Heavy crown bellerive ro.., p.1
Heavy Crown (Bellerive Royals Book 3), page 1
Heavy Crown
W Million
Stomill Books
Copyright © 2022 by W Million
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, and establishments are the product of the author’s imagination or are used to provide authenticity and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cover Design: Najla Qamber Designs
Model: Matt Z
Photographer: Michelle Lancaster (@lanefotograf)
Editing: Red Adept Editing
To anyone who has ever been faced with an impossible choice.
Bellerive Royals
All the books in the series are interconnected standalones.
Fake Crown
Scarred Crown
Heavy Crown
Fallen Crown
Contents
1. Alex
2. Rory
3. Alex
4. Rory
5. Alex
6. Rory
7. Alex
8. Rory
9. Alex
10. Rory
11. Alex
12. Rory
13. Alex
14. Rory
15. Alex
16. Rory
17. Alex
18. Rory
19. Alex
20. Rory
21. Alex
22. Rory
23. Alex
24. Rory
25. Alex
26. Rory
27. Alex
28. Rory
29. Alex
30. Rory
31. Alex
32. Rory
33. Alex
34. Rory
35. Alex
36. Rory
37. Alex
38. Rory
39. Alex
40. Rory
41. Alex
42. Rory
43. Alex
44. Rory
45. Alex
46. Rory
47. Alex
48. Rory
Acknowledgments
Also By W. Million
About W. Million
one
Alex
Whenever I was summoned to my father’s—the king’s—office as a kid, I expected trouble. As an adult and the first in line to the throne, my father and I meet all the time. Finding the request on my calendar isn’t unusual, but given the swirl of controversy surrounding the monarchy right now, I’m uneasy that something else is about to be dropped on me.
When I arrive to his office, the crowd greeting me is a surprise. My younger brothers, Brice and Nick, along with Nick’s soon-to-be wife, Julia, are lounging on the couch. My mother is at my father’s shoulder, standing at attention. My father’s semi-retired secretary, who also happens to be Julia’s mother, is also present. Finally, Desmond, the secretary I share with Nick and Brice, is here too. Every person who could either plot against me or rescue me from my own stupidity is in the room. Thankfully, it’s a big office.
“This feels ominous,” I say. They’ve left the seat directly in front of my father’s desk free.
As a child, standard conversations on etiquette and protocol were had around the dinner table, on our private jet, or in various hotel rooms. If we were called to the office, we were in trouble. Big trouble. My father would be seated across the desk from one or more of us, a reprimand on his lips and suggestions ready for a slew of community service hours. In those instances, he wasn’t my father, he was the king.
This crowd, though, is abnormal—whether in celebration or castigation.
“I wanted to make sure everyone was here for this conversation.” My father taps a thick book on his desk with his index finger.
Is that the coronation manual? I haven’t actually read it. Julia, my younger brother’s fiancée and my father’s current secretary, is in charge of organizing the exchange of power, both the ceremony and legalities.
I examine each person in the room, and no one meets my gaze. Not unusual—as my brother Nick likes to claim, I’m the asshole in the family. It’s a title I don’t relish, and one I’m not convinced I always deserve, but I’m not going to deny I can be abrupt and direct. I am who I am.
“Must be a big mess if you needed everyone. Did you invite the butler too?” I check behind me.
“Alexander,” my mother admonishes me.
I run my palms along the armrests of the chair. “Who’s in charge of delivering the doom and gloom?” Ever since my father was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, I haven’t been sure whether he should be leading Bellerive, and he has, for the most part, shared that opinion.
The coronation is almost a year away, but his cognitive decline might not be so predictable.
With the public referendum on legalizing assisted suicide and my father’s disease out on social media, our island politics are in disarray. The Advisory Council of Bellerive, our national government, passed a temporary measure to eliminate royal input until I’m king. They cannot risk a political misstep by having my father involved, especially with some of them up for re-election. Cutting us out isn’t a problem as long as none of the issues require the tie-breaking vote the sovereign provides.
Fingers crossed the country can make it through the year.
“The page is marked.” My father passes the manual across the table to me.
I flip it open to the highlighted section and breathe out a frustrated grunt. “‘Prior to the coronation, the heir apparent must be wed,’” I read aloud. “To become king, I need a wife? What kind of archaic bullshit is this?” I glance up, and my gaze connects with my mother’s. “Am I interpreting this correctly?”
“You are,” my mother confirms. “You’ll be the youngest king in hundreds of years, so the marriage rule has never been, as far as we can tell, an issue before. We’ve had several policy people tear the thing apart. With your father now declared…” She seems to fumble for a kind way to phrase his decline. “Unable to fulfill his duties, we can’t even legally change the coronation framework. The line is binding. Of course, once you’re king, you can change whatever you wish with the proper public approval process.”
