Greg had read the same comment three times.
@notting_hill01
An American nobody marries a prince after a drunken night in Vegas? This has to be a publicity stunt.
He stared at the words on his tablet, his jaw tightening with every passing second.
A publicity stunt.
As if he and Aziza had planned to wake up married. Like she’d known who he was before their wedding. As though she had spent the past few days trying to navigate a foreign country, an unfamiliar family, and a life she had never asked for simply because she wanted a crown.
He scrolled farther down.
jarjarB2000
Can someone explain how this woman is supposed to be a princess? Does she even know anything about Valoria?
Another comment appeared beneath it.
Noir_2.0
I’m not convinced they’re actually married. Where’s the official announcement?
Greg tossed the tablet onto his desk, “Unbelievable.”
Across from him, Reginald glanced up from the papers he was reviewing. “Something particularly unpleasant?”
“Take your pick,” Greg gestured toward the tablet. “Apparently, my wife is either a gold digger, an actress hired to improve my image, or a complete idiot who doesn't understand what she's gotten herself into.”
Reginald adjusted his glasses, “Well, those are among the more common theories.”
Greg stared at him, “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“No, Your Highness. Merely… informed.”
Greg leaned back in his chair and rubbed a hand over his face. He'd known the announcement would bring criticism. He wasn't naive enough to believe everyone would welcome the news that the notorious Prince Alexander the Third had married an American college student after an impulsive night in Las Vegas. He just thought that the attacks would be against… him. Still, seeing strangers dissect Aziza's character as though they knew her made him want to throw every electronic device in the room out the window.
He picked up the tablet again. There were positive comments, too.
MiyaQ56
She looks lovely. I hope he treats her well.
#1RoyalFanGirl
Maybe this is exactly what Alexander needs. Someone who doesn’t care about his title.
prettyprettyprincessD
If he married her, perhaps this means he’s finally growing up.
Those were better, but even the supportive comments often came with a qualification, as if Aziza needed to prove herself before anyone would accept that she belonged beside him. Greg hated that most of all.
He'd spent the past two days buried in the Bellmerian negotiations, leaving his office only for meals, sleep, and the occasional meeting with his father. Every time he'd finished one stack of documents, another would appear.
He had barely seen Aziza. He didn’t even get to help her prepare for the Winter Charity Ball. He hadn't been there to hear about her lessons or ask how she was managing the growing pressure. He hadn't even been able to keep his promise to show her around Valoria. Instead, he'd asked Michael to help her prepare for the ball.
It had been the most sensible solution. Michael had been his friend since childhood, spent years around royalty and nobility, and understood palace protocol almost as well as Greg did. He was also Aziza's friend from when they were at university in the States, which meant she wouldn't have to endure another unfamiliar instructor while trying to learn everything at once. Greg trusted him completely, but trusting Michael didn't mean Greg liked having to hand over the time he should have spent with his wife.
“Your Highness?”
Greg looked up.
Reginald had moved to the opposite side of the desk, to make room for the publicity team who apparently just arrived. Victoria sat beside him, her tablet open to a report from the communications team. Marcus and Sophie had joined the meeting as well, while Michael stood near the window, checking a message on his phone.
“The statement and interview have had mixed results,” Victoria explained. “The decision to acknowledge that you and Princess Aziza were friends before the wedding helped. It made the marriage appear less like a completely random encounter.”
“Good,” Greg said, tapping his finger on the desk. “Because it wasn't.”
“However, the lack of detail has encouraged speculation, even to suggest that our first statement wasn’t official. Some people believe we're concealing a scandal.”
“Well, we are concealing one thing,” Greg replied. “My private life.”
Victoria nodded, “Which is why we shouldn't overreact. The more we argue with every rumor, the more attention we draw to it.”
Marcus tapped his tablet, “The interview has also helped humanize you.”
“I didn’t realize I was such a monster to need humanizing,” Greg said, dryly.
Marcus slightly smiled, “Yes… well, several outlets have commented on how protective you appeared when the reporter asked Princess Aziza about her feelings.”
Greg's stomach tightened. He remembered Aziza's hesitation, and wondered what she had been about to say. Since then, he hadn't had the opportunity to ask her.
“What about the comments directed at her?” he asked, leaning forward and resting his arms on the desk. “The ones questioning whether she can handle royal life?”
“We're monitoring them,” Sophie said. “We can release more information about her upcoming charitable work after the ball. It would give the public something positive to focus on.”
