Picture yourself going on a much-needed European vacation to the country of your
ancestors. You’re getting off the airplane, and the red carpet is odd, but not
alarming. Except, the hot guy in the fancy uniform waiting at the end, in front
of a line of guards, is not head of security.
He is a prince.
Now try not to let your chin drop when he tells you that your parents had
promised him your hand in marriage before they died --when you were still a child.
He whisks you away in the royal ceremonial limousine before you can get your
bearings. And by the time you manage to tell him that under no circumstances
will you be entering an arranged marriage with a stranger, you are both
kidnapped by anti-monarchy rebels.
You don’t know the country’s politics, you don’t know the lay of the land, you
don’t speak the local dialects. You only have one chance for survival: you must
trust your life to the prince.
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