Blitzed by the Brit: A Secret Baby Sports Romance (49 page)

I
arrived
at the lecture hall ten minutes early and was one of the first to take my seat. That way I wouldn’t have to deal with everyone staring at me and gossiping as I walked in.

My usual seat was still available; it was the perfect spot for me. About one third of the way up, so I was close enough to see and hear everything clearly while not being so close that I could practically count the professor’s nose hairs. The back rows had always been a no-go zone. I’d never been popular enough to sit at the back when I was younger, and that attitude had kind of stuck with me.

I opened my books, and kept my head down as everyone else walked in. I didn’t see the stares, but I could feel them. People were looking at me, and there was far more talk than normal for a class that started at nine in the morning.

Fortunately, if there was one group of people that didn’t give a shit about celebrity gossip, it was history professors.

“Settle down, everyone,” Professor Jackson yelled out. He stubbornly refused to use a microphone during class, but he seemed to enjoy the shouting. Professors like Jackson were one of the reasons I had come to England to study. He looked a bit like a stuffy Harvard professor with the elbow patches and mismatched pants and jacket, but the messy hair and erratic way of talking gave him that ‘Hogwarts professor’ vibe that only a non-native could really appreciate. The locals all just took it for granted.

“I hope you all used the break constructively,” Professor Jackson began. “At the very least, I hope you made it through the assigned reading.” That much I had done at least. It had taken me three times as long as it should have thanks to the distraction that was George and his penis. “I’ve started receiving some of your essays, but there are many more still due. Make sure you have them to me by the end of the week. Now we’re going to move on to the period following the execution of Charles I.”

It felt so good to be back to some degree of normality. I still couldn’t hear the word “prince” without thinking of George, but fortunately that word didn’t come up too often. It would in future classes, and I’d have to deal with it, but for now I was safe.

Professor Jackson had steadfastly refused to let laptops into the classroom, so we all scribbled notes on paper as he spoke. I preferred writing by hand anyway—you retained more information that way.

I’d always enjoyed these classes, but I didn’t want to just enjoy them any longer. I wanted to ace them. Hell, I
needed
to ace them. There was no way my grades would stay private. They’d be leaked so quickly
The Sun
would probably know them before I did. I couldn’t just coast along and try to get a 2:1, but settle for a 2:2. I had to aim for a first class degree.

Mind you, even if I did well, people would just assume the grade had been bought and paid for. I was in a no-win situation. Do well and no one would believe I’d earned it. Do badly and people would think I was stupid. Not to mention the added embarrassment of failing a class that centered on the English royal family. The irony would cause no end of amusement.

Fifteen minutes into the class, my eyelids started to feel heavy, and my head slumped forward, before snapping back as I fought off sleep. I’d packed a thermos of coffee, but I didn’t usually have to dip into that until around eleven. Not today.

I poured a cup, and felt awake before even taking a sip. I wasn’t the only one struggling to stay with it. My usually attentive classmates looked bored and sleepy. Heads were resting in hands, or slumped so low to the desk it was hard to tell if they were reading from the textbook of just taking a nap.

Professor Jackson deserved an attentive audience, but he was the one who insisted on teaching the first class of the morning. Rumor had it, he actually wanted the class to start at seven in the morning, so that his day would be completely finished by lunch and he could focus on his research. The university had vetoed that one; even clever students wanted to go and get drunk once in awhile.

Halfway through the lecture, something changed. There was movement and rustling behind me as people tried to subtly take phones out of pockets and bags. Professor Jackson had banned all use of phones, but those sat behind me obviously figured they could get away with it.

Once a few people had pulled out their phones, the rest of the room followed their lead. Only myself and those in front of me continued to pay any attention to the lecture. University was cheaper in England, but you still had to pay for it. I never ceased to be amazed at how little people cared about learning after spending thousands on their education.

Professor Jackson tried to carry on talking, but he couldn’t ignore the commotion that was spreading throughout the room. Students weren’t just using their phones; they were giggling and whispering excitedly.