Greg nodded slowly, “That might help.”
“But it won't change everyone's minds,” Victoria warned. “Some people will remain skeptical regardless of what we do.”
“Then we'll give them something real to see,” Greg said. “Aziza isn't going to spend her life defending herself to strangers.”
Michael lowered his phone, “She isn't, actually.”
Greg turned toward him. “How is she?”
Michael slipped the phone into his pocket, “Busy. Her lessons are progressing well. She's working hard on the dance steps, too, although she's convinced she'll step on someone's feet at the ball.”
Greg smiled despite himself, “That sounds like her.”
“She also has a good grasp of the charity's work. She's been asking questions about the organizations receiving donations.”
“That sounds like her, too.”
Michael's expression softened, “But she's tired, Prince Alexander.”
His smile faded. “Tired?”
“I will say, she's handling it better than I expected, but she knows what's being said about her. She tries not to let it show, but it doesn’t fool anyone. Yesterday, one of the attendants mentioned a particularly nasty article, and Aziza pretended it didn't bother her.”
Greg felt a sharp pang of guilt, “Did she say anything?”
“She asked whether people would eventually get bored and move on.”
Greg looked down at his desk. He could picture her asking that question with a small, uncertain smile, trying to make light of something that had hurt her.
“And what did you tell her?” he asked, still looking down.
“That some would, while others wouldn't. However, their opinions don't determine whether she deserves to be here,” Michael paused. “I think she needed to hear that.”
Greg swallowed.
He should have been the one to tell her, and be there when she read the comments, wondering whether she belonged, or even when the weight of the palace became too much. Instead, he'd been arguing over shipping tariffs… with Margaret no less.
He pushed his chair back, “That's enough.”
Reginald looked up, “Enough of what?”
“The negotiations. The paperwork… all of it.”
“Your Highness, the Bellmerian delegation expects…”
“They have their preliminary terms. The next meeting isn't until tomorrow afternoon. I'll review the remaining documents tonight.”
“You have several other obligations scheduled before then.”
“Reschedule them.”
Reginald's expression became pained.
“Your Highness, you cannot simply abandon your responsibilities because you wish to spend time with your wife.”
Greg stood, “I'm not abandoning them. I'm merely deciding that my wife is also a responsibility.”
“That's not what I meant.”
“I know what you meant.”
Greg gathered the papers he needed for tomorrow and placed them in a neat stack. “I've spent two days letting work consume every minute of my life. I haven't shown Aziza the city, like I promised. I haven't helped her prepare for the ball. I haven't even had a proper conversation with her since Margaret arrived.”
Michael's eyebrows rose at the mention of Margaret, but he wisely said nothing.
Greg grabbed his jacket, “I'm going to find my wife.”
Reginald sighed, “Your Highness…”
“Reginald, if the palace catches fire, send someone to get me. Otherwise, I'll be unavailable for the next few hours.”
“That's hardly a responsible approach to royal duties.”
Greg paused at the door. “No. It's a responsible approach to being a husband.”
“Your Highness,” Michael said, stepping forward. “I hope you aren’t planning on leaving the palace.”
“And why is that,” he asked, raising an eyebrow as he stared at his friend.
“Well, sir, I have been tasked with another detail and will not be able to accompany you.”
He turned towards Michael, crossing his arms, “What detail is this and why am I just now being informed.”
“To lead Lady Margaret’s team, as she heads to town.”
“Let me guess… my father has arranged this.”
“Yes,” Michael said, bowing his head, “just yesterday after he learned I was helping Princess Aziza with her lessons.”
“I see.”
Now it made sense. Another move from the King. His father probably even believed that ordering Greg’s personal head of security to another detail, would keep him from leaving the palace.
He smirked, and said, “Well, I’ll just have to rely on my wife’s security detail. Make the arrangements immediately.”
Michael looked as though he wanted to protest, but instead he inclined his head again, “Yes, Your Highness.”
“Prince Alexander…” Reginald said.
Greg glared at Reginald, warning him not to finish his statement. Then, he turned to leave before the old man could produce another schedule. For the first time in days, he had something far more important to do than sit behind his desk. He had a wife to find, and a promise to keep. Nothing would stop him from his mission, not even his father nor his King’s schemes.
****
Aziza was standing in the palace courtyard when Greg found her. She wore a light coat over a simple dress, her hair pinned back from her face. A small handbag hung from her shoulder, and she was studying a flower bed as though she were trying to memorize every detail of it.
