the prince told her of his plans. A random inspection would reveal a potentially dangerous water leak in her dorm room, which would thus be declared temporarily unlivable. Left with no choice, she would ask for an in-house position in the prince’s employ. As long as she stuck to this story, the prince said dulcetly, then no one would suspect a thing.
Just like that, she thought numbly, and the prince had effectively rewritten the rest of her life.
Upon arriving at the mansion, the prince whisked her straight up to the third floor and before she knew it, she was already in his room, and the prince was telling her he had to take care of a few matters in his study.
“I’ll come right back, parthena mou. Make yourself at home.”
And then he was gone.
Reality set in, and Fawn paled. It was as if his presence had been her own little cocoon, and for as long as he was around, she was able to exist without having to think or feel. But now that he was no longer by her side—-
Was this really happening?
Was she really going to be the prince’s lover?
Panic stirred inside her at the thought, and the fact that she was inside the prince’s suite made it worse. This had always been forbidden territory, and yet here she was now—-
Deep breaths, Fawn. Deep breaths. She looked around her slowly, hoping that her surroundings would calm her down, but when she realized what she was staring at, her panic only worsened and her head started to throb.
Either she was hallucinating or the prince’s bedroom was actually covered with floral wallpaper. Floral! Granted, the background was dark gray, the intricately drawn roses a nice shade of pearl, but still. Floral!
Something, perhaps instinct, made her slowly turn her eyes skywards, and her headache worsened. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, but there were actual murals painted on the twenty-foot-tall ceilings. Murals!
She turned towards the windows, and of course the curtains had to be made of damask, with heavy golden ropes to draw them. Her gaze slid farther down the room, where a majestic-looking rug covered the textured marble floors. It looked old enough to belong to a museum and expensive enough for the Queen of England.
I’m hallucinating.
No, you’re not.
Fawn began to pace restlessly as her thoughts warred with each other.
Then fine, this is weird, and it’s time to leave. This just makes it more obvious that I can’t be the prince’s lover. It’s just too weird—-
How can you say that when you already let him touch you?
I wasn’t myself!
Oh, suuuuure. That’s what everybody says.
I really wasn’t! Cut me some slack, I just saw my boyfriend – GRANT! – fuck another girl—-
Ha! So now you’re using the F-word to make yourself sound tough? Pathetic.
And you’re insensitive—-
A knock on the door interrupted her, and Fawn whirled around, thinking, I’m going to tell the prince I made a mistake.
But the man standing by the door was not the prince.
“Good evening, miss,” Igor murmured politely with a slight bow. “Is it alright for me to come in?”
Fawn blinked. “Uh, yes?”
“The master said I might interrupt you—-”
“On what?” She was even more bewildered now. “I’m all alone here.”
“—-while you’re talking to yourself, miss,” Igor finished.
Oh. Her lips parted and closed. I’m going to kill you, prince, you just wait. She lifted her chin. “I...I...was not talking to myself.” She tried not to sound like she was babbling but failed. “I...I...was just wondering how my life’s changed so drastically, and then there was this voice inside me telling me not to panic—-”
Igor raised a brow.
Her voice trailed off as she realized she had still ended up admitting to talking to herself.
“It’s alright, miss,” Igor reassured her. “It is not my position to comment.”
“But I really wasn’t talking to myself.” Much.
“If you say so, miss.”
Fawn cringed. “And that. I was hoping I misheard, but can you please stop calling me ‘miss?’”
“I cannot, miss.”
“Igor!”
“I am unfortunately inflexible on this, miss.”
She gnawed on her lip, thinking hard, and then an idea came to her, and she asked, “Are you Russian, Igor?”
Igor allowed himself a smile. “No, miss. I know my name is misleading, but I’m actually a full-blooded Sicilian.”
“Oh.”
Seeing her bemusement, the older man tried to explain tactfully, “It’s...tradition.”
“In your family?”
“Yes, miss.” Mafia was more or less family, wasn’t it?
“And the tradition is that you...get to be called Igor?”
“The firstborns are, yes, because we’ve the privilege of serving as guardians. As the firstborn, I was chosen to serve as the master’s guardian,