NOTE: this book is currently being edited. this is a FIRST draft so there is definitely room for improvement. I write on wattpad purely to share my work and most of what I post are all first drafts so please don't expect this story to be perfect.

ONE

'A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies, said Jojen. The man who never reads lives only one.' - George R.R. Martin

I am almost positive today there will be a murder. And I'd like to think it's not mine. But if Claudia Winthorpe has anything to do with it, I'll be dead, buried with a diary bashed over my head before I can even utter another word.

You could say I have a knack for getting myself into shitty situations - the kind that no matter what you do, you are always the one left looking like a complete idiot. And out of the numerous shitty situations I have put myself in, this could easily be summed up as being one of the worst.

I should probably make it clear that Claudia Winthorpe is mad, like off the scales mad and not in the way of saying she has a diagnosable condition, because if she did, at least there would be a medical answer for why this girl acts the way she does. No. Claudia Winthorpe has an inane ability since we were toddlers to make everything in the entire world all about her.

I know I've only got myself to blame for this one. I shouldn't have entered the screaming match we're both in, my lungs screaming for air. Claudia has turned positively feral. Her eyes are dilated, her lips puckered and she has run her hand through her blonde curls more times than I can now count.

"This is ridiculous," I wheeze, my voice dropping several octaves as I catch my breath. The monotone reaction displayed across Claudia's face is only more aggravating and she raises one of her thin, manicured brows in a look of distaste. "Look, you can't just come in here and take what isn't yours."

This is clearly not the right thing to say because her small face scrunches up.

"Isn't mine?" her mouth gapes, "that belonged to my great, great grandmother!"

I am beyond this argument now. I want to pick the object in question up and lob it at her smug face because at least the backlash from that would be a walk in the park compared to the twenty-minute argument I'm now stuck in. What's worse, we are fighting over a book. The leather wrapped, gold embossed book that currently resides on my lap is a diary written by one of my ancestors from the eighteen hundreds. Claudia seems to think she has some mad claim over it because her great, great grandmother looked after the book, among the rest of the contents of the main royal library when the palace we are now standing in was being built some hundred or so years ago.

Apparently, that makes the book hers.

"I can't even believe we are arguing about this, it is insane," I shake my head in disbelief, watching as her eyes narrow down to the diary in my lap. "You are insane."

Claudia, who up until now has been standing before me, unfolds her arms from her chest and bends down, her blonde hair swinging in front of her face.

"You think you know everything, don't you, Eva?"

I bite back the retort springing to my lips. This girl, without fail, resorts back to the same insult as if nineteen years of butting heads hasn't told her that the words she is about to sprout mean little – if anything – to me

"You might be a Princess, Eva Windsor but you're nothing more than a step down from the rest of society. You're the girl grasping at the ladder trying to catch up. You're the insane one." Claudia leans away enough that my eyes snap onto a figure beside the door. Charlotte, my cousin who also happens to be my best friend is watching the both of us like we're a game of tennis and this is the best match she has ever attended.

But Claudia's words feel nastier today. Maybe it's the scenario or maybe it's the way she doesn't once blink as she says them, but if I wasn't sitting, I would have stumbled back as if I had been slapped. Because if Claudia is anything, she is not a liar about this.

Something inside of me snaps. I stand, the diary falling from my lap and onto the floor but at this point, I don't even care.

"Are you hearing yourself?" I start as Claudia's lip curls, satisfied that I have risen to her bait.

"I am hearing myself perfectly, Your Highness. Maybe it's you that needs to step down off that throne of yours and get your hearing tested—"

"What in the devil's name is going on here?"

Claudia stops mid-insult, her shoulders forward as if she's about to pounce, and all her energy drains out of her eyes. Her father, the Duke of Cornwall, stares stunned at the two of us. Because yes, I may be a princess, but Claudia isn't some random civilian off the street. She's a lady in her own right with an inheritance that would put most millionaires to shame.

Duke Winthorpe isn't alone either. Twenty first century or not, I still have lady's maids and mine are all craning behind the duke, eagerly watching to see what is going on. All three of them.

