A/N: Inspired by the incredible love story of the Duke and Duchess of Sussex.

Washington, DC—2015

"Your review could ruin me. You didn't even give us a chance. It was a bad night overall. We had employees who called out at the last minute, shipments that were not delivered on time…You can't call it the worst service and food you've ever eaten when you've only gone there once!"

"Angela, I went back twice and each time…I'm sorry to say but things didn't improve. I took everything you said into consideration, and I always frequent a restaurant more than once to make sure it wasn't just a fluke, that I hadn't gone on a night the chef who actually cared about making a masterpiece had been working, and that the restaurant hadn't been tipped off about a critic skulking around.

"The soufflé was not airy as it should have been. It was heavy and thick and I think it gave me ingestion. The braised lamb was tough, dry, and chewy. The cheesecake had a funny smell to it and even after an experimental taste it turned my stomach. The service wasn't much better. I had to ask another server to find my waiter and when he finally showed up to my table, he barely looked at me and spoke to me like I was a waste of his time. The other two servers I had on the different nights I came were a little more personable but not by much. Doing the bare minimum. Yet I saw them speaking enthusiastically with white patrons."

"Are you implying my servers are…?"

"Yep," she cut her off. "Dining while black is a real thing. People who look like me have recounted dining experiences where they expressed receiving poor service because of generalized stereotypes about black people not tipping. I've even spoken with actual servers who have heard comments from their coworkers when they have black patrons that they're not going to make any money. It's infuriating some still live with the myth that black people don't tip when generally we over tip as to avoid falling into that stereotype. Yeah, Angela your servers took one look at me and thought I'd give them pocket change, if that, and in return I got pocket change service."

Needless to say Angela Hardborough was pink in the face.

Bonnie Bennett, food critic extraordinaire swiveled from side to side minutely and waited for the water works or daggers in the form of derogatory words to be hurled straight for her heart. She even expected Angela to stomp her foot and storm out.

What she got was Angela rising to her full height and saying coldly, "I thought we were friends."

"We are friends and that's why I'm being honest."

"If you were truly my friend you'd want the restaurant to succeed; not try to rip it to shreds!"

"You want your friends to lie you? Is that what you want?"

"When it comes to my goals, yes!"

Bonnie bit her lips. Angela blinked. A beat of awkward silence passed before they both dissolved into laughter.

Angela paced back and forth worrying her forehead with agitated fingers. Finally she flung herself into the guest chair. She sighed and in that sigh it seemed she was releasing months of pent up frustration. "You're right. The food sucks. We've changed chefs three times since opening. Our staff is more interested in acting like they're being filmed for a reality show than working. Don't get me started on our vendors and the crates of rotten food we've had to throw out. It's a mess, Bonnie. I could be an entertainment director on a cruise ship but noooo. I let my irresponsible brother convince me to open a restaurant knowing seventy-five percent of restaurants fail."

"Then absorb this criticism, use it to light a fire under your ass, and fall into the twenty-five percent of restaurants that succeed. You have the goods. You just need to find the right ingredients to make it work."

"That's easy to say."

"It can also be easy to do if you honestly want it to work."

"Yeah," Angela murmured in quiet agreement. "I will take what you said under advisement and go from there. Thank you," she said grudgingly.

"You're more than welcome."

"So what's next on your agenda? Who or what are you about to praise or end with your scythe?"

Bonnie fiddled with the mouse on her MacBook, letting her green eyes drift to the article she had been reading for research on the next destination of her international cuisine tour. "A few critics and I have been invited to taste the delicacies created by Master Chef Leandro Esposito who is chef of the Pallas royal family."

"Pallas? Where the hell is that?"

"Somewhere around the Mediterranean. It's a very tiny country. Their total population is less than a million but has a long and rich history, trade of silks and minerals being their biggest cash cow back in the day. Now their revenue comes mostly from tourism. It's a party country for the English aristocrats, and anyone who makes seven figures or more. I leave in two days and I haven't even finished packing."

"So wait a minute," Angela sat up, interest piqued, "you're about to jet off to a foreign country that's a monarchy and you're just now telling me about it?"

"Well, I just found out a couple of days ago. At first I thought it was a joke until I Goggled the place. It's legit. I don't even know how or why I was selected but I'm not about to look a gift horse in the mouth."

"Are you going to be dining in at the palace?"

Bonnie shook her head. "No, Chef Esposito has his own restaurant. We'll be convening there."

Angela nodded. Soon though a look of wicked calculation came over her features that made Bonnie furrow her brows. "Have you looked up the royal family?"

Shrugging, Bonnie opened up the tab she bookmarked, then swiveled her laptop toward her friend who leaned closer. She watched Angela who examined each member of the Pallian royal family. Saw her friend's eyes grow bigger in increments as she went down the line. Held in a giggle when Angela's mouth plopped open, but was curious as to which of the princes had her drooling.

