Here Comes Trouble

1

E! Network commissioned me to write a short fanfic about The Royals and I couldn't have been more excited!

It started with a super hawt bodyguard and bang, bang, she shot me down black knickers...

Here Comes Trouble. All Rights Reserved. Copyright  © 2015. All Rights Reserved.

With cold disdain, I watched Uncle Cyrus vomit the contents of his stomach in the punch bowl. Scoffing, I turned around and wondered which unknowing unfortunate poor soul at the party would drink from it later.

I should probably tell someone to remove it.

I didn't.

On the other side of the room, my brother, Prince Liam, danced with the love of his life Ophelia. They looked lovely together. Like Cinderella and her prince. Perfect.

It might have been just that—perfect— to everyone else. Not to me.

I didn't want the prince. I wanted the bad guy. The exciting, dark hero who left a trail of broken hearts in his wake.

The bad guy never made you think of love. He titillated, teased, excited. There would never be a boring second spent with him.

I was scared of a lot of things. Boredom was one of them. When boredom strikes, unwelcome thoughts filtered in. Thoughts that you'd rather lock in a box and never open again.

Because if you didn't lock them up, feelings would follow. And feelings were powerful and cruel. They hurt, slice, and kill you inside out.

I looked around me, at the familiar faces and not so familiar. I was always surrounded by people. Never, ever alone. But why did I feel lonely?

No one in this room would cry if I died. To them, I wasn't a person. I was a symbol.

No one would care to look into my eyes and see that I was broken inside. Why would I be anything but whole and perfectly happy? I was the princess of England after all. I had everything.

They were wrong.

Given a chance, I would give it all up.

I glanced at Liam and Ophelia again. He was looking at her like she was the only girl in the room. It made my stomach flutter. It looked... familiar. Like I'd seen it before. It looked like... love.

Was that love?

How would I know?

And why the hell was I thinking of it?

It... hurt, because I knew I would never have that. So I stopped thinking and started dancing. Drinking. Smoking. Snorting. Then back to dancing again until I was doing everything at the same time and everything in the world didn't matter.

Not the contempt or jealousy or indifference from my mum. The Queen of England.

Not the disappointment I saw in my father's eyes days before he was murdered.

Not even the hate I feel for myself.

Nothing mattered but the high sliding silvery in my veins. Eventually it started to wear down again. I was just about to go to the bathroom and do another hit when he walked in the ballroom.

He was tall and dressed in a black tuxedo like he was born to wear it. His long legs ate up the ground and paused by the balustrade, piercing blue eyes scanning the crowd.

A delicious shiver climbed up my spine at a particular memory from last night. His eyes, if I looked too long into them, could either render me into silence or compel me to do things I would normally not do.