Royal Temptations

Alexander

I’ve often wondered what it’s like to be ordinary. To wake up without a schedule planned down to the minute, without the weight of centuries-old expectations pressing on your chest like an iron crown. I imagine it feels like breathing freely for the first time—but then again, imagining is all I’ve ever been allowed to do.

The morning began as it always does: early, cold, and mechanical. My valet, Gustaf, knocked sharply at the door before entering, carrying the day’s itinerary. "Your Highness," he said with a crispness that never wavered, setting the document on my bedside table. The thick curtains were drawn open, letting in the faint glow of dawn. Outside, the Northern Lights still shimmered faintly, their colors fading as the sun began its slow ascent.

Oh, coffee and my favorite kanelbulle? You shouldn’t have… The sarcastic thought flickered through my mind, a small rebellious contrast to the words that actually came out of my mouth.

"Thank you, Gustaf," I murmured, sitting up. The sheets were heavy, luxurious—the kind only royalty could afford—but they might as well have been chains. Another day, another performance.

As he helped me into my tailored suit—dark navy, perfectly fitted, with an understated gold tie—Gustaf briefed me on the first event of the day: the International Youth Environmental Forum. Held annually in Stockholm, the forum gathered young leaders, activists, and scholars from around the globe. This year, I had the dubious honor of delivering the opening speech.

The silk shirt clung smoothly to my chest, the fabric stretching ever so slightly over muscles honed through years of discipline in my private gym. Two hours every morning might seem excessive, but perfection demanded no less. The mirror across the room caught my reflection as Gustaf adjusted the tie, the deep blue accentuating my pale complexion and drawing attention to my turquoise eyes—the one feature even my harshest critics couldn’t deny held a certain charm.

It wasn’t vanity, I told myself, as I ran a hand through my neatly styled blonde hair, inspecting the flawless result of my morning ritual. It’s image management, I thought with a faint smirk. Royalty comes with a dress code—and I’m going to wear it well. In case all else fails… I took a deep breath, trying to forget I was about to speak in front of a crowd.

“The world is watching, Your Highness,” Gustaf reminded me as he adjusted the cuffs of my shirt. His tone was not unkind, but it carried the weight of unspoken expectations. “Your father is particularly interested in the impression you’ll leave on the attendees.”

“My father is always interested in impressions,” I replied dryly, earning a sharp glance from the older man. I offered him a slight smile to soften the remark. It wasn’t his fault; he was only doing his job. But it wasn’t mine, either. Being a prince wasn’t something I chose.

Breakfast was brief and solitary, as usual. A delicate spread of smoked salmon, lingonberry jam, and freshly baked bread sat untouched on the table. My appetite, apart from the sinful cinnamon buns I keep hoping for, had abandoned me years ago, replaced by a constant knot of nerves and duty. I sipped my coffee, staring out the grand window at the palace gardens. Snow dusted the evergreen hedges, and a thin layer of ice glinted on the fountains.

In everyone’s eyes, I lived on a beautiful postcard, with a picture-perfect family, in a dream-like world. But reality was far from royalty fairytales. Raised in the palace, I’d never gone to school with other children, never snuck out to a party—apart from society balls where every smile was scrutinized—and I’d only dated candidates deemed "suitable" for the royal throne. Real friendships? Real relationships? They were luxuries as foreign to me as the everyday life I sometimes imagined.

At my twenty-one years of age, freedom felt as distant as the stars.

The forum's venue was as grand as one might expect—an imposing hall lined with flags from every attending nation. Delegates filed in, their chatter a hum of various accents and languages. Cameras flashed as I stepped out of the royal motorcade, flanked by security. Smiles, waves, perfectly measured steps—every movement was calculated for effect.

The opening ceremony was a blur of handshakes and introductions. When it was time for my speech, I stood at the podium, the lights glaring down like a tribunal. My prepared remarks were carefully written to inspire without offending, to sound passionate without stirring controversy.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” I began, my voice steady but hollow. “We stand at a crossroads in history. The choices we make today will define the world we leave for future generations.”

Polite applause followed each rehearsed point. I spoke of sustainable innovation, cooperation, and hope. But even as the words left my mouth, I felt detached from them. They were not my own. They never were.

The crowd didn’t seem to notice—or mind it, if they did. Behind every polite glance, I imagined young men and women in my same position, fulfilling their boring duties by attending my unexciting presentation. I could feel their lack of interest in their unexpressive faces and absent glances.

And then, I saw him.

He sat near the middle of the audience, arms crossed, his posture exuding a kind of relaxed defiance. I recognized the Italian flag colors embroidered on his chest—he was royalty, but of the most unusual kind. His dark eyes—sharp and unyielding—locked onto mine, and for a moment, my carefully constructed façade wavered. His thick, raven-black hair fell casually over his forehead, a stark contrast to the polished perfection around him. He didn’t clap. He didn’t smile. He just watched me, unblinking, as if he could see through every pretense I’d spent years perfecting.

Curiosity struck first. Who the hell is this stranger who dares to look at a prince with such boldness? Then came the jealousy. He sat there, utterly unbothered by the weight of expectations, free to be whoever he chose. And beneath that, a pang of something deeper, something more unsettling: longing.

What does he know about freedom? My mind whispered the question even as my chest tightened. It wasn’t fair—this invisible rope he’d thrown around me with just a glance. I hated him for it. And yet, I couldn’t look away.

The rest of the speech passed in a haze. I stumbled over a line, earning a subtle frown from my father in the front row. When I finally concluded, the applause was polite but muted. As I stepped away from the podium, I stole another glance at him. He was whispering something to the woman beside him, a slight smirk playing on his lips. My chest tightened further, though I couldn’t say why.

Backstage, I leaned against the wall, exhaling sharply. My hands trembled as I loosened my tie. The forum was far from over, and already, I felt like I was losing control.

What is wrong with you? Quite a monarch you’re preparing to be when it only takes one thing—or one stranger—to throw you off.

I pressed my palms against my temples, willing the thoughts to disappear. But his image lingered—those dark eyes, that maddening confidence. Whoever he was, he’d unsettled something deep inside me.

And I wasn’t sure I wanted it settled.