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The swedish prince Episode 27

🌹🌹The Swedish Prince🌹🌹
🌸🌸(ROYAL [email protected]ç£) 🌸🌸
🌹Chapter 27🌹
 
 
Maggie’s POV❤️
Viktor said he was going to try and shield me from the world as much as he could. It feels kind of ro-mantic, being kept in secret like a concubine.
He said the only people who would know would be his pri-vate secretary Freddie, his butler and a few guards. Eventually he wants to introduce me to the rest of his family, but he seemed pretty adamant about keeping me a secret at the start.
I don’t mind.
I brou-ght up the fact that Meghan Markle and Prince Harry [email protected]£d in secrecy for months before even Prince William found out. If they can do it, so can we. That said, we’ll both be in Stockholm, not some safari camp in the middle of nowhere, and it’s going to get intricately more challenging once the kids come, but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.
All that matters now is that a choice has been made and I’m on my way.
To fv¢king Sweden!
Land of aquavit and moose and IKEA and ABBA and Volvos and universal healthcare!
There are a million more things to get excited about but as the plane takes off and the runways of LAX drop away, I’m met with some worry. The biggest one is my job. Juanita would have been fine with me taking two weeks off but over a month? That crossed the line.
We [email protected] on amicable terms, even though she thought I was crazy to do this, and she said she’d give me my job back when I returned but the truth is, until then, I’m out of my job.
In other words, I quit my job for Viktor.
Now I know Viktor has told me many times that he would take care of me and I also know I have savings now that can support all of us if it turns out I have to look for another job (of course those savings I have thanks to Viktor), but it doesn’t change the fact that I’m doing something quite irresponsible.
Neither Annette or Sam think it’s a good idea either. I mean, they thought it was ro-mantic and they think it will be awesome for the kids to travel for the first time, especially if they are treated like royalty. But I did just quit my job to do this, which is a hvge step. And though I love Viktor more than I can bear, there is currently no security in our relationsh!p. It’s so [email protected] new.
And that’s nagging at me too. As it stands, I’ll be coming back with the kids, though Viktor said he has yet to book me a return ticket. He thinks he can change my mind. He thinks I might want to stay. He says it will be his mission over the next month to make me stay.
But as Sam had said on the phone, where is this going? Where could this go? I can’t just stay in Sweden, I have kids to take care of and a life in Tehachapi. And even if I did stay, then what? Am I willing to risk everything, and I mean absolutely everything and everyone, on love?
I guess the answer for now, is, yes. Quitting my job, a job I nee-ded, for a man, was never something the old Maggie would do, but apparently the new Maggie is just throwing caution to the wind these days for a chance to keep having h0t se-x.
h0t se-x with a prince.
h0t se-x with a man that I love.
Maybe quitting my job was worth it.
I don’t fret too much more for the rest of thirteen-hour flight because the flight attendant thinks I’m super nervous, so she keeps giving me booze and then I start watching movies and after a while, when the cabin lights are dimmed, I actually fall asleep.
I wake up just as breakfast is being served and before I know it, the plane is landing at Stockholm’s Arlanda airport.
I look out the window to see my first glimpses of the country and my bleary-eyes are blinded by all the white.
Snow.
There’s nothing but snow.
In fact, the runway that is quic-kly rushing up to meet the plane looks exactly like a skating rink.
Oh my god, we’re all going to die.
They forgot to plow the runway!
I look around frantically to see if anyone else is in the crash position or [email protected] themselves but everyone else looks completely calm.
We land without incident. I’m not sure what kind of snow tires they have on this thing.
Then I’m off the plane and in the very clean and modern airport and it’s just like…
I’M IN SWEDEN!
The signs are in Swedish and people are talking in Swedish and everyone looks like a supermodel and I’m so tired and jet-lagged and overjoyed right now.
And scared. I’m also scared, wishing that I could have flow back with Viktor when he did or wishing he stayed in Tehachapi with me, even though there was no way he could have spared the time.
I go up to the pas-sport control and slide a very unsmiling man my pas-sport.
“What brings you to Sweden?” he asks.
Oh $h!t. I can’t say I’m meeting the prince. That’s all t©p secret.
“I’m meeting a friend.”
He looks past me at someone in the line, like he wants to murder someone back there. “What is your friend’s name?”
What?
“Uh, Johan Andersson.”
“Where does he live?”
“Stockholm.”
“What is the address?”
“Why, you gonna come check on me?” I try and laugh.
His sharp eyes flit to mine. “What is the address of Johan Andersson?”
