A Cinderella Twist: A Contemporary Royal Romance

by K. S. Thomas

  “How long before she found out he was a prince?” I ask, sensing it didn’t come up right there on the spot.

  “They dated for three weeks before he finally told her.” He stirs his coffee thoughtfully even though he hasn’t added any new sugar or cream since he first fixed is cup. “He said she was the first person who ever saw him just as he was. And that was hard to give up.”

  “Did it change when she found out?” I can’t imagine it would have. I’ve known his mom for years. Chase’s dad is a mechanic, owns the shop, but still. She’s not the sort to be hung up on things like titles or money or fame.

  “It didn’t change because she found out,” he says slowly, “it changed because he brought her home, to the castle, to his family. And who he was when he was with her faded into who he needed to be when he was here. And who he needed her to be for him, wasn’t the same as who he needed her to be for everyone else.” He sighs. “She didn’t want to be both.” His shoulder bounces sadly. “Said she didn’t know how to be one without losing the other. She said she would have sacrificed who she was to be queen for him, but he wouldn’t let her. Because he loved her too much to lose her that way.”

  “So, he let her go.” This story took a sadder turn than I was expecting it to.

  “He said it was the greatest heartbreak of his life, the second greatest was standing right in front of her and realizing she had let herself go to stay.” The corner of his mouth curves gently, but the hurt in his eyes is enough to cause an ache in my own chest.

  LACHLAN

  I CAN’T BELIEVE I TOLD her that story. I’m not sure my father’s ever even told anyone other than me. And he only shared it then because he knew how badly I needed to hear it.

  “Do you think he ever got over her?” she asks, biting her lower lip, eyes glossy like she’s fighting back tears.

  “No.” I shake my head, pulling myself up to sit a little taller. “She was the love of his life. Still is.” I sigh, getting to the part of the story I know will leave a bitter taste in my mouth. This part at least, I’ve spoken out loud many times before. “My father’s marriage to Myrna was essentially arranged. They both agreed to it, obviously, but their parents made the connection, organized their courtship which was polite and a proper year’s worth. My father just wanted to be practical. Didn’t want to risk hurting someone the way he’d hurt my mother. Myrna knew what she was getting into.” I tilt my head toward my shoulder. “Sort of. I think she was of the misguided belief that I would stay in the states and that any child of hers with my father would grow up to be king.”

  “Well, I can kind of see why she’s so put out about it all now,” Greer says, twisting up her mouth like it’s causing her physical pain to sympathize with my stepmother in any way. “Her marriage was a business deal and she’s not getting a proper return on her investment.”

  “No one promised her she’d bear the heir,” I point out.

  “Still. She obviously believed she would when she agreed to marry your father.” She sighs. “I’m not saying she got screwed or anything, but I can kind of see how she’s not the evil stepmother in her version of this tale.”

  I smirk. “Perspective is everything.”

  “It really is.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  GREER

  “Good morning, miss,” Katia chirps somewhere in the distance. Or what I wish was in the distance. If I can hear her, she must be somewhere in my royal loft. That’s what I’m calling my suite. The royal loft.

  “It can’t be morning,” I grumble, rolling over and smushing my face into my pillow. “And if it is morning, there’s certainly nothing good about it.”

  “Breakfast will be arriving momentarily, miss.” Her voice is getting closer. Definitely not distant. “I told them to deliver it promptly at seven as we have a full day ahead, and I’m sure you’ll want to be out of bed and at least have a robe on before one of the service boys from the kitchen arrives with your tray.”

  I can feel a chill hit the back of my legs and instinctively jump up to snatch my blankets back. “Katia, if you ever do that again, I will have to insist you give back your key. I don’t care how inconvenient it will make both our lives. At least one of us won’t wind up dead.” I glare at her, just in case she’s not clear on whose life hangs in the balance right now.

  “My apologies.” She tucks the blanket back around my legs and feet. “It was only my intention to help.”

