Instead, he stood with his broad back to the floor-to-ceiling windows, glaring at the sweating man who stood in front of him. “So let me get this straight,” he said, his voice silky soft. “I am set to report for…some kind of reality show next week. Is that right?” His assistant nodded. Apolo realized with a kind of grim satisfaction that the man was terrified, and if he knew what was good for him, he would continue to be terrified. “Yes, your highness,” the assistant said. “The…the papers are all signed. Your signature is on them, and they were forwarded to the network.” Apolo made a sound that was likely far too similar to a growl. His poor assistant looked like he was going to faint. “Damn. This has all the marks of Constantine's work, doesn't it? He's the one to blame.” The assistant was too diplomatic to respond, and Apolo figured that he had his answer.