I was about ready to turn to the girl behind me and ask what all the fuss was about when Ellie burst into the room loudly and out-of-breath.

“Sorry,” she muttered to a bemused looking Professor Jackson. “I need to speak to Sophia. Sophia Whittemore. It’s an emergency.”

“Fine,” Professor Jackson said, holding his hands up in defeat. “Leave quickly and quietly please, Mrs. Whittemore.”

I grabbed my books and shoved them into my bag as I hurriedly left the room. Ellie looked panicked, and for a girl as calm as her, that had me worried.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, the second we were outside. “Has something happened to George?”

“No, George is fine,” she replied. Ellie walked so quickly I had a job to keep up with her. “I’ll explain back at my dorm.”

We rushed back to Ellie’s room which was only a few minutes away. Students stared at us as we walked, and I could swear I saw a few of them smile. I’d gotten plenty of looks from the public recently, but there was something unnerving about those smiles.

Ellie shut the door behind us the second we were in her room. I felt like we had just escaped a pack of zombies, and half expected her to barricade the door and push all the furniture in front of it.

“What the hell is going on, Ellie? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I wish that was all I’d seen.” She opened up a message on her phone and passed it to me. “This email is doing the rounds on the university server. I haven’t seen any news stories on it yet, but it’s only a matter of time.”

The email had a subject line of “Her Royal Highness’ royal tits.”

Oh fuck. Please no. Please. Anything but this.

There was no text to the emails, just some photo attachments. I opened the first one, but didn’t need to open any more.

“I’m so sorry,” Ellie said, wrapping her arm around me.

“Me too,” I replied. “About everything.”

The dream was over. There was no way I could be a princess now. I didn’t know if I wanted to be.

My own phone rang. No need to guess who it was. I hit the decline button on George’s call.

“You should speak to him,” Ellie said. “He might be able to help.”

“He promised me he’d sorted it. Just last night he said this wouldn’t be a problem any more. Now look what’s happened.”

“I’m sure he tried.”

“He should have tried harder.”

I probably wasn’t really mad at George, but he’d have to bear the brunt of my anger for the time being. He was a fucking prince; he should have been able to fix this. Instead, here I was, trapped in my friend’s room, while pictures of my breasts circulated the university, and soon the country. Then the world.

This was only the beginning. There were plenty more photos. Stan had other photos he could release if he wanted to. And then there were the video clips.

The embarrassment wouldn’t be ending any time soon.

After running from my own wedding, I hid from the world until the worst of it had blown over. How long would that take this time?

I might never see the light of day again.

S
ophia wasn’t returning
my calls, but Ellie kept me up-to-date. The two of them were holed-up in Ellie’s apartment while the media ran the story continuously.

At least most of them had the sense not to show the pictures, although anyone who could use a keyboard and a search engine could find them online easily enough. The palace had engaged a small army of solicitors to shut down any site hosting the images, but they were just playing whack-a-mole and could barely keep up.

The simple fact was, anyone who wanted to look at an image of my wife’s breasts could now do so. That horrified me, so I couldn’t begin to imagine how Sophia felt.

She’d blame me, and she had every right to. I’d promised to solve the problem. I’d told her it had been fixed. She’d trusted me, and I’d failed her.

The pictures weren’t even the end of the problem. Stan had sold his story to some hack “news” website, and according to him, Sophia had been a serial cheat who left him at the altar and broke his heart.

He’d made ten, maybe twenty, thousand—tops—from selling the story and pictures. How could he destroy someone’s life for so little?

“What are our options?” I asked Harry. “There has to be something we can do.”

“It’s all damage control from here on out. You need to control the narrative. Get the story out there that Stan is the wrong-doer and Sophia is innocent in all this.”

“That should be easy enough,” I replied. “It’s the truth after all.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m fucking sure. He cheated on her with her best friend. Surely the public will take her word over his?”

“She doesn’t look great right now.”

“Because she took a few naked photos on her mobile phone with an ex? Fucking hell. He’s the one that leaked them—he’s the one who shouldn’t have any credibility.”

