The Billionaire Prince’s Fake Girlfriend by Leslie North
17
Jane was having a difficult time focusing on her work. It was always difficult to come back from vacation, and this hadn’t even been that—not that she could tell anyone that. She’d worked hard, investigating a story. And she’d wound up inadvertently falling in love with a prince who now hated her. She’d accidentally lied to him, and he’d lashed out at her and broken her heart. She hadn’t heard from him since, and despite his promise to “keep his word” she wasn’t sure when, or if, she’d hear from him again.
“Have fun on your time off?” Emily Parker asked, her expression one of fox-like curiosity, as she leaned against Jane’s cubicle wall. “You never take vacation! Did you spend time with that new boyfriend of yours?”
“He’s fine,” Jane responded, wishing there was a polite way to tell the woman to get the hell out of her business. It was gossip as a blood sport, and it made Jane crazy. Journalism wasn’t rumor and innuendo. It was careful research, and hard work. And yes, ethics.
If she’d focused more on ethics, she wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place.
“So, you were dating that intern?” the woman pressed, her nose practically twitching as she leaned over the wall. “Did you even know him before here?”
“He wasn’t an intern, and not really.” Jane bit off every word, but the woman did not seem to get the message.
“And why isn’t he here? What exactly happened?” Emily’s eyes were bright, like a bird’s, and just as hard. “Did he get another job somewhere else?”
Jane gritted her teeth until her jaw hurt. “His father’s sick. He needed to go home to deal with some things. I went with him for support, but I have a job here, so I came back.”
She took a deep breath. She was lying by omission again. Technically, every single thing she’d said was true. The king was sick. Ben needed to head back to Reinia to deal with some things—namely, ferreting out the identity of his half-sister. And she did have a job here in London that she needed to come back to. It just wasn’t the main reason she’d returned, especially without Ben.
“Did you guys break up, then?” Emily pressed. “He was cute—looked familiar. And he was obviously so into you. Did you get into a fight?”
“Remind me again how any of this is your business?” Jane finally snapped. “Seriously, do they pay you to find out what’s going on in everyone’s personal lives? Because I could have sworn you had a job answering phones and cleaning conference rooms or some such. Do you have any idea how invasive you’re being?”
The bullpen of writers went quiet at that moment, probably because they weren’t used to hearing Jane upset. The woman’s face reddened, her expression drawn.
“I... I’m sorry,” Emily said. “I was just curious, that’s all.”
Jane wrestled with her temper. “And I’m sorry I snapped at you,” she said, feeling guilt war with irritation. “I’m in a bad mood. Things... went poorly. And I don’t want to talk about it,” she added, before Emily could see it as an invitation for further discussion—she was already leaning in, ready to pick up where they’d left off. “When I come in here and people want to ask questions, that’s one thing. But acting entitled to the intimate details of my life? That’s not going to work for me.”
Emily sniffed. “Well. I certainly wasn’t trying to act entitled.” She flounced off, moving quickly to another desk... the food and wine critic, and a sportswriter, Jane recognized absently. The woman started to whisper quickly, and all three of them were casting not-so-covert looks in Jane’s direction. Apparently whether she wanted it or not, she was the object of discussion and gossip. She sighed heavily.
It wasn’t like she wanted to keep secrets, she argued with herself as she got her notes in order for her next lifestyle article, an article about bookstores in and around London. She tried desperately not to think about Ben. Fortunately, her editor, Martha, came to her desk. “You all right?” Martha asked, without preamble.
Jane rubbed the heels of her palms against her eyes, trying to fend off the headache brewing behind them. “I suppose you heard all about it,” she said.
“Heard all about what?”
Jane startled, then shot a look at the knot of people sending surreptitious looks her way, conversing in hushed tones. “I may have gotten into it a little bit with Emily.”
“Her? Oh, I don’t listen to her,” Martha said, rolling her eyes. “She’s the biggest rumor mill on the floor, if not the whole building, but she never fact checks. That’s why she’s happy being a receptionist rather than a reporter. You, on the other hand, were born to be an investigative journalist.”
Jane smiled wanly. “I appreciate that,” she said, even though her voice sounded weak.
“Which is why I’m over here,” Martha continued, her eyes bright. “There’s an opening, over in hard news. They’re looking for a talented investigative journalist.”
Jane blinked, her eyes going wide. It was notoriously difficult to get over there, even though it had been her dream for years. She’d paid her dues in feature stories, hoping against hope that she’d be allowed to show what she was really capable of. “They want me to work over there?”
“They have a few candidates,” Martha admitted, which popped Jane’s balloon of hope a bit. “But I know you’d be perfect. What we need to do is offer something to showcase. I know that you like to follow leads on things in your spare time. Is there anything that you can offer up, any angle that you can pursue? Any story you can promise? The hotter the better.”
Jane bit her lip. Technically, she had enough information to investigate Jess Barr on her own. She didn’t have the physical evidence of the sonogram, but she could find it again—she knew the medical center. She still had a copy of the birth certificate, although it didn’t have the king’s name on it, for obvious reasons. Nonetheless, she might have enough to get the ball rolling. Certainly enough to break the case wide open.
Ben would hate me.