  Now that I’m awake and apparently staying that way, I scoot up until I’m sitting properly while still in the comforts of my lush down bedding. “Let’s talk about the best way to do that then,” I say, blinking dramatically, prying my eyes wider with every open, forcing myself into a state of being awake I don’t quite feel yet. “I’m not at my best first thing in the morning.” In case that wasn’t obvious yet. “You’ll do much better to wake me from another room. Maybe a wake-up call? Or even easier, just tell me when you want me up, and I will happily set an alarm.”

  She looks confused. “You want to set your own alarm?”

  I point at my phone sitting on the nightstand to my left. “Yeah. I have a handy little app on my phone. Pretty standard. It’s the clock. You can use it for all sorts of neat things. Telling time. Timing things with a stopwatch. Or setting an alarm.” I wait to see if this helps at all. “The extra neat part is that I don’t have to worry about hurting its feelings if I yell at it for waking me. And I won’t kill it or throw it or break it in any way, because I paid a lot of money for it and I never get the insurance and I’m not due for an upgrade for another seven months.” I sigh. “You should know I talk a lot when it’s early and I haven’t had coffee. Some people would think that I’d talk more after caffeine, not the case though. Way worse before.” Katia’s still frowning. “I also make way more sense after coffee.”

  Finally, something seems to click for her. “I’ll go make coffee.”

  “We’re going to need to get better at reading between lines and picking up on subtle hints if this is going to work, Katia,” I call out as she hurries from my bedroom and down to the coffee bar.

  She’s barely out of the room when I hear a knock coming from downstairs. “Food.” I plop back into my bedding. It doesn’t feel like it’s been nearly long enough since I stopped eating dinner. By the time we polished off the last of our dessert, had coffee, went back for the last dinner rolls we skipped for more important things like peppadew peppers, and then finally said goodnight, it must have been nearly four in the morning. On Linden time. In New York it was barely ten at night. Which is why I couldn’t sleep, even after he left. Possibly also because of all the coffee. And sugar. Neither great late-night consumptions when one is meant to be adjusting to a new time zone. But I had other things on my mind last night, things I felt were more important than sleep, though now I’m having second thoughts about that having only accumulated maybe two hours’ worth of shuteye.

  “Breakfast has been set up for you to enjoy in the sitting room,” Katia squeaks from next to my bed. I must have dozed off because I didn’t even hear her come back in. “Coffee will be done momentarily. Shall I get your robe for you?”

  I don’t bother sitting up again. Or opening my eyes. I’ve had a thought. “Actually, I’ll take breakfast in bed, please. With coffee. No robe.”

  There’s a moment of silence before she manages to oblige me. “Of course, miss.”

  “Thank you, Katia.” I sigh again. This time, a fabulous feeling spreads over my mouth, leaving a smile in its wake. It’s not half bad being engaged to a prince. At least not when you remember you’re the one meant to be giving orders, not taking them.

  After breakfast, Katia offers to run me a bath before my meeting with Simon Sidka, which I assume is her polite way of suggesting I find a way to meet with soap and water. I’m inclined to agree it’s necessary, but I opt for a shower instead, and handle all the water running on my own.

  Last night, it seemed sort of humorous to me that my fashion sense was
called into question prior to anyone even seeing any of my clothes. This morning, as I’m flipping through the meager hangers holding my wardrobe, most of which I stole from Mallory, I’m feeling the pressure to pick out something this Simon Sidka won’t completely judge me for. Then, after rejecting every option available to me the third time, I remember I’m not being judged. My character is. And more specifically, my character in Mallory’s clothes. There’s nothing here to take personally. Just more opportunity to explore my new role and let my character’s story arc continue to evolve. Right along with her look. But my hair, that they’re not touching.

  After deciding on a slate grey pant suit and pinstripe blouse paired with sleek but simple black stilettos, I stroll out of my fantasy closet, through my bedroom and down the stairs. I feel a burst of confidence strutting my nearly royal stuff for all of ten seconds. Then it’s snuffed out by the sight of the queen sitting on my sofa next to a man who looks like he could be Heidi Klum and Cindy Crawford’s love child. I swear he has the same genetics that make flawless features and ageless beauty both supermodels seem to be made of.

