EIGHT

'I try to avoid stories that end with...and he was never seen again.' ― Ken Poirot

But that's the thing... he never was.

10 HOURS EARLIER:

I shouldn't be shocked to see my mother blowing smoke from her ears the minute I am ushered into the palace gates. However, what shocks me most is that she remains composed until I am back in my room where she now stands, one hand planted on her hip, the other tightly fastened around her chin. My mother has changed into more casual wear - not quite her pyjamas which I expected she was in when she was pulled out of bed to be told her children were off galivanting around London - but she's wearing a pair of light-washed denim jeans and a blouse I'm not entirely convinced is hers.

I know the best thing here would be to shut up and take whatever she is about to say to me. I should listen to her rant on being careless and dangerous and putting the lives of others in danger, but it's cutting close to three am and I am exhausted. So, I risk it, knowing full well I am either about to be plucked off the face of the universe or disowned by the very parents who made me.

"Before you say anything," I start from the safety zone of my bed. "It was a good idea, theoretically..."

It takes one second, no two before my mother finally reacts.

"A good idea?" she barks, dropping her hand from her hip and begins prowling towards me as if I'm her prey. "Anything could have happened to you and your brother. Anything, Eva. You both could have been killed."

"It wasn't thoughtless, I did my own risk assessment. I assumed it would have been fine. Adam wasn't far away." I say quickly but this was clearly the wrong thing to say.

My mother looks at me as if I've grown two heads. "You conducted your own risk assessment?" she repeats as if she can't quite believe what she's hearing. "Have you suddenly switched career paths? What do you mean you conducted your own risk assessment!"

"I weighed out the pros and cons—"

"I know what a risk assessment is, Eva!" she fumes, cutting me off. "What I want to know is why someone so intelligent can be unbelievably thick!"

"Mum..." I trail off, trying to buy time but there is no stopping this woman once she starts.

"This is inconceivable!" she repeats, her voice only getting higher the angrier she comes. "If your father was here..." she trails off and sucks in a sharp breath. This was the first time me hearing my father wasn't in the palace. "If your father was here," she says again under her breath.

"I would never put Mike or me knowingly in danger, you know that. I thought it was safe. Charlotte was already there, and we had security...eventually." I want to shoot myself in the foot.

"You left the safety of the palace on an unplanned trip without security, Eva. You went to a pub that hadn't been assessed. You know we do not have the privilege of moving around this world without protection. Anything could have happened; your brother could have been killed."

And there it is. Her true intention for this conversation. I can guarantee she's not as nearly as pissed I left without a security detail or preplanning as she is knowing her precious heir was. Sometimes I feel I could blow up in front of her, but as long as poor Michael wasn't anywhere in sight, she wouldn't even flinch. I clench my jaw, evil words of jealousy twisting around in my head. I'm hurt, the kind of hurt where I want her to hurt as badly as I am right now.

"I'm glad to know you are also astonishingly concerned about my safety too, mother."

"Now who is being dramatic," she mutters, shaking her head. She watches as I stand from my bed and walk past her. I edge towards my bedroom door and open it.

"You may now evacuate the premises," I tell her. When she doesn't blink, I add a nasty, "now."

"Excuse me?" she glances at the security posted outside of my bedroom door and I can tell she doesn't enjoy having an audience for this part. "You cannot speak to me like that. I am your mother."

"Respect is earned, mum, and frankly you've just told me how insignificant I am to you compared to your precious son. Now, please may you leave before we both say anything else we will come to regret."

Mum walks to me and just as I think she is about to leave; she reaches for the door handle and closes the door.

"I never want you to feel like that, Eva and I apologise if that is how I came across."

I almost have a heart attack right here, right now on my bedroom floor. Is my mother apologising?

"It's been a particularly stressful day. I have had meetings all day with Katherine, and I had to ensure the newcomers are settled,"

"Isn't that what you hire everyone else for?" I say bitterly.

"Eva, if you treat your staff as nothing but staff, they don't stay. If you show your staff, you are willing to work not even as hard, but harder, you gain their lifelong respect," she reaches a hand into her dark hair and sighs. "Besides, attending to twelve girls' needs is—"

"Twelve girls? Have you got a charity event happening I have forgotten about?"

My mother gives me that you must be joking with me look. "James' potential brides. They are being housed in the north wing for the duration."

"Shit, I forgot that was happening," I mutter.

"Language."

"Shit, sorry," I say again and when I peek up at my mother, she's trying to conceal her smile.

