Wannabe Heir Read online

  Copyright © 2019 by Kim Karr

  All Rights Reserved

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. Resemblance to actual persons, things, living or dead, locales or events is entirely coincidental.

  All characters are 18 + years of age and all sexual acts are consensual. Reader discretion advised.

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  BOOK CREDITS

  Cover designer: By Hang Le

  Cover model: Chema Malavia

  Photographer: Rafa Catalá Photography

  Formatting: Champagne Book Design

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT

  EPIGRAPH

  THE WHO’S WHO GUIDE

  THE VESPA ISLES…

  PROLOGUE

  1: DECLINED

  2: THE LOVE BOAT

  3: RADISHES AREN’T SWEET

  4: THIEF

  5: THE TELL

  6: FORGIVE ME DAUGHTER

  7: NEVER SAY SEVEN

  8: HELLO

  9: SUCH A BAD BOY

  10: WINNING IS STILL LOSING

  11: WHERE TO GO FROM HERE?

  12: SINNER

  13: SWEET OR BITTER

  14: DIAMONDS ARE FOREVER

  15: CHANGE OF GUARD

  16: SECRET PLACE

  17: SHALL WE?

  18: THE RED CARPET

  19: HISTORY DOESN’T REPEAT

  20: THAT FINE LINE

  21: THE RUSSIAN

  22: IT TAKES A VILLAGE

  23: A ROYAL UNION

  24: THE FIRST ARRIVAL

  25: FRIEND OR FOE?

  26: DIAMONDS AREN’T FOREVER

  27: THE FRENCH HAVE WAYS

  28: THE MILE HIGH CLUB

  29: HOMECOMINGS

  30: THE MORNING AFTER

  31: THE TUNNEL

  32: MORE ARRIVALS

  33: NOTHING & EVERYTHING

  34: AT SEA

  35: A NEW REIGN

  36: NEW LINES

  37: WANNA BE HEIR

  38: NOT FOR SALE

  39: AGAIN

  40: THE TORCH IS LIT

  41: PROGRESS

  EPILOGUE

  PREVIEW: REWINED

  ALSO BY KIM KARR

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  SOCIAL MEDIA LINKS

  “What is life if not a gamble.” ~F.E. Higgins

  The Vespa Isles

  ALEXANDRIA

  King Stephen Edward Blanchette is a widower with one daughter, Princess Victoria Caroline Blanchette. He passes away and leaves his daughter the crown, but only if she marries a man of royal blood.

  CASANOVIA

  King Winston Alfred Montgomery is married to his new, and much younger wife, Queen Genevieve. He has two sons with his first wife—Price Leopold and Prince Maximus Napoleon Montgomery.

  EASTWOOD

  King Rutherford Laurent rules with an iron fist and not very well-liked. He has three cousins, Adrien, Truman, and Elizabeth, who are all next in line for the throne.

  CATALINA

  The King and Queen have three natural-born daughters and one adopted son. Prince Spencer Lexington is the youngest and not of royal blood.

  WIMBERLY

  Queen Helena has a son, Prince Vittore, and he has a son Prince Julius Churchill Monaco, who is more of a playboy than an heir.

  MARVELLA

  Known as the lost island, it was once ruled by King Archibald and Queen Selena.

  THE VESPA ISLES…

  There were once six small islands that bordered the coast of France. These countries were never French, and when they had the chance to break away, they did. However, they soon discovered freedom wasn’t so sweet.

  Alexandria, Wimberly, Catalina, Casanovia, Eastwood, and Marvella struggled, and it wasn’t long before one of them was lost to greed. Sadly, Marvella became known as the lost island. However, the other five managed to survive.

  To the outsider, these five countries coexist beautifully. The truth, however, is much uglier. These independent countries are held together by ancient governing royal laws, that, if broken, could mean succession. Cannibalization is the less glamorous way to put it, and there are those who are striving to achieve just that.

  Power is, after all, what makes this world go round, and love, is after all, what we fight for.

  Finding the balance between the two is difficult at best, impossible at worst.

  Can love win out in the end?

  THE KING OF MARVELLA

  The Early Nineties

  Through the window, I can see my driver toying with the brim of his hat while he waits in the dark alleyway. I have to wonder why he’s moved the state car around the building.

  As soon as I adjourn the meeting, everyone seated around the table stands. The Prime Minister is not happy with my decision and leaves without a word. In fact, the entire room clears so fast that I have to blink to make sure I didn’t fall asleep.

  Asher Boatwright, my Deputy National Security Advisor, is the only one left in the room, but he too moves fast, swinging the back door open and pointing. “This way, Your Royal Highness. I hope you don’t mind, but I had your driver relocate your vehicle.”

  I step into the night and notice that a light fog seems to be settling over the city. “I can see that, but why?” I ask him.

  A gentle drizzle begins to fall, causing the cobblestone streets to glisten under the streetlights. “The rioting is out of control, Your Majesty. It is not safe for you out there, and I fear you will need to call in the police very soon.”

