𝓘 don't even remember leaving dinner. I must have, of course. How else would I have ended up in my room screaming into my soft down pillow?
ARGHHH!
Daily companion?! Every day with James? That arrogant, self-absorbed...
I consider calling Philip, but after quick time zone math I remember it's noon in LA. He always has lunch with clients on Fridays.
He would have something logical to say. I need that right now.
I try Sima, but get her voicemail. "Hello Sima. This is your client and FRIEND, Hannah. Remember me? The person you shipped off to some foreign country to get life experience or creatively inspired or whatever you thought I'd get out of this? I admit that at first I was intrigued, but it's only taken one day for me to want nothing to do with—"
BEEP.
Her phone cuts me off. I give it an affronted gasp before throwing it onto the bed. It doesn't bounce but nestles softly into the quilt. I roll my eyes. How dare the bed be that plush? How dare the room be this large? Who do these people think they are with these comfortable beds and large rooms and windows overlooking gardens? Look at that garden anyway, it's not that great.
Hundreds of garden lights turn on just then, illuminating with a soft glow the pathways, sculptures, ponds, and seemingly endless rows of living green art.
Ugh, that's beautiful.
James didn't want me to have this room in the first place. Did not think I was worthy of its beauty, I suppose. "Give her one of the plebeian rooms," he must have said.
Pacing, I think about tomorrow and the next day and every day that I now need to spend with James. Should I leave? Only after a day? He would know it was because of him. I don't think I could give him the satisfaction.
Maybe I could talk to Ruby about it? But what could she do? The queen declared it.
I take a deep breath.
OK. What are my options?
One: Leave.
But then James would know he got to me. I don't think I could give him that satisfaction.
Two: Try it. At least until it's obvious to everyone we're not a good fit and he quits himself. I guess that could work.
I catch sight of the pad of paper on the desk. A third option presents itself.
Taking a seat in the straight-backed chair, I feel — for the first time in recent memory — undaunted by the blank page in front of me.
Where we last left our heroine, she was about to hear an important confession from the prince. I hardly have to think through what to write as a I pick up the pen.
The music crescendoed over the prince's words as the two stood on the dance floor. Around them, men were lifting their partners, leading them in grand, theatrical gestures. But in front of her, the prince stood dully.
"I can't hear you!" she said, pointing to her ear.
He leaned in, so close his dry lips scratched against her ear. She shuddered. She could smell the whiskey on his breath.
"I wanted to say that I need to use the restroom," he slurred.
The prince walked away, leaving her alone on the dance floor. She felt the eyes of others on her, judging, wondering what she had said to offend. Or were they pitying her instead?
"I was going to ask if I could cut in," said a smooth, deep voice, "but it seems I have the good fortune of now asking you to dance directly."
A man bowed. She had never seen him before. His gray eyes —
YOU ARE READING
Royalty Check
Romance"What if a prince isn't dashing or charming? What if he's condescending, rude, insulting? What would a leading lady do then?" Hannah Acker is a less-than-poised American author who writes royal romance. When she wins the chance to live in a real Eur...