"Father," Claudia's face might as well be purple. She's blushing so fiercely that when she opens her mouth to say something else, her father stops her by raising his hand in the air as if he's a traffic warden and his daughter is a moving vehicle. If I didn't despise her as much as I do, I'd catch her when she undoubtedly is about to keel over from whatever repercussion her father is undoubtedly about to hand out. I'm not thoughtless, I know her father is a misogynistic man who believes strongly that women should be seen and not heard.

"Your Highness," the duke looks my way and tilts his head down in a bow. "I was coming to escort you to the luncheon," he tells me, justifying the reason he's here in the private quarters of the palace. I try to not let the panic show on my face and glance over my shoulder towards the large standing clock in the corner.

Shit.

The duke clears his throat and my head snaps back to the balding man in the doorway. "But I seem to need to have a word with my daughter on how she conducts herself in front of the Princess. I apologise profusely for her behaviour. It will not happen again."

"It isn't a problem is it, Princess?" Charlotte speaks up with a small cough, coming to my rescue for the millionth time. I almost forgot she was at the opposite side of the room. "In fact, I will escort her myself." Charlotte gives me a follow my lead kind of look and I mumble a quick thanks to the duke as I duck behind Charlotte out of the doorway.

"If you weren't my cousin, I'd kiss you right now," I tell her, looping my arm through hers as we set off down the corridor.

Charlotte laughs, her strawberry blonde hair is tied in a neat ponytail and bobs as she walks with haste. She's tiny, barely over five feet but I think that's just a polite way of saying small people move quickly because Charlotte does nothing without it looking like she's floating. "Didn't stop our ancestors."

I make a face, "gross."

"I take it you didn't look at today's agenda then," Charlotte snickers as we pass a member of staff. He shoots her an interesting look and briefly bows before disappearing.

I wince. I have never been good at staying on top of the palace's functions. Usually, someone politely reminds me if my whereabouts are needed, but when you are spare to the heir, you can slip into the background quite easily.

"That obvious, huh?"

"Just remember to keep your head down, smile when you have to and don't sit anywhere near Lady Helen. You know she will beeline for you."

"How did you get out of it again?" I pull her to a stop, just outside the balcony doors and pull a face, glancing down at her riding clothes. She's as much a part of the royal family as I am. "Wanna take my place?"

Charlotte grins, "I'd rather eat dog shit," which makes us both laugh, because yes, Charlotte, so would I.

**

As far as luncheons go, it's more than clear I hate them. They're as pretentious as they sound. It's my parents' time to collect the people they haven't seen since the last social luncheon to talk business with, (that dad denies he does) whilst simultaneously pretending some flowers and sourdough bread will make up for the fact that this country is running out of money and my brother needs to marry soon. Michael's next in line to the throne, but of course, as far as my brother goes, sleeping with every girl in a two-mile radius isn't something he's about to give up quite yet. Being an heir has a level of 'pulling' power no other person will ever match.

I can't really say I blame him.

Still, I attend not just because I have to but because I know how important these luncheons can be to the overall health of the country. I am not naive in knowing it was my grandfather who discussed world war plans that led to us winning the war during one of his many social events or that my mother has gained over a million pounds last year alone in donations for some of her many charities by simply spreading the word.

But between my parents bartering with their guests and the fancy finger sandwiches, the worst thing of all is the attacks (conversations) I must endure. The girls I used to board with at school would moan about their grandparents or other relatives interrogating them over their future life plans, boyfriends, and goals. I would give anything for that to be me. Instead, I am bombarded with criticisms of speeches I have made, why I wore a particular shade of pink at the last public function when I "know" it isn't my colour. The worst of all is if I'm looking for a husband – at nineteen.

Which is how I know this conversation will not go any differently.

"Oh, Evangeline," my aunt, Lady Helen drawls, perching herself into the vacant seat beside me. Up until now, I've managed to successfully avoid her. I had assumed a seating plan had been made, but the lack of a name card tells me I thought wrong. This means I can't get rid of her even as the second course is served, and a bowl of predicted soup is placed in front of me.

