Aziza stared at the man standing before her, momentarily forgetting the unpleasant encounter in the market, the frightened ride back to the palace, and even the fact that Greg was still holding her hand.
The Crown Prince of Valoria.
Greg’s older brother.
She had known Greg had a brother, of course. She had heard enough about the royal family since arriving to understand that Crown Prince Alexander was the heir to the throne, while Greg was only the second son. However, knowing someone existed and meeting him unexpectedly at the palace entrance were two entirely different things. It was overwhelming to say the least, especially when she was still recovering from a woman practically attacking her for marrying his younger brother.
“Aziza,” Greg repeated, gently squeezing her hand. “This is my brother, Crown Prince Alexander.”
“I gathered that,” she replied before she could stop herself.
The Crown Prince’s eyebrows rose.
Greg made a small sound that might have been a laugh if he had not looked so tense, “Alexander, my wife, Aziza.”
His brother extended his hand, “At last. The woman who managed to accomplish what years of parental nagging, public scandals, and royal obligations could not.”
Aziza shook his hand cautiously, “And what would that be?”
“Convince my brother to settle down.”
“Alexander,” Greg warned.
The Crown Prince smiled, “Oh, don't look so horrified, Little Alexander. I’m merely welcoming your wife.”
Aziza noticed the resemblance then, not just between the brothers, but between the Crown Prince and their father. Alexander had Greg’s dark hair and similar features, but his face was sharper, his posture more commanding. His eyes held the same assessing quality she had encountered in the King’s study. Even his smile seemed to carry an unspoken expectation that everyone around him would fall into line.
Greg possessed the same confidence, but where his brother seemed to have been born knowing precisely where he belonged, Greg carried himself like someone who had spent years trying to escape the place assigned to him.
“We were just returning from town,” Greg said, already angling his body toward the stairs. “It’s been a long afternoon, and Aziza needs some rest.”
“Wonderful. Then we can have tea in the parlor.”
“That wasn't an invitation we were waiting for.”
“And yet, here it is,” Alexander turned toward the parlor and glanced back. “Come along. I’m sure the two of you can spare fifteen minutes for your favorite brother.”
“You're my only brother,” Greg muttered.
“Which makes me your favorite by default.”
“That's not how that works.”
“Come along, Little Alexander,” Alexander was already walking away.
Greg closed his eyes for a moment, and Aziza had to suppress a smile. She had seen him argue with reporters, royal officials, and his father; however, she had never seen anyone so thoroughly disregard his objections while appearing perfectly pleased with himself.
“I’m sorry,” Greg murmured to her.
“For what?”
“For him.”
“I think I can manage fifteen minutes of tea.”
“You haven't met him properly yet.”
“I’m standing right here,” Alexander called over his shoulder.
“And that is precisely the problem,” Greg replied.
Despite herself, Aziza laughed. It was a small thing, but the sound eased some of the tension that had settled in her shoulders since the incident in town.
She placed her hand on Greg’s offered arm as they followed the Crown Prince into a comfortable parlor overlooking one of the palace gardens. Pale curtains framed the windows, and a low table stood between several upholstered chairs and a sofa. Before they had even settled, two servants entered carrying a silver tea service, followed by another with a tray of small sandwiches, pastries, and sliced fruit.
“Tea, Your Highness?” one of the servants asked Alexander.
“Yes, please, and make certain my brother and sister-in-law have everything they need.”
“Of course, Your Highness.”
The servant turned to Aziza, “Would you prefer tea with milk, Princess?”
Aziza hesitated. Would she ever get accustomed to being called that? “A little milk would be fine, thank you.”
“And something to eat?” another servant asked.
“Maybe… a sandwich.”
“Certainly, Princess.”
Greg remained standing as he watched the servants arrange the cups and plates, then he took the seat beside Aziza. He sat close enough that their knees almost touched, his hand briefly brushing hers beneath the edge of the table.
Of course, Alexander noticed.
