“What have you done?” I demand, not trusting that determined look on my father’s face. I recognize it—and it never leads anywhere good. The crimson walls close in, gilt paintings looming in ornate frames. Queen Victoria smirks as if she knows what’s coming.
“I submitted your application to Renaissance Man in response to their call for notable guests. And wonderful news: they would love to have you on.”
“Wait. What does that even mean?”
His lips twitch. He coughs slightly.
Is my father… nervous? I know his tells for anger, for joy, for disappointment. But nervous? I haven’t seen that before. What the hell makes my father nervous, especially about me?
“It’s a new television show filming from next week—”
My eyebrows shoot up so fast it’s a miracle that they don’t fly off my face.
Air sucks into my lungs. Oh no.
“A television show?”
Isn’t Renaissance Man the show Katie mentioned last night? And at the gala. With Thomas Golden?
“Yes. Where well-bred young men demonstrate their various skills. In competitions from athletics to the arts to show your talents.” He brightens with a sudden smile, obviously thrilled to bits about the show. “It sounds quite charming, actually. An excellent opportunity to reform your profile and find an appropriate wife. With, err, exposure through the right channels. I need heirs. Our bloodlines matter. The monarchy needs heirs if it’s to survive. I’ve taken the liberty of clearing your schedule. Lauren will see that you have everything you need.”
My brain ricochets inside my skull as I try to make sense of whatever he’s on about. Not least of all that my father thinks I have talents—and not only talents, but enough talents to go on a show and prove myself to the whole of the kingdom. It takes a long moment. Two long moments, in fact. But then, dread strikes, and oh God, what he’s done finally registers—
“You’ve signed me up to a reality TV show?” Alarm ripples through my body. Everything is too hot, too close.
Me, with no social media accounts and trained for a lifetime to value privacy above all, for the family’s sake.
Last night being an exception.
Father beams like the sun at the height of summer. And suddenly, he’s robust and youthful again. He smooths his lightweight blue jumper. “I thought that a young man like yourself would be perfect for Renaissance Man. Who better than a young royal, and what better showcase for the public to get to know their Prince and future King in a format that many people watch, especially younger viewers, an important demographic for us—”
“I’m not doing that!”
“You must if you’re part of this family—it’s your duty.” The King is impassive. His familiar weariness creeps back in.
And at last, dignity or not, heir or not, I bolt for my rooms. If there was ever a sign of the apocalypse, it’s arrived—and its name is reality TV.