My aunt drops into the seat with a thud, her rounded figure bursting from the shapeless dress she wears. Her face is pinched, and her boobs are so pushed up they might as well be touching her face. I can't ignore how her arrival, although late, is as tactical as with everything else she does. She believes arriving late is not rude but simply the right way to make an entrance. It's kind of hilarious how different she is from her own sister, my mother.

"How lovely to see you." She finishes and I almost spit out my soup as she leans to peck my cheek.

I spin in my seat and face her properly, plastering on one of my many fake smiles. "Eva, please, Aunt Helen. I hate the way Evangeline sounds," but it doesn't matter how many times I correct her, she will still refer to me by my full name despite being the only person on earth who does so. Even the press refers to me as Eva.

Aunt Helen frowns, "the way it sounds? You are named after one of the finest queens of England."

"It's just a little old," I say carefully. "Eva is much more modern and is my preference."

"You're not quite dead yet, Evangeline," she comments, sipping her champagne. "You still have life in you yet."

I don't even dignify her with an answer.

Lady Helen shuffles in her chair and knocks her spoon so that the soup on the other end starts dribbling onto the table. I try to avoid staring at it and instead tear my eyes to her face which is intently looking at me.

"Your mother asked me," no she didn't "to check in to see if it has happened yet. The rumours in those awful society magazines are dreadful."

If there's one thing I'm sure about it's that my mother would have never asked anything from her sister, let alone about me. But I am curious to see what she's banging on about now.

"Has what happened? What rumours?"

"You don't have to be shy. I am only here to comfort your dear mother or help her squash those rumours..." she trails off and glances at my parents' end of the table. I have barely acknowledged them either.

"Aunt Helen," I do my best to avoid making a face and pick up my glass of water. "I am not sure what you're talking about—"

"Oh, for heaven's sake dear, I'm talking about your virginity."

But that does it. One minute I'm sipping from my glass of water and the next I am spraying it across the table, the droplets sliding across Lord Kinsley's bald head. The sudden outburst has not gone unnoticed, and I am aware of every pair of eyes on me. I try to choke down the embarrassment and lower my voice.

"Excuse me?"

The situation all too amuses Aunt Helen, and she swivels her soup spoon into her bowl. "There is no need to be shy about it," she flashes a smile my way and pointedly turns to block my view. "We have all been there before. I was once your age too."

I don't know what to say. Although yes, logically my aunt would have been nineteen years old at some point in her life, the notion of it makes me feel funny. Picturing a younger version of the woman in front of me is like picturing a leopard without spots. It just doesn't happen.

"I take that as you are still intact," she says as if my virginity is an object that hasn't yet broken. Surely, she is aware I had a boyfriend for the better part of two years not that long ago? The thought makes my chest heave and I wait for her to speak again.

"Evangeline, I think you're old enough to be told the truth. The man they will pair you to marry will—"

"Aunt Helen," I cut her off and scan the table. "I hardly think this is the time nor the place to be having such conversations."

"Don't be silly!" She exclaims suddenly and Lord Kingsley is suddenly snapping his eyes back our way. "Your chances may be in luck. I hear Prince what's his name, Jamie, John?"

It doesn't take a genius to work out who she means, and I know for a fact she knows what his name is.

"James," I correct.

"Yes, that's it. Prince James Prescott. He's looking for a bride," she says informatively, looking impressed with herself. As if I didn't know already. Every media headline from the last week has plastered the search for James' future wife.

"You two know each other well, do you not?"

I fight the urge to tell her to shove off and mind her own business. "We have a mutual distaste for each other,"

"You do?"

She knows I do.

I don't bother responding.

"So, you would not consider being his future bride? A union between both countries would be wonderful for—"

That's it. I suck in a sharp breath and cut her off. "That's lovely Aunt Helen, but wedding bells will definitely not be ringing unless I'm using them to wring his neck,"

Helen, as amused as ever leans back against her chair and smiles. "Well, I suppose you will have to change that opinion on the young man considering he is arriving here tomorrow."

"Pardon me?"

"I am told he is coming to the palace to seek the talent we have here,"

I crinkle my nose. "He wants to steal one of our entertainers?"

"No, my dear," she pauses before she speaks again. "He's coming to England to find a potential bride."