“So,” he began, lifting his teacup, “how are you finding palace life, Aziza?”
“Busy.”
“Only busy?”
“Well… no… it’s also really overwhelming. There are lessons for everything, it seems. How to walk into a room, how to greet people, how to dance without stepping on my partner's feet.”
“You haven't stepped on mine yet,” Greg said softly.
“You haven't given me enough opportunities.”
Alexander chuckled, “And do you feel welcome here?”
The question caught her off guard. Did she feel welcomed? She glanced at Greg, whose expression had grown guarded.
“Some people have been kinder than others,” she answered honestly. “Daphne has been wonderful. Mike has helped me a lot, too, and there are servants who have been very patient with me.”
“Mike?”
“Michael,” Greg clarified.
“Ah… and the rest of the royal family?”
“Alexander,” Greg interrupted, “perhaps we could start with something less like a formal interview.”
“I'm just trying to get to know my new sister-in-law.”
“By conducting an interrogation?”
“Now it’s an interrogation? What ever happened to it just being a formal interview,” Alexander asked, looking at Greg. “Besides, little brother, we both know that an interrogation would involve more officers.”
Aziza hid a smile behind her teacup, “The royal family is complicated. I understand that everyone has expectations, and I’m trying to learn how things work here. I don't expect everyone to agree with my marriage, but I hope they will give me a chance.”
Alexander studied her, “And the responsibilities? Representing Valoria, attending events, supporting charities, appearing before the public?”
“I take them seriously. I know marrying Greg means my life has changed. I can't pretend otherwise,” she set her cup down, “but I don't think I’ll have any problems with meeting up to the expectations.”
Greg's fingers brushed hers again. This time, he left his hand there.
“An admirable answer,” Alexander said. “And how are you managing the media attention?”
“Not particularly well, some days.”
“Aziza…” Greg began.
“It's all right,” she gave him a reassuring glance. “People have opinions about me, and some of them are unkind. I can't control what strangers think. I can only try to be honest about who I am.”
“Even when people call you a gold digger?”
Greg's expression hardened, “That's enough.”
Aziza squeezed his hand before he could say more. “It isn't pleasant, but I know the truth. I didn't marry Greg for his money or his title.”
Alexander's gaze shifted between them before he continued, “Tell me about your family.”
That question was easier. Aziza spoke about her parents, her younger sister, and her college roommates, Lacy and Jessica. She explained that she had studied business, enjoyed organizing events, and had always been interested in charitable work. She liked reading when she had time, watching movies, and spending time with people who didn't expect her to be impressive.
“So, an ordinary young woman,” Alexander said.
“That's one way of putting it.”
“And how did you meet my brother?”
“College. We were in the same math class and he ended up becoming my tutor when I started struggling. After that semester, we continued studying together even though we weren’t in the same classes.”
“Was it love at first sight?”
“No,” she answered promptly.
Greg turned toward her, feigning offense, “You didn't even hesitate.”
“Should I have lied?”
“Perhaps a little.”
Alexander laughed, “At least she hasn't lost her honesty. What do you like about him?”
Aziza looked at Greg. He was watching her now, and the teasing expression had slipped from his face.
“He's kinder than he wants people to believe,” she said. “He notices things other people miss. He can make me laugh when I'm upset, and he listens when I need someone to listen. He doesn't always get things right, but he tries.”
Greg's thumb moved across her knuckles.
Alexander leaned back, “Do you love him?”
Greg's hand went still.
“Alexander,” he said quietly.
“It's a reasonable question. You are married, after all.”
“It's a personal question.”
“Marriage is personal, but for people like us, it’s also very public. The question will be asked, if it hasn’t already.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Well, that televised interview you did, it seems like there was more there.”
“Not every part of it is your business.”
Alexander's expression sharpened, “I'm attempting to understand the woman my brother has brought into this family. Forgive me for wanting to know whether she understands what she's gotten herself into.”