"Take me with you," she begged. "Please? I could use a vacation."

Bonnie turned her laptop back around. "Nope, you have your livelihood you need to save."

"Well can you at least slip my number to one of the princes?"

"I doubt I'll even come across them. I'm only going to be there for two days."

"Then find some way to make those two days count, Bon. Don't leave there empty-handed."

"I'll be leaving there with a full belly."

Angela twisted her lips, "If I were you I'd try to leave with a full uterus."

Bonnie guffawed and shook her head.

Five minutes later, she was alone in her office scribbling down furious notes. Stuffing the cap of her pen in her mouth, she tapped a beat on her desk with her fingers, thinking. She opened up the bookmarked page and enlarged the picture she often found herself coming back to.

One by one she studied them.

The stone faced patriarch that with his angles she knew he used to be a knock out when he was younger, and that was proven in his progeny. Next came the matriarch and her ice blue eyes that seemed almost colorless; but you could see her regality. The oldest son stood beside his mother who was a perfect blend of his parents, serious faced but gorgeous. Next to him his brother who was about a hair shorter, sharing his mother's fierce expression and eyes. And finally the younger one who, upon first glance looked adopted. His hair was lighter, he was darker in complexion, and she was unsure about his eye color. But he was just as good looking as his older brothers.

The royal family of Pallas painted a sublime picture of genetics, privilege, and maybe even something of magic. They brought a romanticized glamour that probably hid many dark and ugly secrets, but those secrets were hard to find in the cut of the men's military dress uniforms, and the Queen's beautiful gown.

Nevertheless, Bonnie's gaze wouldn't stop straying to the middle prince. She allowed herself to fantasize for one moment. The two of them meeting, sparks flying, a worldwind romance ensuing that rocked the foundations that upheld long-standing beliefs, walks down the center of a gothic chapel older than any building she's ever stepped in, millions watching across the globe.

It didn't take long for reality to set in. More than likely all the princes, apart from the oldest, he was already married, probably had their future brides picked out. Even more than likely they didn't look a thing like her.

No, she would just go and enjoy the food. She wasn't a little girl anymore. She was too old and practical to think of being swept off her feet by Prince Charming. Fantasies were better off only existing in the mind.

::::

Hood drawn over his head he swept inside the security tight palace not slowing down or breaking stride as he bounded up the stairs taking them two at a time, his feet making hardly a sound on the plush royal blue carpet. Inwardly he seethed because he hated being summoned. There was no other way around describing what it felt like to be pulled away from his private affairs to deal with matters of state aka, his behavior. Many might be blinded by the pomp and circumstance that ruled his life, the pageantry, the uniforms, the tiaras and crowns, but it was a gilded prison. Being your own person was akin to treason; speaking your mind could make you a head shorter, and disregarding tradition and protocol could lead to excommunication. Being the favorite among the people made him the pariah of his family.

He believed he could give it all up for a good reason. One had just never presented itself.

He marched past the gold-plated portrait frames of family members that extended back some hundred years. Refused to acknowledge the heavenly mirage painted on the ceiling that heralded his arrival. Said nothing to the guards in their livery posted outside the doors they thrust open permitting him inside the private office of his parents.

Sitting there on the couch was his mother and hovering by the windows was his father. King and Queen in all their state.

"You got me here now what do you want?" His Royal Highness Prince Damon Salvatore barked imprudently, pushing the hood of his sweatshirt off his head.

His father, the reigning monarch pivoted from the window in a pair of obscenely expensive loafers, a crystal tumbler of brandy in his hand. "Is that anyway to talk to your parents?"

"If you broke out the King's Guard to track me down to discuss my future then you've wasted everyone's time. I'm not changing my mind."

"Damon, you have to be reasonable," his mother Queen Lily implored. "We just want the best for you."

"We'll get to that in a minute," his dad interrupted. "Sit down. We need to have a talk about the latest incident that's caught the media's attention."

"It's all been resolved," Damon rolled his eyes. "We've reached a settlement."

"You shouldn't have been fighting in the first place and over a girl at that," Lily reminded him with an imperious arch of her brow.

"If someone disrespected you wouldn't you want dad to defend you?"

"Sit. Down," Lily completely ignored his question.

Damon rocked on his heels for a moment before acquiescing. He sat adjacent to his mother, keeping the king in his line of sight.

"I'm capable of defending myself, Damon," Lily resumed. "Even if your father wasn't king, the last thing I'd want is him or my sons fighting like an idiot in the street.

"Our family is constantly under pressure to dissolve the monarchy and become a truly democratic nation. Dynasties such as ours don't hold a lot of weight on the stage of the world. We have very little political power so any time one of us makes a stupid decision like fighting in public, it reflects poorly on everyone. Your older brother is on his way to becoming a father. The country should be focused on that and not on who has met the wrong end of your fist."