  The driver opens my door, and I step inside, looking up at Asher once I take a seat. “Word of the vote has already gotten out?” I ask in surprise.

  His nod is grim.

  To say the economy of Marvella had previously been on steroids would be an apt metaphor. In the past, the country had been economically injected by European spending, and for years, it seemed to be only getting stronger. Visitors soaking up what we had to offer, at a currency exchange that only enticed them to return, had given us an artificial high.

  Recently, though, the country has begun to suffer from withdrawal symptoms because the dosage of money has been hugely reduced.

  Perhaps it’s due to the world’s overall recession. Maybe it’s our inability to fight against the current of crime. Whatever the cause, the exchange rate declines more and more every day, and fewer and fewer people are coming here to vacation. In turn, the people of Marvella find themselves struggling to put food on the table.

  With both of us inside, the car rounds the corner, and as soon as it does, we are bombarded by protestors, all waving their signs in the air.

  “TURN BACK AND VOTE YES!”

  “VOTE YES NOW!”

  “SAY YES OR BE BANISHED.”

  The people of Marvella are not happy with what I’ve done. I wish things could have been different.

  If I could go back and undo the secession from England, I just might. Back then, though, all I could see was the unlimited opportunities that seemed to lie ahead for us. And I wasn’t the only leader. There were six smaller countries whose leaders believed in a better life.

  However, pulling away from England is proving much more complicated than any of us envisioned. Sure, we formed a Council, where leadership helps guide all of the countries, but that guidance isn’t enough.

  The b
alance of trade and economic power is declining way too fast. Uniting and forming an entity similar to the European Union has been discussed by the Council, although full execution and proper achievement are years away.

  Sadly, the climate of my country, Marvella, is near ruin, and in need of a solution sooner rather than later. This country is on the brink of collapse.

  I agree with my people that something needs to be done right away. However, legalizing gambling is not the solution, and that is why I voted no. I want to make things better, not worse by jumping into evil and then watching as this country hits rock bottom in the process.

  Our eyes are glued to the chaos in the streets. “Should I order the police to put an end to this?” Asher asks.

  I nod my head. “Yes, and stay back to make certain no one gets hurt.”

  “Are you certain?” he asks.

  “Yes.”

  He looks to the driver. “Take the King around the city to the Palace, not through it.”

  The driver nods.

  Asher exits, and once I’m alone inside the car, I remind myself that Gandhi said it best. “Nonviolence is an intensely active force when properly understood and used.”

  In other words, it’s all about peace.

  Peace.

  A state that is so much more than a five-letter word. It is freedom from disturbance. It is tranquility, hope, prosperity, and the future.

  Too bad keeping the peace is impossible to do and even harder to maintain. Pleasing some of the people always means displeasing others. And because of this, unrest will never end. Disparity flairs up and dies down, depending on the issues at hand. Most of the time, decisions are made with the best of interests in mind. What no one takes the time to understand is that there is no crystal ball. Seeing into the future is genuinely impossible.

  Still, I want what is best. I am a good guy. Not all kings are. Too bad not everyone sees me that way.

  As we drive around, I notice more than the small fraction at Parliament are protesting. In fact, large groups have gathered to demonstrate their anger. They are beyond upset. They feel wronged by the decision I made. By their lack of a voice when it comes to the issues at hand. By the life they think they could lead if things were to change.

  If I’d voted yes and not no.

  If we were a democracy.

  But we’re not—we are a Monarchy. And I am the King of Marvella. I rule this land.

  Even as such, I didn’t anticipate the angry lynch-like mobs. Admittedly, I should have. However, I believe, in time, the people will understand that allowing this country to follow Monaco by legalizing gambling isn’t right for us.

  When the car pulls through the gates of the Palace, and I reach the stone steps, I can still hear the shouting from the streets, and it seems to be getting worse.

  Once I get inside, I call Asher and tell him, “Do what you must to put an end to this.”

  “Should I start with a curfew?” he asks.

  I glance at my watch. It’s almost eight. “Yes, mandate that everyone should be off the streets from nine to dusk.”

  “Yes, I will.”

  Turning on the television, I listen to the news, watch as reports of robberies, violence, and overall chaos consume the city.

  The streets turn quiet by ten, but I don’t retire to my living quarters where my family is. Something feels too relaxed about this, so I spend the night pacing and getting reports from Asher.

  The sun won’t be rising for another hour, and everyone in my house is asleep as I round the large oval desk in my office for the hundredth time. That’s when I see that outside the Palace gates, mobs of angry people have formed. It’s as if someone is leading a revolt by egging the people on, and trying to evoke further unrest.

  Just as I’m about to phone Asher again, my secretary enters the room shouting, “Your Royal Highness, you must read this!”

  I take what is offered and read the Post headline. “Rebels want to dethrone the royal family and abolish the Monarchy altogether.”

  I laugh at the absurd idea.

  It isn’t possible.

