Dan Brown - Origin

“My father has always been a romantic,” he said, speaking Spanish and looking directly into the camera to address the viewers. “When my mother died, he never stopped loving her. I inherited his romanticism, and I believe when a man finds love, he knows in an instant.” He looked at Ambra and smiled warmly. “And so...” Julián stepped back and faced her.

When Ambra realized what was about to happen, she felt paralyzed with disbelief. NO! Julián! What are you doing?

Without warning, the crown prince of Spain was suddenly kneeling down before her. “Ambra Vidal, I am asking you not as a prince, but simply as a man in love.” He looked up at her with misty eyes, and the cameras wheeled around to get a close-up of his face. “I love you. Will you marry me?”

The audience and the show’s hosts all gasped in joy, and Ambra could feel millions of eyes around the country focusing intently on her. Blood rushed to her face, and the lights felt suddenly scalding hot on her skin. Her heart began to pound wildly as she stared down at Julián, a thousand thoughts racing through her head.

How could you put me in this position?! We’ve only recently met! There are things I haven’t told you about myself... things that could change everything!

Ambra had no idea how long she had stood in silent panic, but finally one of the hosts gave an awkward laugh and said, “I believe Ms. Vidal is in a trance! Ms. Vidal? A handsome prince is kneeling before you and professing his love before the entire world!”

Ambra searched her mind for some graceful way out. All she heard was silence, and she knew she was trapped. There was only one way this public moment could end. “I’m hesitating because I can’t believe this fairy tale has a happy ending.” She relaxed her shoulders and smiled warmly down at Julián. “Of course I will marry you, Prince Julián.”

The studio erupted in wild applause.

Julián stood up and took Ambra in his arms. As they embraced, she realized that they had never shared a long hug before this moment.

Ten minutes later, the two were sitting in the back of his limousine.

“I can see I startled you,” Julián said. “I’m sorry. I was trying to be romantic. I have strong feelings for you, and—”

“Julián,” Ambra interrupted forcefully, “I have strong feelings for you too, but you put me in an impossible position back there! I never imagined you would propose so quickly! You and I barely know each other. There are so many things I need to tell you — important things about my past.”

“Nothing in your past matters.”

“This might matter. A lot. ”

He smiled and shook his head. “I love you. It won’t matter. Try me.”

Ambra studied the man before her. Okay, then. This was most certainly not how she had wanted this conversation to go, but he had given her no choice. “Well, here it is, Julián. When I was a little girl, I had a terrible infection that almost killed me.”

“Okay.”

As Ambra spoke, she felt a deep emptiness welling up inside her. “And the result was that my life’s dream of having children... well, it can only be a dream.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Julián,” she said flatly. “I can’t have children. My childhood health problems left me infertile. I’ve always wanted children, but I am unable to have any of my own. I’m sorry. I know how important that is to you, but you’ve just proposed to a woman who cannot give you an heir.”

Julián went white.

Ambra locked eyes with him, willing him to speak. Julián, this is the moment when you hold me close and tell me everything’s okay. This is the moment you tell me it doesn’t matter, and that you love me anyway.

And then it happened.

Julián shifted away from her ever so slightly.

In that instant, Ambra knew it was over.

The Guardia’s division of electronic security is located in a windowless warren of rooms on the subterranean level of the Royal Palace. Intentionally isolated from the palace’s vast Guardia barracks and armory, the division’s headquarters consists of a dozen computer cubicles, one telephone switchboard, and a wall of security monitors. The eight-person staff — all under the age of thirty-five — is responsible for providing secure communication networks for the staff of the Royal Palace and the Guardia Real, as well as handling electronic surveillance support for the physical palace itself.

Tonight, as always, the basement suite of rooms was stuffy, reeking of microwaved noodles and popcorn. The fluorescent lights hummed loudly.

This is where I asked them to put my office , Martín thought.

Although “public relations coordinator” was technically not a Guardia post, Martín’s job required access to powerful computers and a tech-savvy staff; thus, the division of electronic security had seemed a far more logical home for her than an underequipped office upstairs.

Tonight , Martín thought, I will need every bit of technology available.

For the past few months, her primary focus had been to help the palace stay on message during the gradual transfer of power to Prince Julián. It had not been easy. The transition between leaders had provided an opportunity for protesters to speak out against the monarchy.

According to the Spanish constitution, the monarchy stood as “a symbol of Spain’s enduring unity and permanence.” But Martín knew there had been nothing unified about Spain for some time now. In 1931, the Second Republic had marked the end of the monarchy, and then the putsch of General Franco in 1936 had plunged the country into civil war.

Today, although the reinstated monarchy was considered a liberal democracy, many liberals continued to denounce the king as an outdated vestige of an oppressive religio-military past, as well as a daily reminder that Spain still had a way to go before it could fully join the modern world.

Mónica Martín’s messaging this month had included the usual portrayals of the king as a beloved symbol who held no real power. Of course, it was a tough sell when the sovereign was commander in chief of the armed forces as well as head of state.

Head of state , Martín mused, in a country where separation between church and state has always been controversial. The ailing king’s close relationship with Bishop Valdespino had been a thorn in the side of secularists and liberals for many years.

And then there is Prince Julián , she thought.

Martín knew she owed her job to the prince, but he certainly had been making that job more difficult recently. A few weeks ago, the prince had made the worst PR blunder Martín had ever witnessed.

On national television, Prince Julián had gotten down on his knees and made a ludicrous proposal to Ambra Vidal. The excruciating moment could not have been any more awkward unless Ambra had declined to marry him, which, fortunately, she had the good sense not to do.

Unfortunately, in the aftermath, Ambra Vidal had revealed herself to be more of a handful than Julián had anticipated, and the fallout from her extracurricular behavior this month had become one of Martín’s primary PR concerns.

Tonight, however, Ambra’s indiscretions seemed all but forgotten. The tidal wave of media activity generated by the events in Bilbao had swelled to an unprecedented magnitude. In the past hour, a viral proliferation of conspiracy theories had taken the world by storm, including several new hypotheses involving Bishop Valdespino.

The most significant development concerned the Guggenheim assassin, who had been given access to Kirsch’s event “on orders of someone inside the Royal Palace.” This damning bit of news had unleashed a deluge of conspiracy theories accusing the bedridden king and Bishop Valdespino of conspiring to murder Edmond Kirsch — a virtual demigod in the digital world, and a beloved American hero who had chosen to live in Spain.