Oh $h!t. You don’t joke here.
“It’s one ten…Skarsgard Way.”
He narrows his eyes, studying for a moment.
I hold my breath.
How obvious is it that I just made that up?
“How did you meet Johan Andersson?”
“He stayed at my h0tel.”
“Pardon me?”
“I met him in California, at a h0tel. We went to Disneyland. I fell in love and here I am.” I smile awkwardly. “Ta-da.”
He shakes his head, stamps the page, and curtly slides the pas-sport back to me. “Have a nice day.”
I quic-kly take it from him and hurry along. Jeez, what was up his as-s.
Now that I’ve gotten throu-gh pas-sport control, I have other things to worry about.
What if there’s no one to pick me up? What if I have to take a cab and Viktor warned me about the cabs, what did he say again?
I ponder this as I get my luggage from the carou-sel and haul it throu-gh the customs and out into the arrivals [email protected] of the terminal.
That’s when I see a familiar face.
“Nick!” I cry out when I see the beak-nosed man holding a sign that re-ads McPherson.
“Miss McPherson,” Nick says to me, as reserved as ever or I’m starting to think that’s how all Swedens are. “Come this way.”
Nick is dressed in black like all the limo and pick-up drivers are, like they all belong to the same secret army but only Nick walks like he’s leading me off to the barracks.
It feels like that too because holy $h!t, the moment I step outside I realize how severely un-derdressed I am. Viktor had told me to bring my warmest coat and even though Tehachapi’s nickname is the town of four seasons (which probably sounds really redundant outside of California) apparently my warmest coat is not going to cut it.
It’s colder than a New York winter.
It’s colder than a witch’s tit.
It’s colder than a polar bear’s toenails.
It’s cold as fv¢k.
Shivering and quic-kly bu-ttoning up my $h!tty coat as I follow Nick to the parking lot, we pas-s a long line of people waiting outside for cabs, none of them looking the slightest bit put out or shivering like I am. I curse them immediately and the wind picks up in response, throwing snow in my face.
Thankfully it’s not long until I’m getting in the back of what looks like the Mercedes version of a town car. It’s warm in here and then we’re on the highway which seems even less plowed than the runway was, except all the cars are zooming along it at t©p speed. We only slow down when the visibility turns everything in front of us into a white wall and we’re still going fas-ter than fifty.
“Is it always this, uh, snowy?” I ask Nick.
“Not always in November but we’re getting an early start to winter this year.”
Oh great. I can’t look out the window anymore, it’s giving me anxiety, so I [email protected] and let the warmth of the car’s heater wash over me and the jet-lag seep into my bones and then Nick is shaking my leg.
“We’re here,” he says.
I slowly push myself up and look around. I’m still in the car. Outside it’s all white.
He gets out of the car and opens the back door, a rush of startlingly cold air swooping in and [email protected] me in the face. He has an umbrella held above me, though the snow is taking no prisoners, and helps me out.
“This is the back entrance to the palace,” he tells me, and I look over the car at the tall three-story white building that seems to blend in too well with the snow. “Bodi there will get you all sorted.”
A man comes scuttling out of the back door and gr-abs my suitcase out of the trunk. I’ve heard of Bodi the butler before but for some reason I imagined him to be dressed, like, well a butler. I suppose it’s as much of a stereotype as me wearing a French maid’s uniform.
Bodi is balding a bit but has crazy red hair and bright emerald eyes that match his green velvet suit.
“Welcome Miss McPherson,” he says to me, gesturing to the door. “plea-se follow me inside.”
I look at Nick as snowflakes gather in his hair. Even though it’s the afternoon here, things alre-ady seem to be getting dark, bathing the grounds in this blue-gray glow.
“Where is Viktor?” I ask Nick. I would have thought he would have come out of the door with Bodi.
“He will be back later,” he says and then gets back in his car, the tires spinning on the snow for a moment before the car lurches off.
“Miss,” Bodi urges from the door.
I nod and come toward him, nearly sli-pping twice on the snow before I get to the door.
“Sorry,” he says, nodding behind me. “It’s usually shoveled dry. I know her highness wants a heated driveway installed but this is a very old place.”
I wave him off, not wanting him to make a fuss. Who the fv¢k would I be, some poor girl showing up at a royal palace and seeming upset that the driveway isn’t shoveled?
I also found it kind of funny that he said “her highness wants this” like he’s being sarcastic but he’s very much not.