  The Monarchy’s forces are strong and can crush any small rebel factions in our midst. However, a civil war in any degree will always be frowned upon, and I feel I should do something to ease the rising tension and prevent this. “I will address the people at noon today and put an end to all of this madness.”

  “Pardon me, Your Majesty, but I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “I didn’t ask your opinion,” I tell him. “Arrange it.”

  “But sir—”

  “Now!” I interrupt, showing my secretary the door with a point of my finger.

  “Yes,” he says as he exits my office.

  The decision not to allow gambling is one that won’t be reversed. I won’t be pressured into doing something that isn’t right. The masses will have to learn to live with the no. They must understand gambling will never be a healthy and helpful past-time on this soil. Whether I rule or someone else does, it will bring an end to this country as we know it. Monaco is too close, too vibrant, and we can’t compete with them. We’d become dark and seedy, their evil stepchild.

  I will explain to my kingdom that we must do what we do best, and what we do best is excel in tourism for those looking to escape their crazy life. Luxe hotels, boutiques, elaborate parties—we already have the allure. We just need to bring the tourists back, and we can do so by shining a light on our secession and making everyone see it as a good thing.

  This is best for my people.

  I am not wrong.

  I know this with absolute certainty.

  Frustrated by yesterday’s events—the strikes, the rants, the demonstrations in the streets, I glance out the window again, but this time I feel more than a tinge of anxiety when the city suddenly goes dark before my eyes, and the castle does as well.

  Picking up the phone, I dial the newly named Prime Minister of Marvella, Isaac Brantley, and I am not surprised when the weasel doesn’t answer. He is most likely frolicking with my cousin, Countess Hawkins, and playing father to a boy who is not his son, legally anyway.

  I did not want that worm to take the newly open position in my court, but I had no choice. My cousin insisted and earned me some goodwill with Eastwood, as he is the brother to the Queen. Small concessions to keep the peace and all that shit.

  Just as I’m re-dialing, Asher comes stumbling through my door with his hand clenching his side.

  My blood goes cold as I rush over to him. “What has happened?” I ask. But he falls to the ground before he can respond. There is red staining his uniform. A lot of it—and blood is everywhere.

  “Your Royal Highness, you must flee right now,” he manages to say out loud.

  “Rubbish. I will do no such thing.”

  “You must. They are coming for you.”

  “Who?”

  “The rebels.”

  “We can handle rebels,” I tell him.

  “These aren’t just any rebels, they’re militia,” he says in a hoarse voice, and then his eyes roll back in his head.

  “Hang on. I’ll get help.”

  He shakes his head and takes a shuddering breath. “Leave, King Archibald,” are the last words he manages before he stops breathing.

  Militia?

  How did this happen?

  Where did they come from?

  For the first time in my life, I feel like things are out of my control. My forces might not be as strong as I thought them to be. Is the worst truly about to occur?

  “Guards,” I call.

  When no one responds, I race to the window. The rain has picked up in intensity, splattering off the cobblestones in the courtyard. Through the rain, all I can glimpse are the torchlights. But then the rain slows, and that’s when I see a crowd of angry men dressed in black, marching up the Palace steps. Then, a moment later, the dim light of their torches allows me to see my guards lying on the ground.

  They have all been slaughtere
d.

  Quickly scurrying to my desk, I scribe a letter and then run up the stairs as fast as my leather shoes will take me. Without thought, I wake my wife, gather our young son and nanny, and rush them to the secret escape tunnel. Opening the passage, I turn to my love. “Hurry to the boat and go to Catalina. King Caesar and Queen Agatha are trustworthy people. They will keep you safe.”

  “What about you?” she asks.

  I give her a slow nod. “I have to allow you time to flee.”

  “We won’t go without you,” she cries.

  “You must! I have to stay back and hold them off so all of you can escape safely.”

  “We will wait inside the tunnel then.”

  “No! You must go on ahead without me,” I insist. “I will catch up.”

  The rebels are getting closer. I can hear the marching of their boots inside the halls.

  Time is not on our side.

  Turning my attention to Oksana, our nanny, I offer her my small son and indicate that she should move into the dark space. “There are lanterns a few feet ahead. Use them only once the door has closed.”

  Understanding my words as an order, she nods.

  Gently, I take my Queen’s arm to guide her toward them, but she pulls back. Just then, a shot is fired from the hallway, and she starts to fall. Blood covers her white gown. All I can see is red. Grabbing for my weapon, I shoot until the rebel is dead, and then I turn to see my young son with his feet on the ground inside the dark passageway staring at the mangled body of his mother.

  I look at Oksana with grief in my heart. “Take Titan to Catalina, and tell King Caesar and Queen Agatha what happened. They will know what to do.”

  “What if they turn us away?” she cries.

  “They will not,” I assure her. “Give them this.” I hand her the folded paper that contains the letter I scribed stating my intentions.

  Accepting it, she nods.

  “Go,” I shout.

  Footsteps are loud behind me, and I know there are too many of them for me to fight alone.

  “I love you, my brave boy. Be strong. Someday you will make this right. Make this right for your country and your family,” I tell him.