Greg stopped in the doorway. For a moment, he simply watched her. She looked peaceful. It was a lovely sight, especially after the past few days. Then, she turned and spotted him.
“Greg?”
He smiled, “Hello, wife.”
Her face brightened before she said, “Hello, husband.”
Crossing the courtyard, his smile widened. He stopped in front of her and kissed her cheek, “Are you busy?”
“I'm supposed to be reviewing notes for my next lesson.”
“Excellent.”
She narrowed her eyes, “That doesn't sound like you have a good reason to interrupt me.”
“I have a wonderful reason,” he said, spreading his hands out.
“And that is?”
“I'm stealing you for the afternoon.”
Aziza blinked.
“What?”
“No lessons. No royal appointments. No speeches about the importance of holding your teacup correctly.”
She laughed, “You know, that lesson was actually useful.”
“I'm sure it was.”
“Mrs. Hart says…”
“Aziza.”
She stopped.
Greg took both her hands, “Please tell me you have a few hours to spend with your husband.”
Her expression softened, “I do.”
“Good,” he grinned, as his thumbs rubbed the back of her hands. “Because we're going into the city.”
Her eyes widened, “Outside the palace?”
“That's generally what going into the city means.”
She swatted his arm, “You know what I mean!”
“I do.”
He offered her his arm, “Come on. Let's go see Valoria.”
He escorted Aziza through a side entrance, accompanied by a discreet security detail, mainly made up of newer security members and four more experienced members, two of which were from his wife’s security team. They knew to keep enough distance to give Aziza and him privacy without leaving them unprotected.
Remembering what Michael told him earlier, Greg had arranged for a car to take them into the old part of the city, where narrow cobblestone streets wound between colorful buildings and small shops displayed their wares beneath striped awnings. Knowing how Margaret was like about the up and coming fashionable things, he just knew there would be no chance of he and Aziza bumping into her in this part of the city. Aziza sat beside him in the car, looking out the window with undisguised curiosity.
“It's beautiful,” she said.
Greg watched her rather than the scenery, and said softly, “It is.” Then quickly clearing his throat, he added, “You haven't even seen the best parts.”
She turned toward him, “Then why haven't you shown me before now?”
The question was gentle, but it struck him all the same. He looked down at their joined hands, “I wanted to.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t think I would be this tied up with the Bellmerian negotiations.”
“Yeah… that…” she said, pulling her hand away and folding her arms before looking out the window again. “How can we forget that? Though, I guess it was nice that you sent Mike to help.”
Greg sighed, “But, it’s clear that I should have made time.”
“Why didn’t you?” she asked, still looking out the window. “You wait till now to make the time. In light of this, it doesn’t seem like it was so important to spend all that time with that woman.”
It was quiet for a moment as he attempted to stop himself from smiling. He forced a solemn look on his face before he said, “You’re absolutely right. I should be locked up in the dungeons for this heinous act… of making my wife jealous.”
Aziza turned towards him, eyes wide and mouth open.
“Greg!” she said, swatting his arm again. “I’m not jealous!”
“Clearly,” he couldn’t hold in his laughter anymore.
“You’re unbelievable,” she said, laughing. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“Immensely.”
They stared at each other for a few minutes in silence. It was nice to finally hear her laugh again. He truly missed teasing her, even if they had only been apart for two days. It was torture, but he had to admit that this moment made his suffering worth it. Maybe… just maybe she did feel more for him than just friendship.
“In all seriousness,” Greg said, his smile fading. “I am truly sorry for not coming to you sooner.”
Aziza placed her hand on his and squeezed, “You're allowed to have responsibilities, Greg.”
“I know. I just don't want you to feel like you've been abandoned here.”
She was quiet for a moment, “Sometimes I do.”
The honesty in her voice hurt more than he expected. He looked at her, “I'm sorry.”
She smiled faintly, “I didn't say that to make you feel guilty.”
“Too late.”
That earned him a small laugh. He leaned over and kissed her forehead. “Today is yours. No work. No royal duties. Just… us.”
“Just us,” she repeated.
He nodded and for the first time in days, Greg felt as though he could breathe again.
Their first stop was a little café tucked into a narrow street near the market square. Its windows were fogged from the warmth inside, and the scent of fresh bread, cinnamon, and coffee drifted through the doorway. They ordered sandwiches, pastries, and hot chocolate for Aziza. Greg raised an eyebrow when she added a second pastry.