Greg rose so abruptly that his chair scraped against the floor. “Back off! She won't be answering any more of your questions!”
For a moment, the brothers stared at one another. Aziza saw something deeper than irritation in Greg's face… a familiar hurt beneath the anger, as though Alexander had found a place that was already bruised.
She touched Greg's wrist.
“Greg, it's okay.”
“No, it isn't.”
“I can answer him if I want to,” she stood beside him, keeping her voice gentle. “I appreciate you protecting me, but I don't need you to fight every battle for me.”
His jaw tightened, but he looked at her.
“Please,” she added.
After a moment, Greg sat down again, though his shoulders remained tense.
Alexander regarded her with renewed interest, “You call him Greg.”
Aziza blinked, “Yes?”
“I went by Gregory in the States,” Greg explained, sounding as though he would rather discuss almost anything else. “It made it easier to keep my identity quiet.”
“And I shortened it,” Aziza added. “Gregory sounded a little formal for someone I was sitting beside in a college lecture.”
“That's not exactly how I remember it,” Greg said.
Aziza turned to him, her eyes narrowing playfully, “Oh, really?”
“You didn't ask permission. You simply announced that Gregory was too long and that you'd call me Greg.”
“Because you looked like you were about to correct me on something I hadn't even said.”
“I was trying to be polite.”
“You were trying to impress me.”
“I was not.”
“You absolutely were.”
The memory came back so clearly that she could almost see the university lecture hall around them: Greg sitting beside her, his notes perfectly organized, his expression serious as he introduced himself. She had been running late, flustered, and carrying too many books. He had stood to help her gather the ones she'd dropped, and she'd thanked him by promptly calling him the wrong name. Or, as she had insisted then, the more sensible name.
“You told me I was being disrespectful,” she recalled.
“I said you were being presumptuous.”
“Which is a very fancy way of saying disrespectful.”
“You laughed in my face.”
“Because you looked so offended!”
“And then you stole my pen.”
“I borrowed it.”
“You never returned it.”
Aziza burst out laughing. Greg joined her, shaking his head as he remembered. For a few precious seconds, the palace disappeared. There was no royal family, no public scandal, no woman in the marketplace who had looked at Aziza as though she were an intruder in someone else's life. There was only Greg, the boy she'd met at university, who had been far too serious for his own good.
She hadn't realized how much she'd missed that version of them until she found herself laughing with him again.
“Interesting,” Alexander said.
They both turned.
The Crown Prince was watching them over the rim of his teacup, a thoughtful smile playing at his mouth.
“What is?” Aziza asked.
“I got my answer.”
She frowned. “To which question?”
He merely smiled and took another sip of tea.
Greg narrowed his eyes, “You're enjoying this far too much.”
“Undoubtedly,” Alexander said, setting down his cup. “I can understand why you went by Gregory in America, but why doesn't your wife call you that now? Surely she could use your proper name in private.”
Aziza considered the question, “That's just how I am, I suppose. Maybe it's an American thing. We like to keep things short and sweet.”
“Short and sweet?” Alexander repeated.
“It's efficient.”
“And what would you call me?”
Aziza glanced at him, “That's easy… Alex.”
Silence followed. For one unsettling second, she wondered whether she'd committed some unforgivable royal offense. Greg looked at his brother, apparently preparing to intervene, while Alexander simply stared at her.
Then a smile slowly formed on the Crown Prince's face, “I like it.”
He stood, smoothing the front of his jacket. A servant entered to collect an empty tray, while another refreshed the teapot. Alexander thanked them, then crossed the room toward Aziza.
“It was a pleasure meeting you properly, sister-in-law.”
Before she could answer, he leaned down and kissed her cheek. Greg's expression suggested that he was reconsidering the possibility of striking his brother after all.
Alexander straightened, giving Greg a distinctly snide look. “Try not to look as though I've stolen something from you, Little Alexander… oh, I mean… Greg.”
“You've taken enough of my time,” Greg said, through clenched teeth. Why did it seem like he didn’t like his brother using the same nickname that she used for him?
