to be as vague as possible to fulfill my promise to Liam. Reading back my one-line emails makes me sick.
Everything’s fine! I rode a horse! First time ever!
Prince Liam taught me princess etiquette. It’s very interesting.
Prince Liam is being a pain in the ass.
I sent the last one in a fit of rage after the hellish café interview. The article convinced many back home about our Romeo and Juliet romance. I have fans now. Rooting for me. Asking me what Prince Liam’s cock tastes like.
Which I now know the answer to.
Hot, thick, and creamy.
The mirror reflects my rapidly burning face. The stylist pulls back the curling iron.
“Too hot?”
“No, it’s fine!”
Truth be told, I don’t know what I was thinking in that garden. I was tired of his bullshit, tired of being turned on and having no outlet, and tired of guilt. I’m ashamed to admit I loved every moment of it. For the first time since arriving in this country, I felt like I had some measure of control. Prince Liam, as it turns out, is just like any other man.
The makeup artist steps in front of the mirror, blocking my view as she paints my lips with a small brush. She buffs my face with a powdered sponge and then draws in my eyebrows. When I’m all painted and they’ve sprayed my black, wavy hair with enough styling oil, they step back.
I look like a scared doll. Black hair, rosy cheeks, and bright lips. My eyes match my engagement ring. All that’s left is the wedding dress.
“Careful, now.”
I jump down from the stool, forgetting there are ways a princess must get off chairs and that I’ve just screwed it up. Hours of etiquette training, wasted. Fuck me, how am I going to get through this ceremony?
The wedding dress hangs in a plastic bag. One of my aides unwraps it with with delicacy and reverence, as if she were unwrapping a thousand-year-old relic. It’s an A-line dress, and pretty simple as far as wedding dresses go. The fabric has a satiny finish, but there’s a layer of intricate, white lace over the whole thing. They unzip the dress, and I step into it with wobbly feet, still not used to the heels. The fabric tightens around my waist as they zip it back up. The lace covers my shoulders and arms but not my chest. It just trails along the edge, teasing along the deep neckline.
I stare into the floor-length mirror, trying to get a handle on the girl in the beautiful wedding dress who is supposed to be me. The fabric trails on the wooden floor as I walk to the window and push aside the sheer curtains to gaze below. I can’t get a view of the town from this direction, but there are media trucks with huge satellite dishes parked on the road outside the castle. There are reporters with long lenses probably aimed in my direction.
“Ready, ma’am?”
“I don’t think I’ll ever be ready.”
I step away from the window, and my aide smiles, probably chalking up my comment to nerves. She urges me forward, taking my hand to guide me toward the door. We leave Liam’s apartment and begin the slow trek downstairs. The whole castle is decked out for the wedding. The last couple weeks, I watched as Liam approved designs for merchandise. Liam and Daisy china. Liam and Daisy towels. Mugs. Pill boxes. T-shirts. They’re the tackiest things I’ve ever seen. Dead center on a white t-shirt is a picture of our two faces with badly photoshopped crowns on our heads. I considered wearing one of the t-shirts to the reception, but I thought of something so much better to get back at him.
That’s right. Keep playing pranks on him. Real mature.
Sunlight bursts over my head as I walk out of Liam’s tower onto the cobblestone road, where my heels wobble dangerously. Guards in black suits with indigo flowers in their breast pockets open the passenger door to the car. My helpful aides stuff me inside the car, and I try to calm my nerves by opening my iPhone. The car rocks with bodies climbing inside before the doors shut, and I browse news websites. I can’t face looking at my email.
Anglefell Crown Taxes Citizens over 30,000 for Royal Wedding
Oh Good God. My mood sours as I read over the article. They made them pay for this ridiculous sham wedding? If Anglefells didn’t hate me before, they sure as shit will now. Sure enough, there’s