“What?” she asked, shrugging.
“Nothing.”
“You're judging me.”
“I'm admiring your commitment.”
She grinned and stole a bite from his plate.
He stared at her, “Did you just steal my food?”
“Marriage means sharing,” she said, batting her eyes at him.
“Does it?”
“I'm almost certain that's in the vows.”
He laughed.
For a while, they were simply Greg and Aziza again. They talked about university, their old professors, and the ridiculous amount of work they'd once complained about before either of them had understood what real pressure looked like. Aziza told him about her lessons with Mrs. Hart and how Daphne had been helping her practice greetings and formal introductions.
“She keeps telling me I need to stop apologizing every time I make a mistake,” Aziza said.
“Sounds like Daphne.”
“She also told me that if anyone makes me feel unwelcome at the ball, I should smile at them and make them regret it.”
Greg nearly choked on his coffee. “She said that?”
“Well, not exactly…”
“Aziza…”
“Ok, she said I should be gracious.”
He narrowed his eyes.
“That's not what you just told me.”
Aziza smiled innocently, “Perhaps I paraphrased.”
He laughed so hard that the couple at the next table looked over.
After lunch, they explored the market. Aziza stopped at nearly every stall, admiring handmade jewelry, colorful scarves, painted ceramics, and little wooden toys carved by local artisans. Greg bought her a small silver pendant shaped like a flower.
“Greg, you don't have to buy me things,” she protested.
“I know.”
“Then, why did you?”
“Because I wanted to.”
She examined the pendant in her palm, “It's beautiful.”
“Not as beautiful as you.”
She rolled her eyes, though her cheeks pinkened, “That's terribly cheesy.”
“I'm a prince. It's practically my duty.”
She laughed again, and Greg decided he would happily endure a lifetime of her teasing, if it meant hearing that sound.
They were walking past a row of shops, when he heard a woman's voice.
“That's him.”
His smile faded, as he turned slightly. Two young women stood near a shop window, staring in their direction. One was holding her phone.
“That's Prince Alexander the Third,” the first whispered excitedly.
“And that's his wife?” The second woman looked Aziza up and down.
“I still don't believe they're really married,” the first woman lowered her voice, but not enough.
“Apparently, they got drunk and ran off to Vegas. Imagine throwing away a perfectly good royal match for someone you barely know.”
Aziza went still beside him, her hand tightening around his. He was really hoping that she wasn’t listening to those women too.
Turning towards them, he said, “If you have questions about my marriage, you are welcome to address them to me.”
Both women were startled. The one holding the phone quickly lowered it.
“Your Highness. We didn't mean…”
“Then perhaps you should be more careful about what you say,” his voice wasn't loud, but it was cold enough to end the conversation. The women mumbled apologies and hurried away.
Greg turned back to Aziza, “Are you all right?”
She nodded too quickly, “Of course.”
He knew that wasn't entirely true. He wanted to reassure her, but before he could speak, another voice rang out from behind them.
“You!”
A woman in her twenties hurried toward them, her face flushed with anger. Greg recognized her as someone who had been standing near the market entrance, watching them for several minutes.
“You have no right to marry him!”
Security began moving forward, but not quick enough. The woman ignored them.
“Prince Alexander belongs with someone who understands his position! Someone who deserves to stand beside him!”
Aziza stepped back.
Greg immediately moved between them, “That's enough.”
The woman looked furious. “You've ruined everything! He was supposed to marry someone worthy of him!”
“Security,” Greg called.
The woman lunged… not at him, but towards Aziza. Greg caught her arm before she could reach his wife. Security seized the woman and pulled her away. She struggled against them, shouting that Aziza had stolen the prince and that their marriage was an insult to Valoria.
“Bring the car around,” one of the security members urgently said in his comms.
Greg barely heard the rest. He turned toward Aziza. She stood frozen, her face pale.
“Aziza?”
She blinked, “I…” her voice broke.
Greg reached for her, “Hey. Look at me.”
She lifted her eyes to his, “Are you hurt?”
She shook her head, “N… no.”
He pulled her into his arms, “It's all right. I've got you.”
She clutched the back of his coat. For a moment, she didn't speak. Then, he felt her trembling. Greg's chest tightened. He held her more firmly, shielding her from the gathering crowd while security dealt with the woman. As soon as the SUV pulled up, a few security guards surrounded them and quickly escorted them inside the vehicle, driving off as soon as the door closed.