“Speaking of time, Father has been looking for you. Apparently, he isn't pleased that you've decided to slack off on your responsibilities today.”
Greg's face darkened, “I wasn't slacking off.”
“I'm sure you'll explain that to him,” Alexander reached the doorway, then looked back at Aziza. “Oh, and reserve me a dance at the Charity Ball, dear sister-in-law.”
Aziza opened her mouth, “I…”
“Excellent. I'll look forward to it,” he disappeared into the corridor before she could answer.
For several seconds, neither Aziza nor Greg spoke. Then, she slowly turned toward her husband, “Your family is exhausting.”
Greg let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh, “You have no idea.”
“I think I'm beginning to.”
He took her hand and lifted it to his lips, pressing a brief kiss to her knuckles. “Come on. I've had enough of my family for one day.”
“Where are we going?”
“My rooms.”
The certainty in his voice made her smile, though the tiredness beneath it didn't escape her. Whatever else had happened that day, one thing had become clear: Greg had no intention of leaving her to face it alone. For now, that was enough.
They left the room, just as Albert passed by them.
“Albert, please let Mrs. Whitmore know that my wife and I will not be available for the rest of the day.”
Aziza paused in the corridor as Greg addressed the palace steward. They had barely left the parlor before he had begun issuing instructions, his hand resting protectively at the small of her back.
“Not available, Your Highness?” Albert asked politely.
“Not available to anyone.”
“Anyone, sir?”
“Anyone. Not my father, not my mother, not the Crown Prince, and certainly not anyone with a stack of papers requiring my signature.”
Albert's expression remained admirably neutral. “Very good, Your Highness.”
“And please tell Mrs. Whitmore that if anyone asks, we're resting.”
“Of course.”
Greg thanked him, then continued down the corridor with Aziza beside him. She glanced up at him, touched by his determination even as a small, disbelieving smile tugged at her mouth.
“You know your father is going to be furious.”
“He can be furious tomorrow.”
“And the Crown Prince?”
“He can be furious whenever he likes. He's had a lifetime of practice.”
She laughed softly. Greg looked pleased with himself, as though getting that sound out of her had been the first successful part of his plan. When they reached his apartments, he opened the door and ushered her inside. The familiar sitting area was quiet, with the late-afternoon light filtering through the windows. A few books lay on the coffee table, and a folded blanket rested over the arm of the sofa. Everything seemed calmer here, away from the palace corridors and the people who expected something from her.
Greg shut the door behind them. Then he turned to her, his expression changing. “Come sit down.”
He guided her to the sofa, settling beside her rather than across from her. He didn't immediately speak. Instead, he studied her face, taking in the faint crease between her brows and the way she kept rubbing her thumb against the side of her index finger.
“How are you doing?” he asked.
“I'm okay.”
His eyebrows rose.
“What…?”
“That was a terrible answer.”
“It's a perfectly acceptable answer.”
“Aziza.”
She sighed and leaned back against the cushions, “I'm tired.”
“I can see that.”
“And I'm a little overwhelmed.”
“Understandable.”
“And I don't particularly want to think about anything that happened today.”
He reached for her hand, “That's more like it.”
She looked down at their joined fingers. It was frustrating how easily he could see through her. She had spent years learning to put a pleasant expression on her face when she was uncomfortable, to tell people she was fine because explaining why she wasn't often felt harder than simply enduring whatever was bothering her. Greg, apparently, had decided not to let her get away with it.
“Tell me,” he said quietly.
Aziza swallowed. “I don't know where to begin.”
“Begin anywhere.”
She stared toward the window, where the garden beyond the glass looked peaceful enough to belong to another world.
“The day started out so well,” she said. “I actually enjoyed being out in town with you. I liked seeing Valoria as a place where people live, not just a country with a palace and a royal family. The market was beautiful. The café was lovely, and I liked that you wanted to show me those things.”