Damon breathed evenly though his heart was pounding. He was pushing thirty and still being talked to like a child but he knew he deserved it since his temper got away from him at the worst possible times. He didn't always think before he acted…or spoke. The people of Pallas knew him as the temperamental prince, the one with the short fuse but the dashing good looks. He had hundreds of social media pages dedicated to him, but on the world scale was still relatively unknown and he liked it that way. His older brother Anatoly, the crowned prince, had married last year to a woman he was beginning to hate, but his nuptials had drawn the world's attention and for two seconds put Pallas on the map. Since then there had been the occasional outside journalist poking around wondering when the next two princes Damon and Stefan would marry.

If he could get away with it, Damon would remain the middle child bachelor.

Yet he knew that was impossible. He might not believe everyone was born with a predetermined destiny, he knew his parents had exhausted themselves planning his and his brothers' futures, grooming them. From daycare to play groups to sports, schools and colleges, their parents had chosen, vetted, and sealed their decisions by royal decree. The few things the brothers had any say on was who they dated, but even then their mother suggested young ladies they should be seen with at least once or twice. Stefan and Anatoly had fallen into line while he bucked it. Damon was aware he never stood a chance of ruling nor did he want the responsibility. He should have had a bit more freedom, but being the spare didn't always mean he could do as he pleased.

Not entirely.

He slumped against his seat, knowing he had no choice but to heel. "All right. So what do I have to do to appease the crown?"

"I'm so glad you asked," Lily picked up one of the royal dossiers that had been sitting in plain sight on the table. She extended it to her son.

Damon took it and read the single sheet of paper inside. His brow folded as he looked up at his parents, his father seemingly having lost all interest in the conversation. "You want me to cohost an event Chef Esposito is throwing at his restaurant?"

"Yes. The chef has invited food critics from all over, many of them influential in his or her respective country or community, and some financiers. Now that the weather is turning, tourism is dropping but maybe this will give us a boost through the New Year."

"I do this and all is forgiven?"

"Well," Giuseppe finally reentered the tête-à-tête, "not quite all is forgiven. You'll have to make a formal, public apology, and…you'll have to give up the girl."

"What?!" Damon shot to his feet. "I'm not getting rid of her."

"Oh, come on, son!" Giuseppe roared. There he was, Damon thought with a curl of his lip. The dictator, the tyrant. Giuseppe's olive skin began to darken. "The girl has shit for brains. She's a piece of trash and you know it and that's the only reason you're dating her."

Damon's smile was chilly and arrogant. "Yet that hasn't stopped you from checking out her ass and tits when I bring her around for tea."

"All right, that's enough," Lily pushed to her feet as well, cheeks coloring over. No woman wanted to be reminded of her husband's wandering eye. "Damon, you have your marching orders. Be there tomorrow night and on time. Be gracious to our guests and don't embarrass us. I'll speak with you shortly."

Eyes still on his father, Damon gave a perfunctory bow, and left.

He wasn't surprised that as soon as the doors shut behind him, his private secretary was there waiting. She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose, clasping her trusty tablet and portfolio to her chest.

Damon glanced at her as she fell in step exactly one pace behind him in her kitten heels. "Rose," he said.

"Your highness."

"How much of that did you overhear?"

"Enough, but then again I knew it was coming."

"Of course."

"I'm sending you the list of guests who will be at Esposito's," her fingers flew over her tablet and a second later Damon felt his phone vibrate. "The event begins promptly at seven. Your car will be 'round to escort you at 6:30 where you will arrive no later than 6:40 where cocktail hour will be winding down."

Sighing, Damon pulled out his phone and opened up the list, scrolling through names and faces. He knew without having to be told that it was his job to memorize the attendees and at least one personal fact about them. Rose was still droning on as he led the way to his apartment on the estate when he flew by one particular invitee that had him scrolling back to get a second and more thorough look.

He read her name and stats. American. Food critic with some six hundred thousand subscribers on one social media platform alone. Two degrees, one in media arts and the other in journalism. Educated. Alluring, soul searing green eyes. Beautiful smile. Just plain…beautiful.

Damon couldn't stop staring.

He walked straight into a wall.

"Your highness!" Rose was beside him, petting him, checking for injury.

Damon brushed her off, though he rubbed the spot his head connected with the wall. "I'm all right."

"Are you sure because you walked into the wall pretty hard."

"I'm fine," he grumbled. His cheeks and ears began burning in embarrassment. "I um, I need to make a request. My parents want me at this thing then I need her seated at my table," he showed the profile on his phone.

