The Prince and the Punk [EDITING]

Chapter 4

Xavier

"What part of no do you not understand?" I snap at my father.

"You don't have a choice, son," my father replies, his tone firm and final.

I look helplessly at my mother. "You cannot be okay with this."

"Honey, it's politics," she reminds me. Her voice is laced with a sweetness she usually reserves for interviews. "Everything we do is political, and if you were in our shoes, you'd do the same thing."

"No, I wouldn't!" I reply indignantly.

"You would if you had a teen heartthrob for a son." She pinches my cheek.

"Oh my god, I'm leaving." I slap her hand away. "And I am not helping you with your fucking publicity stunt!"

"Xavier!" my mother scolds.

"You're royalty—start acting like it," my father says for the millionth time. "Invitations are going out first thing tomorrow."

"What—you already printed them? Without my consent?" I exclaim.

"What part of nonnegotiable don't you understand?"

Touché, Father.

"Your mother and I have a meeting to attend. The ball is set for a week from tomorrow, and I expect you to be on your best behavior."

The King and Queen turn and leave without another word, leaving me alone and shaking with anger. Who the hell do they think they are?

I storm up to my room, slam the door, and sprawl out on my bed.

My parents and their stupid publicity stunts. All they've ever cared about is how they look in the eyes of the public. Hell, I'm pretty sure they only had me and my sister to raise their approval rating—an heir to groom was just a benefit.

To be fair, the latest news of the Zinnan War doesn't make them look good at all, so it makes perfect sense that they'd want to improve their image. I just wish they'd picked someone else to exploit.

Anyone but me.

To them, I'm a puppet to be used as a distraction. In this case, that distraction is me getting married. I gag at the thought. My parents got the bright idea to hold a ball and invite all the fairest, richest, most high-class maidens in the land. From this carefully selected pool of girls deemed "princess material", I'm expected to choose a bride.

The absurdity doesn't stop there, though. I'm supposed to make my choice over the course of several months, with interviews and parties and all sorts of highly publicized nonsense scattered throughout the process. My life is the worst version of a Grimm's fairy tale.

I hate the idea for a myriad of reasons. For one, I'm nineteen. I still like video games and TV. I'd take playing baseball over going to a fancy dinner any day of the week. I'm neither king nor husband material, which isn't likely to change anytime soon. Besides, I see nothing interesting about spoiled, boring, proper women who all look so similar it's like they were made on an assembly line. All chicks like that do is sit around and smile in their 10,000 unit gowns, sipping tea and looking vacant. It's not a stereotype—I've seen it. They're snobby and egomaniacal and I'd really rather marry a piece of sandpaper.

I'm also wildly uncomfortable with my mother referring to me as a "teen heartthrob". I'm barely a prince, let alone some sort of boy band member.

I spot the leather jacket hanging on the back of my desk chair, and an idea starts to form in my head. How do you avoid debutantes flirting with you? Invite a girl of your own. How do you piss off your parents in the same fell swoop?