Greg's expression softened, “I liked showing them to you.”
“And then those people started talking about us. About how they didn't believe our marriage was real. How I wasn't worthy of you,” she took a breath. “I know I shouldn't let strangers get to me, but it's hard when they look at you as though you're some kind of mistake.”
“You aren't a mistake.”
“I know you believe that.”
“I don't just believe it. It's true.”
She offered him a small smile, but the memory of the woman who had lunged toward her returned with unwelcome clarity. The sudden shouting. Greg's hand pulling her back. The security officers rushing forward. For a few terrible seconds, she hadn't known what the woman might do.
“I was frightened,” she admitted. “When she came toward me, I couldn't think. I just remember you catching her arm and everyone moving at once.”
Greg's fingers tightened around hers, “I'm sorry I took you into town without a larger security detail.”
“You didn't know that was going to happen.”
“I should have considered the possibility.”
“Greg, you can't plan for every person who might decide they hate me.”
“Perhaps not, but I can do a better job of keeping you safe.”
She studied him. His voice was calm, but she could see the guilt beneath it.
“You don't have to blame yourself for everything that happens to me.”
“It's become a habit now.”
“Well, you should work on it.”
He gave her a faint smile, “I'll add it to the list.”
That drew a quiet laugh from her, but it faded when she thought of the parlor. “And then I met your brother.”
Greg groaned. “I'm sorry about that, too.”
“You apologize for your family a lot.”
“Have you met them?”
She nudged his shoulder, smiling despite herself, “He's intimidating.”
“He enjoys being intimidating.”
“He looks so much like your father. Even when he smiles, I feel as though I'm being evaluated.”
“That is probably because you are.”
“Greg!”
“What? You wanted honesty.”
She shook her head, but her smile lingered. Then she grew thoughtful again, “He asked me so many questions. About my family, my education, what I thought of the royal family, what I liked about you…” Her cheeks warmed, “and… whether I… I… loved you.”
Greg went still.
“I didn't know what to say,” she admitted. “Not because I didn't want to answer him. I just… there are things I'm still figuring out. My life changed so quickly, and sometimes I don't know if I'm keeping up or simply pretending that I am.”
He turned toward her fully, “You don't have to have every answer today.”
“Your family seems to expect that I should.”
“My family expects a great many things. That doesn't mean they're right.”
She watched his face, trying to understand the seriousness in his voice. “Your brother seemed determined to find out whether I was good enough for you.”
“Alexander has spent most of his life believing that if he examines something closely enough, he can determine whether it belongs.”
“And what does he think of me?”
“I don't know,” Greg paused, “but I know he saw how you look at me.”
Aziza's heart gave a small, uncomfortable flutter, “How… do I… look at you?”
“Like I'm not the prince everyone else sees.”
She didn't know what to say to that. The words felt too close to something she had been trying not to examine.
Instead, she looked at their hands, “I like the person you are when we're together. The person who teases me about stealing his pen.”
“You did steal it.”
“Borrowed.”
“Permanently.”
She smiled, “The person who takes me to a little café and buys me a flower necklace. The person who makes me feel like I can say what I think, even when I don't know if it's the right thing to say.”
Greg lifted her hand and brushed his thumb over her knuckles. “That's the person I want to be with you.”
For a moment, Aziza couldn't look away from him. She thought about the market, the parlor, the servants who called her Princess, and the people who seemed determined to remind her that she didn't belong. She thought about how easy it would be to let all of them convince her that she was an intruder in Greg's life, but when she looked at him, she didn't see a prince who needed a perfect princess. She saw the young man who had helped her gather her books, who had listened to her jokes, who had defended her when people were cruel. And she saw someone who was trying just as hard as she was.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Greg frowned slightly, “For what?”
“For today. For taking me out, for standing up for me, and for not letting your brother push me into answering things I wasn't ready to answer,” she hesitated. “And for this. For making it clear that I don't have to face everything alone.”
His expression softened.
