Page 50 of Broken Desires
“Did I give you any impression I wouldn’t?” I counter, a bit sharper than intended.
“But, Your Highness,” Hank starts, his voice a mix of concern and incredulity, “as the king, you can’t simply travel freely. The logistics involved are significant.”
I dismiss his concerns with a wave of my hand. “I won’t be attending as King Alexander the Third; I’m going as Liam. It’ll be low-key.”
Hank looks skeptical, and he starts to protest but quiets down under my stern look. “Traveling isn’t as straightforward as before. The royal plane’s movements are closely watched, and the media will jump on any hint of your whereabouts.”
“Then don’t use the royal plane. Send me to New York,” I insist, my patience wearing thin.
“I can’t just—” Hank begins, but he’s cut off as I slam my hand down on the desk, a rare display of frustration. “I am going to the US, Hank. Make it happen.”
He closes his laptop with a deliberate slowness, resignation in his eyes. “Very well, Your Majesty. I’ll make the arrangements,” he concedes.
After Hank’s departure, I lean back in the chair, a heavy sigh escaping me as I rub my face wearily. The burden of the crown seems heavier today, its demands clashing more fiercely with my personal life than ever before. Glancing at a Post-it on my desk reminds me of the day’s second challenge, my brother.
Heading toward my sibling’s quarters, my frustration is tempered by thoughts of Nessa. Her influence on me has been profound, teaching me patience and understanding, especially toward Henrick. There’s a bit of Nessa in him—the hurt, the feeling of rejection—and I wonder if we’ve inadvertently made him feel sidelined. Seeing Nessa’s struggles has inspired a shift in my approach.
You’d be proud, Nessa, I muse, knocking on Henrick’s door, the thud of death metal vibrating through the wood.
With a roll of my eyes, I enter his weed-scented room to find him sprawled on the bed. I head straight for the sound system, pulling the plug.
“You mind!” he snaps, sitting up. His mock reverence as he stands makes him sway slightly. “What brings King Alexander to my humble abode?” he slurs, his sarcasm palpable.
Ignoring his theatrics and the offensive wallpaper on his computer, I take a seat. “St. Leopold called. You’re on probation for your grades and behavior.”
He collapses back onto the bed with a snort. “Who cares? I’m not going back.”
“Okay,” I agree, surprising even myself.
He looks at me, confusion overtaking his features. “Okay?”
“Yes,” I confirm. “If you don’t want to go back, you don’t have to. Copenhagen has plenty of reputable schools where you can finish your senior year.”
Suspicion replaces his initial hostility. “What’s the catch?”
“No catch,” I assure him.
His skepticism deepens. “And I don’t have to join the military academy next year?”
Holding back a lecture on family legacy, I simply nod. “Okay.”
His brow furrows. “What’s going on, Alex?” The shift from his earlier, more sarcastic tone is notable. It’s a small win.
“I’ve tasted freedom. I think it’s only fair you get to experience the same,” I admit, acknowledging the shift in our dynamic.
“Dad would shit bullets,” he mutters, a touch of rebellion in his voice.
I cringe at his choice of words but resist the urge to chastise him. “Dad’s not here, but I am. I never wanted you to be unhappy, Henrick. Neither did he. Taking on the weight of a nation is a burden he understood well. After just two weeks in his role, my perspective on his choices has changed dramatically.” Approaching the door, I pause, wanting my next words to sink in. “Think about what you really want. Once you’ve figured it out, we’ll make it happen. Okay?”
His gaze catches mine, a storm of emotions swirling. “We had a fight,” he blurts out, shifting the conversation abruptly.
“We always fight,” I respond, perplexed.
“Not you, him,” he clarifies, his voice heavy. “Dad and I… the day he…” The words trail off, choked by emotion, and I suddenly understand the escalation of his rebellious acts. Guilt and self-loathing.
“He wanted me to return home. I refused,” I share, leaning against the doorframe, a moment of vulnerability between us.
“You said no? But you’re the perfect son,” he challenges, disbelief coloring his tone.