reviver cocktail to tide me over as I wait for my friends. Because drinking on an empty stomach is a solid plan, especially when I’m being smeared in the press. Now, seated alone in the room, I call up a search for myself on my phone’s browser, and I’m soon rewarded with the exclusive story to match the headline James sent me. After all, I’m invested in finding out more about “the truth” about me.

It’s terrible.

There’s Aidan, looking bashful and wide-eyed as he, with a liquid tongue, spills a silken pack of lies. Transfixed and horrified, I scroll.