  “Her majesty has graciously offered to sit in on your meeting this morning,” Katia says cheerfully, meeting me at the foot of the stairs.

  “How very generous,” I say, smiling and offering a small curtsy to the queen before I approach the man I assume is Simon Sidka. “Mister Sidka, I presume?” I extend my hand to greet him. “Such a pleasure to meet you. I can’t tell you how excited I am to see what you’ve brought me today.” Just out of the corner of my eye, I can see at least three clothing racks on wheels. I have a sneaking suspicion there are more lining the hall outside my royal loft.

  “Miss Deluca, I’m just delighted to meet you. And please, I insist you call me Simon. As soon as I heard Lachlan was engaged, I knew the castle had gained a true princess. Nothing less than pure grace and kindness would have won his heart.” He smiles warmly and I decide instantly I adore him. “And I’m the one who’s exited. Look at you! You’re stunning. Dressing you will be one of the greater pleasures of my life!” He claps his hands, apparently brimming with the thrills of getting to handpick my wardrobe for the foreseeable future.

  I notice Queen Myrna looks a bit put out over his enthusiasm. Apparently, Simon notices as well because he hurries to add, “Of course it will be third to the honors of dressing you, your majesty and the young duchess, Isobel.”

  Isobel. That must be Lachlan’s sister-in-law. It’s the first time I’ve heard her called by her name.

  “Just to even be counted among women of your caliber will be the highest compliment I could hope for,” I say in my most charming voice. “Simon, please let’s not waste any more time. I can’t wait to see the beautiful garments you’ve brought with you today.” I clasp his wrist gently. “And please, you must call me, Greer.”

  He smiles, placing his hand over mine. “A true princess indeed.”

  Once the trying on of clothes portion begins, Queen Myrna is a lot less silent looks of disapproval and mostly just vocal declarations of distaste and dismissal. We go through all three racks I saw, plus two more from the hall (I was right about my suspicions) before we finally find an outfit she approves.

  I hate it.

  It’s by far the least flattering thing I’ve put on this morning. Don’t get me wrong, it was perfectly fine on the hangar and I’m sure, would be gorgeous on plenty of bodies, just not mine.

  I sense it’s why the queen has a such a liking for it.

  “Your majesty,” Simon starts, clearly struggling for the most tactful ways to disagree with the queen’s choice, “in my professional opinion, I must admit, I don’t believe this is ideally suited for the lovely Greer.”

  “Simon,” Queen Myrna says, chin lifting, eyes casting down at us over her pointed nose – a magnificent task when one considers she’s seated and we’re both standing. “As the prince’s fiancée, Greer has a certain standard to uphold. It does not include looking lovely. It requires looking regal. And modest. And above all, is not meant to draw attention, as said attention is reserved for the prince.” She smiles. But it’s the sort of smile that turns your stomach and makes you gulp down a nervous lump in your throat.

  “I think we all know my fiancée could wear a paper bag and still look lovely enough to draw every last set of eyes away from me,” Lachlan’s voice catches all of us off guard. Apparently, he’s making use of his key to my room already. “Also, I refuse to be seen in public with you if you wear that,” he teases me, coming in close to slink an arm around my waist and press a kiss to the side of my head. We agreed last night, somewhere between coffee and dinner rolls, a certain level of affection needed to be exchanged on a consistent basis to keep things believable. Holding hands. Embracing. The occasional kiss on the cheek or forehead. Sweet things. Easy to enact things without getting caught up in any sort of passion or feelings of any kind. Which is extra important given how long we have to pull off this charade and the fact we will be in character more often than not until it’s over. It’s easier to keep lines from getting too blurred between what is real and what is pretend when certain things, like affections, remain similar to what they would be in our real relationship as friends.

  Close friends.

  Closer and more affectionate friends than I am with anyone else I know.

  It’s not confusing.