“What happened back there,” he demanded, looking at Daniel, who was in the front passenger seat. What a time for Michael to be engaged in other matters! This would never happen if he was with them.
“My apologies, Your Highness,” he said, glancing back. “We didn’t expect… it won’t happen again.”
“It better not,” Greg said, holding Aziza tighter.
Looking back at her, he pressed his lips against her forehead.
“I'm sorry,” he murmured against her hair. “I should have anticipated this.”
“You didn't know.”
“I should have.”
“No, Greg,” she drew back enough to look at him. Her eyes were bright with tears she was trying not to shed. “I knew people might say things. I just didn't think anyone would actually…”
She stopped.
Greg brushed a strand of hair away from her face, “You didn't do anything wrong.”
“I… I know,” her voice sounded uncertain.
He hated that. He hated that strangers had made his wife feel unsafe simply because she'd married him, that he couldn't give her the ordinary afternoon he'd promised, and most of all, he hated the thought that she might begin to believe the things they'd said.
“We're going back to the palace,” he told her gently.
She nodded. This time, she didn't argue.
The drive back was quiet. Aziza sat close beside him, her fingers curled around his hand. Greg kept his arm around her shoulders, occasionally rubbing her upper arm in slow, reassuring strokes.
After several minutes, she spoke, “Is this what it's going to be like?”
Greg looked down at her, “What do you mean?”
“People hating me because I'm married to you.”
He swallowed, “Some people may never approve of our marriage.”
Her expression fell.
“But that doesn't mean,” he continued. “That everyone will feel that way, and it doesn't mean you have to earn the right to be my wife.”
She looked at him, “You make it sound so simple.”
“It isn't simple,” he raised her hand and kissed her knuckles, “but I won't let you face it alone.”
She leaned against his shoulder. Greg pressed a kiss to the top of her head and stared out the window, his thoughts turning dark. His father wanted him to reconsider his marriage. Margaret had been placed in the palace, and now people in the city were treating Aziza as though she'd committed some unforgivable offense by accepting his hand. Greg couldn't prove that any of it was connected, but he couldn't ignore the possibility, either.
By the time they reached the palace, Aziza had grown calmer. The color had returned to her face, though she still held his hand tightly as they stepped out of the car.
“I ruined our afternoon,” she murmured.
Greg turned to her in disbelief, “You did no such thing.”
“We had to come back early.”
“Aziza, someone tried to hurt you.”
She looked down, “I know.”
He lifted her chin gently, “Nothing about that is your fault. Understand?”
After a moment, she nodded.
“Good,” he kissed her forehead again. “Besides, I haven't finished showing you Valoria. You'll have to put up with me again.”
That earned him a small smile. “I suppose I can manage,” she said.
They entered the palace together. Greg was about to ask whether she wanted to go straight to their apartments, when a familiar voice came from the foot of the staircase.
“Well… if it isn't my favorite disappointment.”
Greg stopped. He knew that voice. Turning slowly, he saw a tall man standing near the bottom of the stairs, dressed in a dark tailored suit. His posture was impeccable, his expression faintly amused, and his resemblance to their father was unmistakable.
Crown Prince Alexander.
His older brother. Finally home for the Charity Ball.
Greg's arm instinctively tightened around Aziza's shoulders, “What are you doing here?” he asked.
His brother raised an eyebrow, “Charming as ever, little brother.”
Greg's expression hardened, “I'm serious.”
“So am I. I live here.”
“Not often enough to remember where the front door is. You might as well stay at your own residence.”
His brother laughed softly, “Still touchy, I see.”
Greg didn't laugh, not after everything he and Aziza had to endure the past few days. Between his father arranging Margaret's arrival, and someone trying to attack his wife moments ago, he definitely wasn’t in the mood to verbally spar with his big brother. He didn't know what Alexander had heard about the marriage, what their father had told him, or whether he'd arrived with the same opinions as the rest of the family. However, until he knew, he wasn't going to let his guard down.
Alexander’s gaze shifted to Aziza, “And who is this?”
Greg looked at his wife. She stood beside him, composed but still a little shaken from the afternoon's events. All he wanted to do was take her to their apartments and comfort her, but he knew he couldn’t escape this meeting with his brother.
Taking her hand, he glanced at her and said, “Aziza,” he turned toward his brother. “I'd like you to meet my brother. Crown Prince Alexander.”