"You'll be meeting them officially in the morning," she glances down at her watch, "well, in a few hours' time. There is a live interview tomorrow night, but you will meet the girls officially beforehand for brunch."

"You cannot be serious."

"I'm not exactly thrilled about it either, darling," she says with a sigh. "And if you must know this was done behind my back too. But it's happened and we can't change it so we must do our duty. I don't particularly enjoy that my house is now filled with power-hungry women diving after a prince that isn't my son."

"So, I'm being thrown into the lion's den,"

Mum reaches again for my door handle, "then it's your job darling to show them who their pride female is."

**

If Barbie had a party, these would be her guests. From one corner of the room to the other, I am surrounded by girls who have stepped out of the page of a magazine, albeit the only difference being the colour of their hair. I'm fenced in by airbrushed skin, neatly placed freckles and insanely symmetrical features as if God himself has leant down and moulded them onto each girl himself. Each girl, although a replica of each other, all dawn dresses made by designers I have never personally cared for, their polished toenails delicately shoved into small heels, their feet swept to the side that would make an elocution instructor jizz in their pants.

I've come down the lift in a pair of black gym leggings and an oversized blue jumper I nicked from Michael two years ago. My hair is tied up in a high ponytail and I am wearing last night's makeup. Nobody told me I was dressing for a ball. I assumed this was an informal meeting and the real thing happened tonight.

It takes only a second from stepping out of the lift and into the room for the questions to start.

"Oh my god, I love the Queen's dress. Do you know who designed it?"

"Your hair is like, perfection!"

"You grew up with James, right? You have the biggest advantage ever, I bet you know everything about him!"

And then the one that makes me snap toward a girl either sporting a new boob job or a bloody good push-up bra.

"You're the girl who used to date his brother, right?" She's got a slight European accent but everything from the way she holds herself to the very shoes on her feet tells me she is someone of British nobility. Someone I have strangely never met before. Her blonde hair is blow-dried to perfection, her blue eyes covered in a small layer of mascara but she's clearly one of those girls born with incredible eyelashes. Her dress, figure-hugging, but definitely appropriate is a blush pink, the exact colour of her heels. But it's the cruel glint of her eyes that makes me hold my breath.

"Excuse me?"

The room has fallen into a kind of silence that even I'm uncomfortable with. This girl's lips turn into a sly smirk, and she giggles at the little group of followers she has made behind her. For a group of nineteen- and twenty-year-old women, they sure act like preteens. I take a daring step forward to read her name tag.

Henna, daughter of Sir Christoph Emmanuel.

She's a daughter of a duke my father despises. I guess this runs in the family.

"You dated Prince James' brother, Lucas, yes?" she bats her eyelashes at me, slowing down her speech as if I'm stupid.

I don't dare move an inch. I can't imagine what her point is but whatever she is trying to say is making me feel hot under the collar of my hoodie. "Isn't this old news?"

Henna doesn't seem the slightest bit fazed. "Isn't it a bit strange," she steps away from her little pack of wolves and starts to circle me. "You were in love with his brother and now you're chasing after his twin? I can imagine Prince Luke is turning over in his grave." She puts her hand to her chest and fakes a disgusted look.

If I could get away with it, I'd kill her right here and now. This girl is going to be a problem.

"If that is truly what you believe, Henna, you have earned the title of the thickest girl in this entire room. Congratulations."

Henna tries to keep her face schooled but I catch the way her eyes pinch and she clenches her manicured fingers into a fist. I scan the rest of the girls who have all stopped their chattering to watch the interaction between us. I'm distinctly aware of the brunch spread out behind them and the way a footman awkwardly drops a plate of food onto the table pretending not to listen to it.

"I don't care who you are," she looks me up and down. "You can't speak to me like that."

I step away and call for the lift by pressing the button and watch as the doors open for me to step in. I try to keep my demeanour casual but inside I know I need to get out of this room before I'm on tomorrow's front page for assault.

Show them who their pride female is.

Mum's words echo in my head and before the doors close, I spin around because there is nothing else to be done, Henna needs to be put in her place. This girl is the walking and talking equivalent of stubbing your toe.

"Oh, Henna?" I watch her spin on her heels, her blue, soulless eyes narrowing as she awaits my reply. "You may address me as, Your Highness in the future," my lips tug up into a smirk. "Or did your hundred-thousand-pound education fail to teach you basic respect?" and with that, the doors close and I allow myself to enjoy the temporary smug satisfaction of putting a bully back in her place affords.

Thank you for reading! x