Because, that’s Viktor’s mother. I might not have to call Viktor anything but Viktor, but I can’t go up to his mother and be like “yo, what up Mrs. N, what’s happening?”
Imagine if you married Viktor, I think to myself as Bodi leads me into what looks like a giant [email protected] Would I have to call my mother-in-law your highness? That doesn’t seem fair.
But I brush that thought out of my head pretty quic-kly because even though I’m currently following a butler throu-gh a Swedish palace because I’m [email protected]!ngthe prince, that sort of stuff seems very far away and off the table.
After all, we only had one week together in California.
But what happens when we have a month in Sweden?
The palace in some ways is exactly as I was expecting. When you think of a palace you think of str!ped wallpaper and high ceilings with crown mouldings and elaborate designs. You think of antique high-end tables peppered with statues and large oil paintings with gold frames hanging from the walls. You think of velvet chaises and chairs, much like Bodi’s suit, and silk and satin and leather. All of this stuff makes up the many rooms of the palace.
It is lacking the Scandinavian charm that I as-sumed would be here–like an IKEA showroom on steroids–but honestly, I’m so enthralled and amazed by the palace that it doesn’t matter.
It’s a fantasy come to life.
“This is your room,” Bodi says, opening the door.
It takes my breath away.
And not just because I climbe-d three floors on very steep stairs.
It takes up the whole t©p tower of the building and the ceilings are at least fifteen feet high. There’s a hvge four poster be-d in the middle, a little living room seating area to one side with a wi-descreen TV, on the other side is a desk by the window that must look out to the front of the palace, then a bar cart, a door leading to what I as-sume is the bathroom, closets and more.
“This is my room?”
“This is His Highness’s room,” Bodi explains and I swear the guy win-ked at me.
He rolls my suitcase along and then chucks it up on the luggage rack alre-ady la-id out for it.
“Feel free to explore the house. If the doors are closed it’s probably because it belongs to one of the staff. I’d suggest you walk the park and the grounds but not in this weather.” He nods to the whiteout outside the window. “Perhaps later in the week.”
He does a little bow and then turns to leave.
“Wait,” I call out. “When does Viktor get back?”
“It’s [email protected] to say,” he says with a raise of his brow. He’s probably not used to hearing him called Viktor. “He has a speaking engagement at one of the universities this afternoon and I believe he’s going to Drottingham Palace for dinner. Where the king and queen reside.” He pauses by the door.
“Just relax and make yourself at home. If you’re hungry or you nee-d me for anything, just ring this bell here and I’ll be up right away.” He taps a buzzer by the door. “Oh and try not to fall asleep until a reasonable hour. It will only make the jetlag worse.”
“Okay,” I say softly as he leaves, closing the door behind him. “Thank you.”
Holy fv¢k.
So Viktor just has this Bodi guy at his beck and call 24/7? I mean, I get that’s what butler’s do but I’ve just never seen one in real life. Or heard of one. I mean, do celebrities in LA have butlers? Do the Kardashians?
To t©p it off, Bodi seems to want to serve. He seems to love his job. It makes me feel ashamed, actually, for taking no pride whatsoever in what I do. Sure, no one else looks kindly upon housekeepers and maids but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t.
What you did, remember. You quit. Past tense.
fv¢k. Stupid voice.
That’s when I’m hit with a wave of nausea and the room spins. Suddenly it doesn’t seem right to have to stay awake anymore.
I f0rç£ myself though, determined to beat the jetlag. I put all my clothes away in the che-st of drawers and the space in the closet that Viktor has clearly created for me. Then I put my toiletry stuff in the bathroom and take a long h0t shower, which makes me feel a little bit better.
Oddly enough I’m not hungry at all and I go to the window, spending a few minutes looking out of it, trying to see if I can see trees throu-gh the whirling snow and darkening light or if my eyes are pla-ying tricks on me.
I glance down at his desk. A pad of paper is la-id out, along with a pen and a small sachet of…
I pick it up and smell it.
My heart melts.
Lavender. It’s lavender.
He really was scenting his letters.
I let myself swoon for a moment because wow.
Viktor is the real deal.
I sigh happily and then do one of those twirling, smiling, swooning moves across the room like a total Disney princess and then toss myself on the be-d.
The moment the soft covers meet my cheek, I know it’s a bad move.
Sleep comes for me like a monster and then…
I’m out.
* * *
***
* * *
“Maggie?” I hear a voice float into my dreams.
I open my eyes to darkness.
A slice of ba-re light cutting across my vision like a sword.
Then it fades.
I fade.
