Twisted-Games

However, the condition didn’t have a cure and he would need to make major
lifestyle changes to reduce his stress levels if he didn’t want a more serious
incident in the future.
I could only imagine Edvard’s response to that. He was a workaholic if
there ever was one.
The doctors kept him in the hospital another three days for monitoring.
They’d wanted to keep him a week, but he refused. He said it would be bad
for public morale, and he needed to get back to work. And when the king
wanted something, no one refused him.
After he returned home, Nikolai and I tried our best to convince him to
offload some responsibilities to his advisors, but he kept brushing us off.
Three weeks later, we were still at an impasse, and I was at my wits’ end.
“He’s being stubborn.” I couldn’t keep the frustration out of my voice as I
guided my horse toward the back of the palace grounds. Edvard, sick of both
Nikolai and I nagging him to heed the doctor’s warnings, had all but kicked
us out of the palace for the afternoon. Get some sun, he said. And leave me to
stress in peace. Nikolai and I had not been amused. “He should at least cut
back on the late-night calls.”
“You know how Grandfather is.” Nikolai came up beside me on his own
horse, his hair tousled from the wind. “He’s more stubborn than you are.”
“You, calling me stubborn? That’s rich,” I scoffed. “If I recall correctly,
you’re the one who went on a hunger strike for three days because
Grandfather wouldn’t let you skydive with your friends.”
Nikolai grinned. “It worked, didn’t it? He caved before day three was
over.” My brother was the spitting image of our father—wheat-colored hair,
blue eyes, square jaw—and sometimes, the resemblance was so strong it
made my heart hurt. “Besides, that was nothing compared to your insistence
on living in America. Is our home country really that abhorrent?”
There it is. Nothing like a beautiful fall day with a side of guilt. “You
know that’s not why.”
“Bridget, I can count the number of times you’ve been home in the past
five years on one hand. I don’t see any other explanation.”
“You know I miss you and Grandfather. It’s just…every time I’m
home…” I tried to think of the best way to phrase it. “I’m under a
microscope. Every single thing I do, wear, and say is dissected. I swear, the
tabloids could turn me breathing wrong into a story. But in the U.S., no one
cares as long as I don’t do anything crazy. I can just be normal. Or as normal