Page 7 of Samhain
“Were there witnesses, Princess?” another person added.
I didn’t know. I didn’t remember. The beep-beep-beep of my heart rate monitor went faster, and I took a deep breath, my vision murky with tears.
This must be a dream.
Any second now, I told myself. Any second, I’d wake up in my bed at Kensington, realizing I’d watched too many soap operas the day before. That never happened, and when my Uncle McCormick walked through the door next, that stoic look on his squirmy face, I knew I was screwed.
My grandmother, the queen of England, had sent him to check on me. My grandparents planned to adopt me, to bring me into their household, which, at first, brought great relief. The situation quickly became stifling as my grandmother raised me like the daughter she’d never had.
It should have been little surprise I rebelled after that.
I did the whole London club scene. I woke up in strangers’ beds, words of regret and an NDA on my lips. I stumbled out of buildings, unsure of where I was, only to have the cameras flash in my face, capturing the worst parts of my adolescent meltdown. I understood it wasn’t a great look, that it painted my family in a manner they didn’t particularly enjoy.
“This isn’t how young ladies are supposed to conduct themselves,” my grandmother said at brunch one morning, sipping her tea. Her white hair sparkled in the morning light, curled to perfection in the same hairstyle she’d had for decades. “You know what gossip like this does to our image.” She pointed to the headline.
Princess Miriam working her way through London’s nightlife. What would her father think? The Royal family declines to comment.
I swallowed the lump in my throat and glanced to the floor between us, refusing to meet that unscrupulous glare.
“I’m sorry, Gran,” I said.
She raised an eyebrow. “You’ll have to do better than that.”
Acting out like this would hurt me in the end, but I didn’t care what the newspapers wrote. I didn’t care about the reputation of the royal family. I didn’t care about any of it. No one understood what it was like to stand up in front of the world, missing your heart, and pretend to smile pretty for the cameras. To know you survived something that killed everyone else that ever loved you.
Was it so shocking that I’d become lonely? That I wanted companionship?
“Your grandfather and I have agreed that it would be best for you to get some breathing room,” she said.
My hackles rose, but I knew better than to question the queen.
“There is a boarding school in America. The president sends her children there. It will do you some good, darling.”
The last thing I needed was to be away from my home, but I didn’t want to disappoint her. She promised if I played along, if I followed the rules, the Stuart fortune would be mine when I turned eighteen. My grandfather would officially invite me to court, give me my father’s title, and make me a duchess. Finally. All I’d ever wanted.
So I went, and I told myself on the flight over that I’d start again. This would be a new life for me, a chance to reinvent myself.
And then I met Ivy.
She had a hard time making friends, and I thought it was perfect because I didn’t have any to speak of. That became the basis of our relationship. I warmed her, she hardened me, and together, we ruled Mount Oberon our senior year. Her bright-eyed reason and calculated hesitation made me want to shake her and laugh at her.
I loved the way she blinked awake first thing in the morning, immediately looking to see if I was still there. We could sit in silence for hours, saying nothing and everything in that blissful peace. Being in her company balanced me out, and she needed me in ways she’d never admit. I grew too attached to her, knowing I’d have to leave her in the end, and the thought nearly killed me.
We couldn’t go public with a relationship. Just imagining the look on my grandmother’s face made me wince. An American? A progressive? Utter nonsense. She wouldn’t have it.
Because of this, I kept my desires to myself until the last day of school, when we’d gotten drunk together and stumbled back to our room, giddy with teenage disillusionment. The way she’d looked at me. The way she’d brushed hair out of my face.
How could I not?
How could I not?
I took her in every way I’d fantasized about. I made her moan and twist her fingers in my hair, and the next morning, when she woke up panicked about what it meant, I pretended it didn’t hurt to see relief in her eyes at my casual nonchalance. I brushed it under the rug as I always did when it came to her.
I acted like Ivy’s eager acceptance to get over it didn’t mean a damn thing. In truth, it had scarred me more deeply than anyone else ever could. But fate had other plans for me. The very next day, I met my soul mate.
Lex Fairfax.
We matched. Our jagged edges had always fit together like yin and yang. The media hadn’t been kind to either of us in our youth. He was the drugged-out American fuckup, and I was the slutty British disappointment.
