Arms crossed, he sinks further in his chair. “I would have been a better Prince.” It’s impossible to look at this imposing, ornery, moping figure before me and see anything more than an angry little boy. In fact, the more I look around me, I see it in most of them. Matt Kramus looks harried and uncomfortable, tugging at his collar. Loeffler hasn’t even glanced up from his phone since he sat down. I even see it in my own men, Wicker fidgeting with a fork so hard that he accidentally flings it into his champagne flute, the glass shattering. Without missing a beat, he covers the mess with his
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