𝑅𝑂𝑌𝐴𝐿 𝑆𝑇𝐴𝑁𝐷𝐴𝑅𝐷𝑆 ~𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑒𝑛

Chapter 11: light tensions

Max had always imagined that getting fired would come with some dramatic flair. Maybe a confrontation, a bit of shouting, or at least someone dramatically flipping a desk. But no, it was much worse.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

The morning started out fairly normal—well, as normal as it could be when your job involved babysitting a prince with the subtlety of a wrecking ball. Max had just finished his coffee and was scrolling through the news (mostly to see if Charles had made the headlines for their recent adventure), when there was a soft knock at his door.

“Max Verstappen?” A voice came from the other side, muffled but stern.

Max frowned. He wasn’t expecting anyone, and the last time someone knocked that seriously, Charles had convinced a kitchen maid to smuggle him pastries at 2 a.m. “Yeah?”

The door opened, and in stepped Sir Reginald, the head of palace security—who, despite his very British name, had a face like a bulldog chewing on a lemon. His expression was grim, which was impressive since Max had only ever seen him grim. It was like his default setting.

“His Majesty requests your presence. Immediately.”

Max blinked. “His Majesty? As in, the King?”

Reginald didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. “Yes. And do hurry. It’s rather… urgent.”

That definitely didn’t sound good.

Max stood up, trying to piece together what exactly could be so urgent that the King himself wanted to see him. Had Charles done something stupid again? Highly likely. Maybe he tried to sneak into a nightclub dressed as a normal person, or worse, maybe he attempted another one of those “secret excursions” that always ended with either a public scandal or a near-arrest.

“Okay, I’ll head over,” Max said, grabbing his jacket.

Reginald nodded, still stone-faced, and walked out of the room without another word.

---

The King’s office was exactly what Max expected: all dark wood, luxurious furniture, and an air of “I’m in charge, and you better not forget it.” It smelled faintly of expensive cigars, despite the fact that Max was pretty sure no one actually smoked in here. Probably just for effect.

Max stood awkwardly in the center of the room, trying not to make too much noise as his shoes squeaked on the polished floor.

And then there was His Majesty. King Hervé, Charles’ father, sat behind a massive desk, looking every bit the regal monarch in a perfectly tailored suit. His graying hair was neatly combed, and his sharp eyes fixed on Max like he was sizing him up for a duel.

“I believe you know why you’re here, Mr. Verstappen,” King Hervé said without preamble.

Max blinked. “I, uh—actually, no?”

The King’s eyes narrowed. “Do you read the papers, Mr. Verstappen?”

Max’s heart dropped. Oh no.

“I… skim them,” Max said carefully, because admitting that he had actively avoided the news in case of any mention of Charles was probably not a great idea right now.

King Hervé reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a newspaper, slapping it down on the desk in front of him. The headline was impossible to miss.

"PRINCE CHARLES SPOTTED RUNNING THROUGH TOWN WITH BODYGUARD IN TOW—A ROYAL ESCAPADE!"

Max stared at the headline, feeling a bead of sweat form on his forehead. There was even a grainy photo of Charles mid-sprint, looking like a kid running away from a responsibility he didn’t want to deal with. Right behind him was Max, looking like he’d just signed up for a marathon against his will.