She took a deep breath. She had told him she’d wait. Even beyond that—there was the queen’s involvement. Maybe her reporter’s instincts were failing her, maybe she was simply soft on the nurturing, affectionate woman. But she had the gut feeling that the queen’s involvement in the cover-up had a purpose, something deeper than simply hiding her husband’s infidelity and pushing away a potential scandal as heir. There was more going on here. If she told the hard news desk, they’d simply run with the bare facts, casting aspersions about the royal family. It wouldn’t matter what the different sides were, or any particular rationale, or what it would do to the king, queen, and Ben. The truth would come first.
“Jane?” Martha prompted, expectant.
She was at a crossroads. She’d always been a staunch proponent of the truth. But there was the raw “truth”—and there were actual people involved. One of whom she loved, dearly.
“I... don’t have anything ready,” Jane said. “But I’ll see what I can come up with.”
Martha shrugged, looking disappointed. “Well, hurry,” she said. “You’ve got a week, maybe two if you’re lucky. They’re going to want to hire quickly. If you’ve got something, make sure it’s solid, well-researched, and has a hook. Something with reader appeal, all right?”
Jane nodded, and Martha retreated back to her office. Jane didn’t have anything else in mind. Ordinarily, she’d be great at brainstorming this sort of thing, but she was so heartsick and sad, so frustrated, her brain felt like tapioca.
She finished her lifestyle article, and then ran out the clock, doodling possible investigative story ideas until it was time to go home. She’d done a few spec things, but nothing up to the Current’s standards, and they were years old. She thought about some of the stories the old diplomat had told her at the Cobblestone Gala. Maybe the Duke of Kill-A-Twin story? She could use all two weeks digging into that, but she frowned. If she were on top of her game, it would take a lot, but she could come up with something impressive.
Now, heartsick and unfocused, she was the opposite of being on top of her game.
She returned to her empty flat. It was funny how, in such a short period of time, she’d gotten used to grabbing takeaway with Ben and retreating to her flat, sprawling out with notes and food on her bed. Laughing with him, swapping stories. She entered her now-empty place with a feeling of loss.
She wondered where Ben was, and what he was doing. She considered calling him, but the thought that he’d probably blocked her number hurt even more. She’d forgotten to grab dinner, because she wasn’t all that hungry and going to the Indian place or the Thai restaurant, even grabbing pizza, made her think of Ben. Instead, she made a packet of boiled noodles with butter, and ate it by her sink in the loneliest, most stereotypically “single” moment of her life.
She still couldn’t come up with a story or angle. She just wanted to lie on her bed and wallow, and possibly even indulge in a cry. But right now, she was just... hollow. Numb.
She found herself picking up her mobile. Instead of calling Ben, she searched through her contacts, dialing her father.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Da,” she said, her voice a little watery.
“Jane?” He sounded shocked, which wasn’t surprising... the last time she’d talked to him was Christmas. She hadn’t realized how infrequent their calls had become. “Are you all right, darling?”
She sniffled a little. “Just feeling a little down.”
“Did something happen?”
She thought about everything that had happened, but there was no way she could tell her father. Even if her whole “relationship” and the surrounding issues with Ben were public knowledge, she didn’t think she could rehash all of that, not now. Instead, she said, “My boyfriend and I broke up.”
“Oh. I didn’t know you were dating,” he said, but not judgmentally or passive-aggressively. It was as if he knew that she didn’t share her life with him, and he felt like he deserved it. “I’m so very sorry. Those are the worst.” He paused, then added in a tentative tone, “Is there anything I can do?”
“I think maybe,” she said slowly, lying against her headboard and crossing her free arm across her chest. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, and remembering, and... Da, could you tell me what Mum was like?”
He went quiet, as if stunned.
“I just... I don’t remember much,” she admitted. “And all I know of her is from when I was a kid. I don’t know who she was before she had me; we never talk about her. What was she like, as a person?”
Her father’s silence drew out, longer and longer, and Jane started to despair. Finally, she heard him sniffle, and clear his throat.
“Your mother,” he said, his voice cracking slightly, “was one of the most wonderful women I have ever met in my life. And I’d be happy to tell you anything and everything I can think of. Anything you want to know.”
She bit her lip hard, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Why wouldn’t you tell me before?”
“Hurt too much,” he admitted. “While she was in the hospital, and by the time she died—well, you and I weren’t talking by then. Too much damage had been done. Not that I blame you,” he quickly added. “That was all on me. My fault entirely.”
“No, it wasn’t,” Jane said. “I was too harsh. You were doing the best you could, and you didn’t know how I’d react. You were dealing with Mum and dealing with a young daughter. Raising her on your own. You weren’t just lying to me to be cruel. You had reasons.”
He was quiet again for a second. “I love you, Jane,” he said.
“Love you too, Da,” she replied, wiping at her eyes with the heel of her hand.
He let out a low sigh. “Did I ever tell you how I met your mother?”
She frowned. “I don’t remember.”
She could hear the smile in his voice. “I was at an ice cream shop, and in walks the most beautiful woman I have ever seen in my life...”
For the next hour, her father proceeded to tell her stories about her mother, little details, words tumbling out like he’d been storing them up painfully for decades, unable to share them with anyone. How she loved pistachio ice cream but not pistachios themselves; how she sang the words on the radio wrong, but at the top of her lungs; how she was unbelievably kind and forgiving, but God help you if she finally lost her temper “because of your shenanigans.” It was like watching a Polaroid picture take shape, details slowly coalescing into a full-color picture of a real person.
“I miss her,” she finally said. “Thank you for this.”
“Any time,” he said, and the warmth in his voice was unmistakable. “Absolutely. Any time.”