Another light glows behind my eyelids.
I pry them open to see Viktor standing beside the be-d having turned on the side lamp, his [email protected] un-buckled, undoing his tie. It runs throu-gh his f!ngerswith a sli-ck cutting noise that stands out to me in this cavernous room.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he says softly. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t home earlier.”
I mumble something like, “no cow on the ice,” but it all comes out in a garbled hush. I clear my throat and try to push myself up onto my elbows, my eyes all squinty, my hair mussed up. I’m still in my clothes.
“What time is it?” I whisper, my voice rou-gh. I nee-d water.
“It’s just after ten,” he says. “At night. Let me get you some water? Do you nee-d anything to eat?”
I’m still not hungry. I just want to keep slee-ping.
“Water is good,” I manage to say.
He gives me a warm smile and then walks off into the bathroom. I hear the sink running and I place my head back on the be-d.
“Here,” he says, and suddenly he’s sitting beside me and holding out a glas-s.
I try to sit up, not as much as before, and take it from him, downing it in three large gulps and coughing wildly at the end.
“Easy, Maggie,” he says to me, taking the glas-s away. “I’ll get you another. I’d offer you some red wine or [email protected], but I don’t think you nee-d anything.”
“No,” I say, gr-abbing hold of him. It takes me a moment to realize that now his clothes are all off and he’s just in his pajama [email protected] and nothing else. My f!ngerscurl around the fabric. “plea-se stay. I don’t feel…good.”
He lets out a low laugh. “Jet lag is a bit-ch, as they say. It always takes me a few days to adjust when I’m coming back home. It can be really brutal. Did you take any melatonin?”
I shake my head. He did mention it, but I didn’t think it necessary. I thought jet lag was something I felt when I went from California to New York. This is a whole other beast altogether. This makes me feel like I am on a really weird drug bender and not the good kind, the kind that you know will take days to wear off.
He stro-kes my head and I’m falling into the mattress again. “Just sleep Maggie. Tomorrow is another day. A better day. I’ll be here in the morning.”
“Then where are you going?” I ask him and suddenly I’m gripping him ti-ghter.
“To a gala,” he says.
I look up at him and squint. It’s still my Viktor, looking as handsome as ever. Jet lag doesn’t change that. “Okay.”
“I’d invite you of course but…”
“But I’m a secret.”
“It’s better this way, plea-se believe me.”
I sigh, nestling my face dee-per into the covers. “I believe you. The whole Meghan and Harry thing.”
“You don’t un-derstand. I want time alone with you. I don’t want to share you. Everything is still so new to us and our time together, just us, is crucial.”
I smile, my eyes closed. “I know.”
And I do. I can feel every single word that falls from hisl-ips, the way they radiate from his heart.
I feel him lie beside me in be-d and when I open my eyes, his face is facing mine, cheek against the be-dspre-ad. “Look, Maggie, I invited you here because I want you here and I nee-d you here and I’m going to do what I can to make it worth our while. Whatever silly thing I have planned or engagement that’s not worth it, I will skip for you. Whatever event I’d rather not do, I won’t. I’ll stay home. I’ll tell people I’m running a fever, I don’t know. But I will do all I can to make sure that the next two weeks and the weeks after that with your family, are all focused on you. I will be here by your side, as much as I can. As Viktor, not a prince. As your friend, your lover, your man. You un-derstand?”
“I do. That was a lot of words flying into my head, but I un-derstand,” I mumble against the be-d, my eyes lazily focused on his. I smile and reach for the [email protected]!stband of his pajama [email protected], my hands skimming the taut planes of his stomach, the soft trail of hair. “Do you un-derstand this?”
He grins at me, that same fv¢king grin that always catches me off guard and makes me swoon all over again. “I un-derstand very well. But you’re in nee-d of sleep, my dear.”
He then moves over on the be-d and pu-lls back the covers, and then puts his hands un-der my arms and practically lifts me so that I’m properly positioned.
Then he starts to undress me. My boots, my jeans, my sweater, my shi-t. My [email protected] I’m t©pless in my un-derwear and in the back of my head I’m wondering if I smell and then I remember I had a shower earlier. My hair must be such a wild mess right now, I never even had a chance to brush it.
“Sleep ti-ght,” he says to me, pu-lling the sheets over me. “I’ll see you in the morning.” He pauses. “If you wake up in the middle of the night, feel free to watch TV or whatever. I can sleep throu-gh anything.”
I don’t even get a chance to reflect on that before I’m drifting off again.
 
 
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