“I agree,” Harry said. “I’m just telling you what the public is thinking right now. She’s not just a random actress or pop star, George. She’s going to be a princess. She might even be the Queen one day. People get funny about this kind of thing.”

“Jesus Christ,” I yelled as I slammed my palm against the wall in frustration. “I’m going to kill him. I’m seriously going to fucking kill him.”

“I wouldn’t recommend it, sir,” Harry replied dryly.

“I want everyone out there speaking to the media and giving Sophia’s side of the story.”

“And what is that?”

“That the photos were meant to be private, and she never gave permission for them to be shared. This is a textbook case of revenge porn from a jilted ex-lover.”

“Can we get her on camera?” Harry asked.

“No, I don’t want those savages asking her questions.”

“She should apologize. If she just says she’s sorry, we can quickly move past this.”

“Apologize?” I spat the word out as if it were venomous. “What the hell should she apologize for?”

“The photos were—”

“No one else’s fucking business. She’s not going to apologize.”

Sophia would kill me if she could hear me making decisions for her like this, but she wasn’t taking my calls, so what choice did I have?

“Don’t forget the charity efforts,” Harry said.

“What about them?” I asked, a little more calmly. It didn’t do any good to take my anger out on Harry. He was a media professional—that didn’t mean he agreed with half that crap that was coming out of his mouth. At least, I hoped it didn’t.

“Sophia was the face of that charity drive along with you. We’ve already lost £100,000 in canceled donations, and new donations have all but stopped.”

“Who in their right mind cancels a charitable donation because someone was the victim of a crime?”

“Rich old men,” Harry replied. “They made donations because they wanted to be associated with you and Sophia. They no longer want to be associated with Sophia.”

“You can bet your arse they’re jerking off to the photos though.”

Harry nodded. “Most likely.”

I ran my fingers through my hair—might as well enjoy the experience while I still had some. If this went on for much longer, I wouldn’t have any hair left.

“What do we do?” I asked quietly. I didn’t have the energy for shouting any more.

“You’re not going to like what I suggest.”

“Just spit it out.”

“You said there were more photos?”

I nodded. “Video clips as well.”

“We need to get them out there.”

“No fucking way. Absolutely not.”

“We can’t start damage control when we know there’s another tsunami on the way.”

“That is one hundred percent not going to happen. Just to be abso-
fucking
-lutely clear about this, if those images get out there, I am going to personally deal with the individual responsible. Understand?”

“I think I get the gist,” Harry replied, in typically emotionless fashion. “In that case, your only option is to distance yourself from Sophia. Talk about separation and then we can sort out a divorce in a few months.”

Exactly as we’d planned from the beginning. It should be easy really.

“No,” I replied. “Think of something else.”

“Those are the only options I can see right now. Is it really that big a deal?”

“You don’t think divorcing my wife is a big deal?”

“Come on, George. Your marriage to Sophia was hardly built on a solid foundation.”

“It’s more complicated than that.”

“Okay, but whatever you do, you need to do it quickly.”

I sent Sophia a message asking her to call, but I knew it was pointless. A few blue ticks on the message told me that she’d read it, but I didn’t get a reply.

“Set up an interview,” I said to Harry. “With the BBC. Tell them they can ask any questions they want. Warts and all.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, let’s get everything out in the open. Then we’ll start damage control.”

I should have listened to my gut all along. I could have claimed my inheritance, dumped the money into a trust for Liam, and then paid Stan off. I didn’t like him winning, but at least that way Sophia would never have been publicly humiliated.

I closed my eyes and tried to imagine what she must be going through right now. I’d do anything to be there with her. I’d wrap my arms around her and we could pretend we were the only two people in the world.

Instead, we were two of the most famous people in the world, and the media had sunk its claws in deep. It was all my fault. I should have listened to Sophia when she recommended we stick to the original plan and ignore the royal family.

Now Sophia was royally screwed, and there was nothing I could do to help.

Except maybe one last thing.

It was all or nothing time.