I toss the hefty manual back on the desk and rub my face. “I can change the requirement once I’m married, and I’m the king. But to update the rule, I need a wife. The wife rule is the one I’d prefer not to follow in the first place.” I give a mirthless chuckle. “It’s not as though marriage is going to suddenly turn me into a better ruler and policy maker.”
Without thinking, I glance at Julia, but she’s avoiding my gaze. Probably for the best. I just promised Nick the other day that I’d stop interfering in their relationship and hoping for something with Jules that will never happen. Old habits die hard.
If the clause about a wife had come out any earlier, we all know I’d have pushed her to assume the royal duty. Asking her wouldn’t have been about love. She would have been my best—if most complicated—option.
“Well,” I say. “Even if Father can’t legislate a change to the coronation, I would think the advisory council could?”
My father shakes his head. “Unfortunately, they cannot. Again, it’s another change you are welcome to make once you’re king, but as of right now, all royal rule changes, regardless of the circumstances, have to be made by the king and vetted by the royal family as a whole.”
“No one actually knows the entire coronation manual.” I gesture to what looks like a four- or five-hundred-page tome on his desk. “Is anyone going to notice that page 302 says I should have a wife and I don’t?”
At that, Julia perks up. “There’s always renewed interest in coronation protocol when one is about to happen. All available manuals have been checked out of the local libraries. Desmond has fielded and fulfilled four requests for the manual in the last week.”
Instead of looking at Julia, I glare at Desmond, my shared secretary. “Perhaps you should have run that past me.”
“I asked the king,” he says. “The requests were approved.”
My father sighs. “People are interested. Their interest helps to keep us relevant in a world where monarchies have become mostly obsolete or merely figureheads. There’s no getting around the clause, Alex. What we need is a brainstorming session of suitable matches for you.”
I smack my lips in displeasure and run a frustrated hand through my hair. “Let’s not and say we did. My future wife is not a roundtable discussion.”
“Unfortunately,” my mother says, “she is now. Whoever she is.”
“What about Anna Samuel?” Nick offers from behind me.
“No,” I grit out. “I got my fill. Besides, I heard she’s married with children now.”
Brice passes me his phone. “She’s not bad.”
I look at the internet address and bark out a laugh. “This is an escort service.”
“Is it?” There’s a twinkle in Brice’s eyes when he takes the phone back. “Wouldn’t she be surprised to be escorted down the royal aisle?”
“Whoever Alex marries must either be of royal blood from another country or a native Bellerivian. No celebrities or models or whatever else from wherever else.” My father waves a hand. “Bellerivian or royal.”
The room falls into an uncomfortable silence.
After telling Nick I wasn’t sure I was cut out for romantic love of any sort, I should be grateful to have this obligation thrust upon me. I’ll need an heir. My duty to this country never ends. Nothing is ever mine—my privacy, my grief, and now my marriage are public property. There is no division between what I want and what’s best for the country. They are melded together, unbreakable. I’ve known this since I was a child, but sitting in this room having them all contemplate who’s doomed to marry me is one indignity I didn’t anticipate.
“I’ll formulate a short list,” Desmond offers. He drags his phone out of his pocket and opens an app. “I can, with permission, put out some feelers to royal families and wealthy Bellerivian nationals.”
Perhaps other people would refuse, claim they’ll only marry for love, but that’s not me. The prosperity of the country comes above all else. Besides, my expectations of marriage are low. I’m not cut out for the all-consuming love that seems to have swept my brother Nick and his fiancée, Julia, into emotional turmoil for years.
“She must be someone I can tolerate and who is good for the country,” I say.
“I knew you’d be reasonable about this.” My mother gives my father’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
“With Nick and Julia’s wedding just under three months away, it would be best if we could have you debut whoever you intend to marry there,” my mother says.
A chill runs through me. Three months to find a woman I can tolerate who is good for the country. Shouldn’t be too tall of an order, but I know it will be.
I’ve casually and secretly dated several of the daughters of the Bellerivian elite already. At diplomatic events in other countries, none of the other available royals have appealed to me. How will I find someone suitable?
“That sounds fine,” I agree. My stomach clenches at the reality of what I’m agreeing to.
In three months, I’ll be publicly declaring my intention to marry someone and to put up with the match for the rest of my life. Whoever I marry, we’ll be stuck with each other forever.
Divorce is outlawed for the royal family.
two
Rory
When I grab the mail from the box, I riffle through it, looking for anything from my parents. We haven’t spoken in months, but it would be like my mother to send a birthday card. While my father can hold a grudge forever, my mother is warmer.
Trailing Derrick, my boyfriend from college, back to Bellerive after graduation seemed like the right choice at the time. We’d been dating for a year, and I loved him. A lot. Maybe even the kind of love where you get married. He asked me to move here with him after we spent a magical week in Bellerive, living in his parent’s guesthouse, and musing about the future. The world was full of possibilities.
