Aretha Socrates, after the sudden death of her parents, is thrown into the world of monarchy, prime ministers and bills. Now, she must decide what kind of king she intends to be: The one who saves her nation, or the one who lets them burn.
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اوووه! هذه الصورة لا تتبع إرشادات المحتوى الخاصة بنا. لمتابعة النشر، يرجى إزالتها أو تحميل صورة أخرى.
Title: If Wishes Were Horses
Soundtrack: Bittersweet symphony
I’ve been told times without numbers that I look like my mother. I’ve been told I have her eyes: charcoal black with brown rims around the edges. I’ve been told I have her hair: deep brown, long, thick and wavy. I’ve even been told I have her teeth: pure white, straight to perfection, with an almost invisible gap in the middle. “But why don’t you have her attitude?” People would ask finally, not bothering to hide their confusion and disapproval.
You see, Hermione Jennifer Socrates was perfection made flesh. She was poised. Polite. Elegant. Forgiving. Graceful. Intelligent, but also street smart. Merciful, but also not a pushover. Extremely talented; she could play a violin—and the piano, and the celo—worthy of the New York Philharmonic. Inspite of all this, she still found a way to be humble, to be supportive. She never thought or spoke negatively about anyone. She treated her staffs like they were part of the royal family—I never could understand why she did that. She even loved Africa and African children and pioneered several charities there, none of which were in her name. Above all, she loved her family with all of her heart and might and soul and loved her country even more. Hermione Jennifer Socrates was everyone’s champion, and I don’t have her attitude.
They said it was an accident. The eighteen wheeler truck had come out at the intersection between royal road and spice lane. According to the forensic experts—because an event that threatens the life of any member of the royal family is ruled as criminal activity by default and is treated as such—after a thorough examination of the scene of the accident: the big truck had jerked ineffectively on the slick pavement, leaving skid marks as the driver tried to bring the rig to a stop, but unfortunately, the breaks of the truck had malfunctioned, resulting to a collision into the royal convoy, driving them off the road and down the mountain cliff the royal road was known for.
This is it. This was all they told me. No one could have foreseen it, no one could have controlled it, no one could have prevented it: the royal doctor kept saying over and over again as though his faux words were supposed to make me feel less distraught. I needed more details. But it was against the rules of Eirene to share the details of a catastrophic event of any member of the royal family to the public.
Public? “They are my family.” I shouted at the top of my lungs, frustration eating at my mind. But the look on the face of the chief corona when I screamed at him is one I would never forget. Shock, sympathy, and disapproval. The same disapproval I would see on the faces of people when they wondered why I didn’t have my mother’s attitude. Because Hermione Socrates would never raise her voice at anyone no matter the direness of the situation. In my tragedy, they judged me still.
“My apologies, Your Highness.” He bowed, as if that was the most natural thing to do at this time, then walked away from me. He walked away from me. Watching him go, I wanted to scream: I will have your head for that. Nobody walks away from royalty, but almost immediately, my line of sight was blocked by my father’s private secretary. I needed to go into my mourning room. It was past overdue.