Rose stifled a smile. "So Ms. Louden won't be your plus one?" Damon merely gave her a look. "I'll see that it's arranged."

"Good," he maneuvered down the appropriate corridor. "Oh and…send her a car."

"Sir?" that request threw Rose for a loop. "You want to send one of the palace vehicles?"

"No, one of my cars. See that it's done discreetly, Rose. I'm counting on you."

:::::

Everything happened on warp speed from the moment her airplane landed and she was taxied to her hotel. She had enough time to shower, throw on her dress that had been loaned to her by a designer friend, do her makeup, and pin her hair to the side.

When she stepped out on the cobblestone sidewalk to hail a taxi, Bonnie saw a sign with her name on it. Frowning, she approached the suited gentleman who stood next to a sleek luxury vehicle with completely blacked out windows.

"Signora Bonnie Bennett," the driver addressed her with a very distinct accent.

"Yes, that's me."

"Please allow me to be your escort for the evening. My name is Laurencio. Pleased to meet you."

"Umm…" she let out a nervous laugh. "It's a pleasure to meet you as well. Did Chef Esposito arrange this?"

"No, ma'am but someone close to the chef who cares very much that you have an excellent and memorable experience," Laurencio moved to the rear of the car and opened the door. "Please?"

Bonnie was still unsure. This man could be a sex trafficker for all she knew. She hadn't hid the fact she would be traveling for a dining experience with a royal chef, though she kept mum about the exact location for security reasons. She wouldn't reveal that until she was back and could edit her footage. Therefore no one apart from her close friends, Chef Esposito and his staff should know she was here.

As if he sensed her unease, Laurencio softened his features. He had a stern face by creation that was hardened after serving three tours of war. "On pain of death I've been sworn to see to your safety every step of the way. I mean you no ill-will."

"Pain of death, hun?" Bonnie sauntered closer, adding a bit more spring to her step. "I've only heard that expression being used by royals." It was a leading observation that was met with a wall of silence. "You promise to get me there and back with no detours?"

Laurencio nodded. "I give you my word."

In return, Bonnie gave him a sidelong glance before sliding into the car. The door was closed with a soft thump and two seconds later, Laurencio was pulling away from her hotel.

On the drive to the venue Bonnie was able to take in the beautiful seaside capital of Pallas. The colorful residences jutting from rolling hills, the tight streets teeming with pedestrians, the music that could be heard nearly everywhere, and the occasional obelisk that marked where a significant and ancient structure used to be. She could honestly see herself moving here one day when she was done with the hustle, bustle, and politics of Washington DC.

Just as he promised, Laurencio got her to the venue in short order. She waited as he bounded the long hood of the luxury sedan and opened her door, presenting his hand for her to take so he could assist her out of the car. She might not come across any member of the royal family, but the minute her stiletto hit the rolled out red carpet that led to a breathtaking building made of stone and glass, Bonnie felt like royalty.

There was some press jumbled together separated from storming arriving guests by velvet rope. She was a bit surprised when a photographer or two called her name. She smiled, posed for a picture before shuffling inside.

Nirvana was the first word to pop into Bonnie's mind when she cleared the entrance after her invitation had been checked by security. Heaven came next as she sampled the champagne and hor d'oeuvres that burst endless flavor into her mouth. And then…an earthquake when those seated at her table suddenly clamored to their feet.

Bonnie looked around in confusion for a moment until she looked to her left and slowly her gazed traveled up.

It took a minute for her to realize who she was looking at. The pieces were there but they didn't register or make sense. For how could it make sense when she had never seen a pair of blue eyes like that before in real life? How could she convince herself any part of him was real? Because real men or mostly the men she encountered didn't have that chiseled of a jawline, nor that straight of a nose, or hair that glossy and black that was somewhat of a chaotic mess but didn't make him look sloppy. They certainly did not look like they leapt off the pages of a Disney fairytale book. They looked ordinary, handsome in a way that had to be manipulated either surgically or with styling. This man was classically and brutally fucking gorgeous.

"Your highness," those gathered at her table chorused.

And she was still sitting there. On her ass. Gawking.

The real astonishing thing was, he hadn't stopped looking at her in return.

He stretched out a hand. Bonnie automatically took it and, with as little pressure as possible, he pulled her to her feet.

She almost swallowed her saliva down her windpipe when he raised her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. Her heart was a thundering beat in her ribcage.

There was a collective gasp and just as Bonnie suspected every single eye in the room was on them.

But she didn't care. She felt something very significant happening while at the same time she was losing something, but she couldn't for the life of her say what it was.

And again she didn't care. She'd figure it out later.

Damon kissed her hand again. "Welcome to my kingdom."

Welcome to the first day of the rest of your life.

A/N: Like? Hate? Intrigued? Indifferent? Thank you for reading in any capacity. Please drop me some feedback.