Bellerive would be an adventure, right?
Who wouldn’t want to live on an island that still has castles, palaces, and a prominent royal family? The green landscapes, open fields of animals and produce, and cities with an almost fantastical essence appealed to me.
In some ways, I fell in love with the country as much as I did Derrick.
Bellerive also happens to be one of the most expensive places to live on the planet, which I didn’t fully comprehend at the time.
There’s no card from anyone I know, let alone my parents. Sometimes choosing the adventure can be pretty isolating. I climb the stairs to the apartment I share with Derrick in the middle of Tucker’s Town. His parents own the studio space but make Derrick and I pay full rent. Maybe it’s petty of me to think some sort of family discount should be in order, but every month I’m surprised by the exorbitant cost.
We agreed to work for them at their golf club when we moved to the island. So it’s a constant exchange of money. They pay us; we pay rent. Round and round we go, and most months, they barely pay us enough to survive. When Derrick suggested getting our feet wet in the country under his parents’ guidance, I didn’t expect them to treat us like cheap labor.
Us? Who am I kidding? Me. They treat me like cheap labor.
Any time I’ve tried to raise the issue with him, he’s said we have to “prove our worth” and “earn our keep” and someday the whole empire will be ours.
Though, he hasn’t made the “ours” argument in a while.
Since it’s my birthday, they let me off my shift early. But that almost didn’t happen when a bartender called in sick. Another thing about becoming part of an extended family business—your life is no longer your own.
I’m the pastry chef, but they slot me into other roles in the restaurant when they’re short, and I haven’t managed to escape the building. In the year since we moved here, I’ve covered every imaginable position.
Our apartment is a wide-open, high-ceilinged room on the top floor that has incredible views of the marina. And a sky-high rental price tag to match. The only walls are at the back, and they box in the bathroom and one closet. Our bed lays against the far wall, and it’s the first thing anyone sees when they walk in the door. When I suggested to Derrick that we rearrange the layout so our bed wasn’t so in your face, he said he liked having the spot where we’d be fucking so accessible. Seemed romantic at the time.
But Derrick has never been much of a true romantic, so when I slot my key into the lock on our apartment door, I’m hoping he’s at least remembered today is my birthday. His parents did. They won’t remind him because they believe he’s highly organized and very efficient. Neither is true.
The door is hard to open, and I grunt as I push against it. Did he drop his shoes in front of the door again? How many times do I have to tell him they get stuck on the mat and make opening the door impossible?
Music blares from the sound system, so he won’t even hear me if I shout for help.
With another concerted effort, I get the door to swing wide enough to slip in. On the floor are a pair of heels I’ve scuffed by forcing the door.
I tilt my head. Heels? Not my heels.
Then my gaze is drawn to the line of discarded clothes leading to the bed. The trail is familiar—usually one I wake up to after Derrick and I have stumbled home drunk and barely made it in the door before stripping each other naked.
The clothes are a tangle of dress pants, shirts, a skirt, panties…
My heart thumps. Reluctantly, I glance at the bed, and sure enough, Derrick’s bare ass is pumping away between some other woman’s legs. They’re both so focused on getting off, they didn’t even hear the door open.
“Harder,” the woman moans above the music. “Harder!”
“I’m going to come all over your tits,” Derrick cries.
My gut twists, and a sinking sensation settles over me. I could turn around and leave, and they’d probably never know. The me from ten minutes ago might have, but there’s something about coming home on my birthday to find my live-in boyfriend committing adultery that hardens a piece of me I didn’t realize was soft.
Instead of leaving, I turn off the device on the kitchen island that’s playing the music.
“Happy birthday to me!” I call out. No point in being subtle. It’s safe to say Derrick and I are done. I should be gutted, but I’m numb.
Whoever is underneath him screams, and he jumps away from her like she’s on fire.
“Rory!” He snags a sheet off the bed and wraps it around his middle, stumbling toward me. As if I’m not well acquainted with what’s under the sheet. “You’re home early.”
I glance behind him and realize it’s his ex-girlfriend from high school he’s plowing. A lump forms in my throat. She and I couldn’t be more different, from the color of our hair—hers dark and mine blond—to the curve of our hips—she has them and I don’t. Not to mention our personalities. I’m usually a pleaser, and she is distinctly not.
I have a feeling my pleasing days are over.
How many times have I asked him about her? At every turn he denied what my eyes and heart were telling me. Within months of us moving back to Bellerive, the two of them were magnets at every bar, at every social event, and apparently, even in our shared apartment.
“It’s my birthday,” I say. “As birthday surprises go, this is a new one.” I keep my voice light, but inside I’m dying. We’ve been together for two years—a year in college and a year here. How long has he been screwing her behind my back?