“You're welcome, sweetheart,” he raised her hand to his lips, “and I'll keep doing it. Whenever you need me.”
She felt the warmth of his hand around hers, and something inside her settled. It didn't make the world outside these rooms any less complicated, but it made the thought of facing it tomorrow seem a little less frightening.
Greg leaned back against the sofa, “For the remainder of the day, we are doing absolutely nothing royal.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing. No lessons, no interviews, no meetings, no questions about whether you love me.”
She glanced at him.
He gave her a crooked smile, “That last one was a joke.”
“Was it?”
“Mostly.”
She laughed, and he smiled as though the sound had rewarded him for the entire day's trouble.
“We'll have an early dinner brought up,” he continued. “Then we can watch a movie. Maybe two, if you like.”
“What kind of movie?”
“Your choice.”
“Even a romantic comedy?”
“Especially a romantic comedy. I can endure anything for you.”
“That's a very dangerous promise.”
“I'm a prince. We make dramatic promises.”
She shook her head, laughing again. For the first time since the market, the tightness in her chest began to ease. They chose a lighthearted comedy, and Greg arranged for dinner to be brought to the sitting room. A servant delivered a simple meal of roasted chicken, vegetables, and warm bread, along with fruit and a small dish of chocolate pastries. Greg thanked the servant and waited until the door closed before settling beside Aziza with their plates.
They ate while teasing each other about the movie's ridiculous opening scene. Greg argued that the leading character's disastrous first date was physically impossible. Aziza reminded him that he was a prince who had accidentally married his college friend in Las Vegas, so he was hardly qualified to judge what was realistic.
“That's different,” he protested.
“How?”
“I'm a special case.”
“Of course you are.”
After dinner, they curled up on opposite ends of the sofa at first, sharing the blanket as the movie played. Before long, Aziza had drawn her feet beneath her and leaned comfortably against the cushions. She found herself laughing at scenes she might not have found funny on another day.
When the credits rolled, Greg glanced at her, “Why don't you freshen up before we start the next one? You look as though you're about to fall asleep.”
“I am not,” she yawned.
He merely raised an eyebrow.
“Fine,” she conceded. “Maybe a little.”
She rose and headed toward the adjoining bedroom, where she had left her handbag earlier, but when she opened the wardrobe, she remembered that her own room was now separate from Greg's apartments. Her clothes were there, along with most of her belongings.
She looked at the door.
The idea of stepping back into the corridor, encountering a curious servant, or… worse… running into another member of Greg's family was exhausting. She could already imagine Alexander asking where she had been and whether she had enjoyed her private audience with his brother.
“No,” she murmured. “Absolutely not.”
Her gaze fell on a drawer Greg had left slightly open. Inside were folded T-shirts and shorts, some of them clearly older and softer from years of wear. She recognized one T-shirt from the photographs Greg had shown her of his college days in America. It was dark blue, with a faded emblem on the front.
She picked it up, then stared at it as though it might offer a sensible explanation for her decision. She was only borrowing it. She didn't have her own clothes here, and she wasn't going to leave the room just to retrieve them. That was all. It didn't mean anything.
Repeating the thought twice did not make it feel any less significant. Still, she changed into the T-shirt and a pair of comfortable shorts, folded her own clothes from earlier over the chair, and returned to the sitting room.
Greg looked up from the movie menu. Then, he stopped moving.
Aziza glanced down at herself, “I can explain.”
“I hope so.”
“I didn't bring anything to change into. My clothes are in my room, and I didn't want to go back into the corridor. So I borrowed these,” she hurried on before he could misunderstand. “It's just practical. They're comfortable, and I'm not trying to make a statement.”
For a moment, he said nothing. Then, his expression softened into a smile that made her cheeks warm. “Aziza, you don't have to explain. They're my clothes. You're welcome to wear them.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely.”
He paused, his eyes flicking to the faded university emblem, “Although I haven't worn that shirt in years.”
“I can see why you kept it. It's comfortable.”