  “You’d be seen with me in a paper bag but not this dress?” I ask, feigning disbelief.

  “You’re right, I take it back. I would proudly walk beside you, no matter what you’re wearing, darling.” Another thing we discussed. Terms of endearment. Darling was his choice.

  “Always so charming, my love.” And that was mine. “But I actually do agree with you. I’m not stepping foot outside this suite in this dress.” I dare a glance at the queen, whose icy glare is sending chills up and down my body and not at all in a pleasant way. “With all due respect, your majesty. I’m afraid it’s just not the right fit for me.”

  “Simon,” Lachlan cuts in again, leaving the queen no chance to respond. “You’ve had enough time with my beautiful bride to finish up without her, haven’t you? I came in here hoping to steal her away for a bit.”

  “Steal away, young prince. I don’t wish to stand in the way of love,” Simon says, taking a step back to literally clear the path for my escape. “If your beautiful bride to be trusts me to complete her look and put together her new wardrobe, I promise to do my best not to disappoint her.”

  “I trust you completely, Simon.” I move in close enough to give him a hug. “Your taste has proven to be sublime, and I can’t wait to see everything you choose for me.” I make sure to say ‘you’ as often as possible. Just so there’s no confusion regarding my lack of interest in having the queen contribute her opinions on fashion to the selection process.

  “Your highness,” Katia pipes up, “I’m so sorry, but I don’t seem to have you on Miss Greer’s schedule for this morning.”

  Lachlan smirks, taking my hand and tugging me playfully toward the door. “Yes, Katia, I’m aware. That is part of the stealing her away bit I was referring to.” He winks at me, then looks back over his shoulder at her. “You can go ahead and pencil me in now. Say, until about three this afternoon?”

  “Three?” She sounds beside herself and I can only image the array of unpleasant meetings and duties she had lined up for me between now and then.

  “Yes, Katia. Three. And not a moment sooner.” He holds the door for me and ushers me through, placing his hand tenderly on my lower back. “Mother, always a pleasure.” Then the door swings shut and we’re rushing down the hall, me on the verge of surrendering to a fit of giggles. Him, nearly completely in control of his amusement, but for the twitch of his mouth and the sparkle blazing in his eyes.

  LACHLAN

  ONCE WE’RE OUT OF HER room, I make sure we don’t slow down until we’re in the elevator. The service elevator to be more specific because it’s one my stepmother refuses to use and the
refore cannot catch us on.

  “You’re quite good at the whisking away, Prince Lachlan,” she says, still trying to stifle her giggles. “I only wish I could have somehow stayed in the room a second after we left to get the full effect of Katia’s expression.”

  “I’m sure Simon will re-enact it for you if you ask. He’s quite good at mimicking the lot of them.” We’re both staring straight ahead, anticipating the doors opening on the next floor, but our hands are still locked as one, and her other hand is draped around my wrist, a move I can’t help but feel isn’t part of the act, but simply a natural reaction to being in close quarters with me.

  “Oh, I’ll definitely be asking him then.” She hiccups. Then giggles again. “Also, where are we going?”

  “To scout wedding locations,” I tell her just as the doors glide open and Soren steps in to join us.

  “I see the rescue mission was a success.” He nods at Greer to greet her.

  “It was.” She smiles, moving in a bit closer to give him more space. The service elevators aren’t exactly made to the same dimensions as those for regular use, so three people does start to make you think sardine can. “How did you guys know I needed rescuing anyway?”

  “Petra told me,” Soren answers. Then, he’s kind enough to elaborate before Greer can explode like a waterfall of questions. “Petra is the maid on your floor, and as such, it’s her responsibility to tend to your room, which means, she’s privy to your schedule. See, maids are a lot like ghosts around here. You can feel their presence, but you can’t really see them. In order to maintain her ghostly status, she has to know all your comings and goings to best manage her time in and out of your suite. To anticipate when you’ll need dishes cleared, or your bed made, or your covers turned down, or the sitting room straightened.”