Table Of ContentAlso by Emma Chase
THE LEGAL BRIEFS SERIES
Sidebarred
Appealed
Sustained
Overruled
THE TANGLED SERIES
It’s a Wonderful Tangled Christmas Carol
Tied
Tamed
Twisted
Tangled
Royally Screwed, Copyright © 2016 by Emma Chase
All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this
publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in
a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the
author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover Design: By Hang Le
Interior Book Design: Coreen Montagna
To Billy & Molly:
For every hilarious, sweet memory, every awesome, awful story,
for the laughter and love and for being the best big brother and little sister in the whole world.
Acknowledgments
It’s not always easy coming up with a new story idea. Every author wants to write something epic—an
entertaining, heartwarming book that will resonate with readers, with loveable, sexy, funny characters
that will stay with them long after The End.
But sometimes, inspiration takes a holiday, leaving a writer to flounder with the question: What
am I going to do next? The idea for Royally Screwed and the Royally Series was a few months in the
making. I’d had some thoughts about a few potential stories—even some outlines—but none of them
grabbed me by the throat and said, “This...this is the story you have to write.” A phone call with my
amazing agent, Amy Tannenbaum, changed that.I’ve often said that my first reading love was
historical romance, but my favorite stories to write are contemporary romances. And I, like most of
the public, am fascinated by the comings and goings of today’s modern royals—it’s such an elite,
unique form of celebrity (and the babies are adorable!!). During my brainstorming session with Amy,
those passions and interests created the perfect storm of inspiration . . . and Royally Screwed was born.
In the days that followed, I went on a writing bender. Frantically jotting down notes and outlines
and little snippets of dialogue, not just for Royally Screwed—but for the books that will follow. That’s
not usually how I work. Typically, I’m consumed by one story—one couple’s journey—and
everything else fades to the background. But for this series, I fell completely in love with all the
couples—every character—the entire world was a fantastic combination of realism and fictional.
There was just so much to sink my writing teeth into.
First and foremost, there was the romance—the exciting, entertaining, exhilarating journey of two
people finding each other, falling in love and overcoming every obstacle that gets in their way. But
there were other themes too—the intrusive public thirst to know every detail of a public figure’s life,
the idea of family obligation and the sacrifices we make for the people we love. The captivating idea
of modern day royalty— these attractive, wealthy but also typical twenty-something’s who are bound
by rules and traditions that are literally centuries old.
I’m thrilled with how Royally Screwed turned out. I can’t wait for you to meet Nicholas and
Olivia, and the group of friends and family that surround them. I can’t wait to finish writing Royally
Matched and Royally Endowed, so I can continue to share with you the world and characters that I’ve
fallen head over heels in love with.
Inspiration can be tricky—but if you’re lucky, you have people around who’ll help you cultivate
and re ne it. I’m very lucky.
And so, as always, I’m grateful to my agent, Amy Tannenbaum and everyone at the Jane Rotrosen
Agency for your constant support and guidance and for working so hard to bring my books to
fruition.
Thanks to my publicist, Danielle Sanchez and everyone at InkSlinger PR—it’s been a joy working
with you.
Thanks to my assistant Juliet Fowler who’s always on the ball and is so good at everything she
does.
Huge thanks to Gitte Doherty, of TotallyBooked, for always making me smile and for helping me
make Nicholas a swoony, sexy, not-American sounding beast!
I’m sure I’m not alone in thanking Hang Le of By Hang Le designs for this absolutely gorgeous
cover and for all her beautiful graphics. Much gratitude to Coreen Montagna for your terrific work.
All my thanks and hugs to Nina Bocci, Katy Evans, K. Bromberg, Marie Force, Lauren Blakely
and all my fabulous, awesome author friends!! It’s always reassuring to know I’m not crazy—but the
life of a writer often is.
On that note, love and gratitude to my family—for your patience and understanding,
encouragement and unending support. Thank you for putting up with me, I know it’s not always easy.
And to my stupendous, wonderful readers—I love you guys!!! Your support and excitement is
humbling and you make this writing business all the more joyful. Thank you for sticking with me
from book to book, series to series.
Now . . . go dive in and get Royally Screwed! xoxo
Table of Contents
Title Page
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Epilogue
Coming Soon
MY VERY FIRST MEMORY isn’t all that different from anyone else’s. I was three years old and it
was my first day of preschool. For some reason, my mother ignored the fact that I was actually a boy
and dressed me in God-awful overalls, a frilly cuffed shirt and patent-leather brogues. I planned to
smear finger paint on the outfit the first chance I got.
But that’s not what stands out most in my mind.
By then, spotting a camera lens pointed my way was as common as seeing a bird in the sky. I
should’ve been used to it—and I think I was. But that day was different.
Because there were hundreds of cameras.
Lining every inch of the sidewalk and the streets, and clustered together at the entrance of my
school like a sea of one-eyed monsters, waiting to pounce. I remember my mother’s voice, soothing
and constant as I clung to her hand, but I couldn’t make out her words. They were drowned out by the
roar of snapping shutters and the shouts of photographers calling my name.
“Nicholas! Nicholas, this way, smile now! Look up, lad! Nicholas, over here!”
It was the first inkling I’d had that I was—that we were—different. In the years after, I’d learn just
how different my family is. Internationally renowned, instantly recognizable, our everyday activities
headlines in the making.
Fame is a strange thing. A powerful thing. Usually it ebbs and flows like a tide. People get swept
up in it, swamped by it, but eventually the notoriety recedes, and the former object of its affection is
reduced to someone who used to be someone, but isn’t anymore.
That will never happen to me. I was known before I was born and my name will be blazoned in
history long after I’m dust in the ground. Infamy is temporary, celebrity is fleeting, but royalty…
royalty is forever.
ONE WOULD THINK, as accustomed as I am to being watched, that I wouldn’t be effected by the
sensation of someone staring at me while I sleep.
One would be wrong.
My eyes spring open, to see Fergus’s scraggly, crinkled countenance just inches from my face.
“Bloody hell!”
It’s not a pleasant view.
His one good eye glares disapprovingly, while the other—the wandering one—that my brother
and I always suspected wasn’t lazy at all, but a freakish ability to see everything at once, gazes toward
the opposite side of the room.
Every stereotype starts somewhere, with some vague but lingering grain of truth. I’ve long
suspected the stereotype of the condescending, cantankerous servant began with Fergus.
God knows the wrinkled bastard is old enough.
He straightens up at my bedside, as much as his hunched, ancient spine will let him. “Took you
long enough to wake up. You think I don’t have better things to do? Was just about to kick you.”
He’s exaggerating. About having better things to do—not the plan to kick me.
I love my bed. It was an eighteenth birthday gift from the King of Genovia. It’s a four-column,
gleaming piece of art, hand-carved in the sixteenth century from one massive piece of Brazilian
mahogany. My mattress is stuffed with the softest Hungarian goose feathers, my Egyptian cotton
sheets have a thread count so high it’s illegal in some parts of the world, and all I want to do is to roll
over and bury myself under them like a child determined not to get up for school.
But Fergus’s raspy warning grates like sandpaper on my eardrums.
“You’re supposed to be in the green drawing room in twenty-five minutes.”
And ducking under the covers is no longer an option. They won’t save you from machete-
wielding psychopaths…or a packed schedule.