“It's my favorite.”
“Then I'll be careful with it.”
“You can do whatever you like with it.”
The words were simple, but the way he said them made her look away. She settled beside him, pulling the blanket over her legs while he started the second movie. For a while, they watched in comfortable silence. Aziza was aware of the warmth of Greg beside her, of the faint scent of his soap on the borrowed shirt, and of the way his arm rested along the back of the sofa. She tried to concentrate on the screen, but the day had finally begun to catch up with her.
A yawn escaped before she could suppress it.
“Sleepy?” Greg asked.
“A little.”
He slipped his arm around her shoulders and gently drew her closer, “Then rest your head here.”
Aziza hesitated only a moment before leaning against him. His shoulder was warm and solid, and she found herself relaxing against him in a way she hadn't realized she needed. When he offered his hand, she placed hers in it, threading their fingers together beneath the blanket. They sat like that for several minutes, listening to the movie's dialogue without really following it.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
Greg glanced down at her, “You already thanked me.”
“I know.”
“Then what is this one for?”
She considered the question. “For being patient with me. For understanding when I don't know what to say. For not making me feel foolish when I'm scared or confused.”
She paused, tracing the edge of his thumb with hers, “And for not expecting me to be someone I'm not.”
His arm tightened slightly around her.
“You don't have to earn your place with me,” he said. “You already have it.”
Aziza swallowed against the sudden ache in her throat. She turned her face toward him, and he looked down at her with such quiet affection that she had to remind herself to breathe normally.
“Can I ask you something?” she whispered.
“Anything.”
“Why are you and your brother really at odds? I mean, beyond the usual sibling arguments.”
Greg's smile faded. For a moment, she wondered whether she'd asked too much. Then, he looked toward the screen, though she could tell he wasn't watching it anymore.
“Alexander was always the perfect son,” he said. “He knew how to behave at public events, what to say to the press, how to make Father proud. I was the second son. I was supposed to be charming, useful when necessary, and never cause too much trouble.”
“Yet you caused trouble.”
“A great deal of it,” he gave a humorless laugh. “Parties. Bad decisions. Headlines. I thought if I made enough of a mess, no one would bother trying to turn me into the person they wanted me to be.”
“Did it work?”
“No. It just gave them more reasons to be disappointed in me.”
Aziza squeezed his hand, “What did Alex do?”
Greg was silent for so long that she almost told him he didn't have to answer, but then he drew a slow breath.
“When I was seventeen, I was supposed to attend a formal reception with Father and Alexander. I had spent weeks preparing a speech for a youth charity we were supporting. It was the first time Father had let me represent the family without Alexander standing beside me.”
His expression tightened.
“Before the event, I found out Alexander had been telling people I wasn't ready. He'd warned the organizers that I might embarrass the family. Then, when I arrived late because I was trying to help one of the charity's young volunteers who'd been injured, he made a joke about how I'd finally found a way to be useful.”
Aziza's heart ached at the bitterness in his voice, “What happened?”
“I lost my temper. I said something cruel in front of several guests, and the press caught it. The next day, the headlines were about the reckless younger prince who couldn't control himself. No one mentioned the speech I'd written or the volunteer I'd helped,” he looked down at their joined hands. “Alexander never defended me. Later, he told me that if I wanted people to take me seriously, I should stop giving them reasons not to. It was at that point where I decided to just live up to their opinions of me.”
“That must have hurt.”
“It did,” he swallowed. “The worst part was that I wanted him to be proud of me. He was my older brother. I wanted him to see me as more than a problem to manage.”
Aziza turned toward him fully. Suddenly, the Crown Prince's teasing comments seemed less harmless. She could see why Greg had reacted so strongly to the questions in the parlor. His brother's scrutiny wasn't merely annoying. It reminded him of years spent being judged by someone whose approval he had once desperately wanted.
“I'm sorry,” she whispered.
Greg shrugged, but the movement felt forced, “It's old history.”
“Old doesn't always mean it stops hurting.”
He looked at her then, and for a moment the confident prince seemed to disappear. In his place was the young man who had wanted his brother to stand beside him rather than against him.
Aziza moved closer and wrapped her arms around him. He stiffened for a heartbeat, then folded his arms around her, holding her tightly. She rested her cheek against his shoulder, wishing she could somehow take the hurt from him, or at least help him understand that what had happened didn't define him.
“You deserved better,” she murmured.
Greg's breath caught softly. She leaned back just enough to look at him, then pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek.
“You don't have to prove that you're worth being loved,” she told him. “Not to your father. Not to your brother. Not to anyone.”
His eyes searched hers. “And what if I still want them to see me differently?”
“Then… I hope they do… but you shouldn't have to hurt yourself trying to make them see what I already see.”
He looked at her for a long moment, his gaze moving over her face as though he were trying to memorize every word. Aziza became suddenly aware of how close they were, of her hand resting against his chest and his arm still wrapped around her waist. Neither of them moved away.
“Aziza,” he whispered.
She looked at his mouth, then back into his eyes. He lifted one hand to her cheek, giving her time to pull back if she wanted. She didn't. Instead, she leaned toward him, and he met her halfway. His kiss was gentle at first, almost questioning. Aziza froze for the briefest moment, surprised by the tenderness of it and by the way her heart seemed to stumble. Then, she closed the distance between them and kissed him back.
Greg's hand rested against her cheek while his other arm supported her. When she leaned closer, he eased her gently down against the sofa cushions, never breaking the kiss until they both needed to breathe.
Aziza stared up at him, her heart racing. She had kissed him before. She knew that. Their first kiss had been tangled up in the confusion of Las Vegas, in alcohol, laughter, and a decision neither of them had expected to make, but this was different. She was here because she wanted to be. She was kissing him because she wanted to, and the realization left her feeling both exhilarated and frightened.
Greg brushed a strand of hair away from her face.
“Are you all right?” he asked softly.
She nodded, “Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
A small smile touched her lips. “You ask a lot of questions for someone who complained about his brother doing the same thing.”
He laughed under his breath, “I reserve the right to be concerned about you.”
“Then I reserve the right to tell you when you're being ridiculous.”
“Fair enough.”
He rested his forehead against hers, and for a moment they simply looked at each other. She could still hear the movie playing in the background, but it felt far away, like a sound from another room.
“Aziza,” he said after a moment, his voice quieter now. “Would you stay with me tonight?”
Her heart gave another flutter.
He continued before she could answer, “Not because you feel you have to. Not because we're married and someone expects it. I just…” He paused, choosing his words carefully, “I'd like you to stay. I'd like to spend the night with you, even if all we do is watch movies and fall asleep on this sofa.”
The sincerity in his face made her chest ache. She thought of the room waiting for her down the corridor, of the clothes she had left there, and of all the reasons she could give herself to retreat into the safety of her own space. She could tell him she was tired. She could say that the day had been too much, that she needed time to think, that she wasn't ready to make any more decisions, but none of those reasons changed what she wanted.
“I'd like to stay,” she whispered.
Greg's expression softened with relief, “You would?”
She nodded, her cheeks warming, “Yes. But we're watching the rest of the movie.”
“Of course.”
“And you are not allowed to complain if I fall asleep halfway through.”
“I would never dream of it.”
“You absolutely would.”
He smiled, then leaned down to kiss her again. This time, Aziza was ready for him. She slipped her arms around his shoulders and kissed him back, allowing herself to enjoy the closeness without trying to decide what it meant for tomorrow.
Tomorrow would bring lessons, royal expectations, the Charity Ball, and the inevitable questions from a family that had never made anything easy. Tonight, she didn't need to solve any of that. Tonight, she could stay right where she was, wrapped in Greg's arms, wearing his old university T-shirt, and feeling… for the first time all day… that perhaps she was exactly where she wanted to be.
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