Claiming His Princess_A Beauty and The Beast Romance

by Parker Grey

  “Very,” says Competence Herself.

  “You’re sure it was that diner?” says redhead.

  I bury my head in my hands.

  “Check all the diners,” I say. “Just fucking find this girl, okay?”

  I glance up. They’re looking at each other.

  “I’ll compile a list of all the diners in a half-mile radius,” No-Nonsense Brunette says.

  “No, all the diners,” I insist. “I’m not insane. She was there, I saw her. Maybe it was a different diner, but this girl needs to be at the ball.”

  They all stare at me in silence, and I realize that with the last sentence, I just slammed my hand onto the table in front of myself. I lift it up silently, then stand.

  “Thank you,” I say, then walk out of the room.

  I don’t know what’s happening. Planning this ball has taken up most of the past couple days — I think George nearly died when my father told him he needed to organize an enormous ball within a week — but all I can think about is the waitress.

  I’ve gone back to the diner every day. Fuck, I’ve gone to half the diners in the city, because I was half-drunk and half-hungover and I’m not even sure I remember which one it was.

  And I haven’t found her again. Even though my memory of this girl is crystal clear enough for me to jerk off to twice a day, I’m starting to think that maybe I am crazy. Maybe the event planners I was just talking to are right, and I just made this girl up in a drug and alcohol-fueled haze.

  As I’m walking down a palace hallway, my phone buzzes. It’s Declan, asking if I want to go out with them tonight since I had to miss the World Cup.

  I think about it for a moment.

  This is exactly what you need, I think. Go out, get laid — get laid twice — and get your mind off this waitress who might not even exist.

  Just play it low-key and don’t get into trouble with your father.

  I text back Hell yes! and he texts me a champagne bottle emoji, and suddenly I’m relieved to be doing something.

  Besides, they’re not gonna believe what happened while they were in Florence.

  “You are fucking kidding me,” Beckett says.

  “I wish,” I say, taking a long drink from my champagne glass.

  “Settle down meaning get married?” Kieran says, his face simply astonished.

  The four of us are in the back of the Sapphire Spot nightclub. On the dance floor, lights are flashing and the beat is thumping, scantily-dressed people gyrating everywhere.

  I should be having a great time, but I’m not really. I try to make myself watch a girl on the dance floor shake her ass and lean over, practically showing everyone her tits, but it doesn’t even hold my interest.

  “Yup,” I confirm, leaning back in the booth. “That’s what he meant. Get hitched or get disinherited, my choice.”

  Declan just shakes his head.

  “You know what that means, right?” he says.

  I shrug.

  “You gotta go out with a bang,” he grins.

  I force myself to grin back, even though I don’t really feel like it right now.

  “That’s exactly the point,” I say, and the rest of them laugh so I must sound sincere. “Just don’t get me busted, guys. If I show up in the papers again I’m toast.”

  Twenty minutes later, our booth is practically flooded with girls. Declan’s got one on his lap and one next to him, and they’re alternating between making out with each other and making out with him.

  There’s three over by Beckett and Kieran, and though they’re all giggling and laughing, each of them has his hand on the same girl’s ass. I think I know which one they’re sharing tonight.

  And me? There’s a redhead on my lap, though her hair is almost definitely fake, and she’s squirming around like a snake or something. Her tits are fake, and I can see her nipples through the shimmery pink material. After all, she’s practically shoving them up my nose.

  “I’ve heard you’ve got a nickname,” she says in a baby-sweet voice, one finger on my chest. Like she’s suddenly coy or something.

  I slide my hand over her ass, and even though it’s a nice ass, my cock doesn’t even twitch.

  “And what’s that?” I say, my response practiced after hearing this a thousand times.

  She smiles and leans in, her lips close to my ear.

  “His Royal Hardness,” she purrs.

  Too bad right now His Royal Hardness is limper than a wet spaghetti noodle.

  “Do they,” I say, the words on autopilot. “Why do they say that?”

  Her finger makes its way slowly down my chest, her lips still close to my ear. I close my eyes because of the sudden unpleasant prickling making its way down my spine.

  “Because I’ve heard you have a king-sized cock and you know how to use it,” she whispers, her hand now on my lower belly.

  A wave of revulsion passes through me, and suddenly I need to leave, now. I need her to get off me and I need to go outside and be somewhere, anywhere else.

  I take a deep breath. I’ve never tried to get myself out of this situation before, so I’m not quite sure how to do it.

  “Would you mind getting up for a moment?” I ask, politely as I can.

  She pouts, not getting up, so I turn on the charm and grin at her as wickedly as I can.

  “If you’re going to be a naughty girl, I’ll have to punish you when I get back,” I say, lowering my voice until it’s a growl while I palm her ass, then squeeze. “And you know how I punish naughty girls.”

  “Do you promise?” she purrs, fluttering her eyelashes.

  “I’m not going to dignify that with an answer,” I say, blatantly staring at her tits.

  It works. She stands, wobbling slightly in her sky-high heels.

  “I’ll be right back,” I say, and leave. I don’t even say goodbye to the other guys — they’ve all got their faces buried in their respective women, and they’ll figure out that I’ve left eventually.

  I head toward the men’s room, but instead of heading in I push open an exit door into an alleyway, and as it clicks behind me, I take a deep breath of the clear, cool night air.

  I don’t know what’s happening to me. I’ve never done that before, turned down a hot, ready-to-go girl, but I suddenly just had to get out of there.

  Unbidden, I think about the waitress, yet-a-fucking-gain. How if she were wriggling like that on my lap I’d already be balls deep inside her, watching her face as her eyes rolled back as she felt every inch of me.

  And fuck, there’s His Royal Hardness. Goddamn it, why couldn’t that happen a minute ago with the redhead?

  I consider going back in and seeing if I can keep it up for her, but I’m just not in the mood. Instead I call my driver to pick me up, then head home early.

  At least I won’t be in any goddamn tabloids.

  Chapter Nine

  Ella

  When I get home the next day, Peyton and Slade are gathered around the dining room table squealing. Literally squealing, the sound so high-pitched it’s kind of hard to take.

  Maybe there’s a new line of luxury eyeshadow, I think as I walk toward them.

  “It’s so fancy,” Peyton breathes.

  “It’s calligraphied and embossed,” Slade says authoritatively, as if she knows anything about either of those.

  “Do you think he wrote it himself?” Peyton asks.

  “He has such sexy handwriting.”

  “Oh my god, what if he licked the envelope?”

  I edge closer, wondering what they could possibly be talking about.

  “What should we wear?”

  “Oh my God.”

  “Oh. My God.”

  I walk into the room, and they both turn toward me, their mouths partly open, each holding a thick square of paper in her hand.

  “Ella,” Slade says, her voice as serious as I’ve ever heard it. “We have a really big week ahead of us.”

  I don’t respond, just raise my eyebrows.
<
br />   “The prince. Is throwing. A ball,” Peyton adds, then holds out her piece of paper to me.

  It’s an invitation.

  Your Presence Is Requested

  At the Royal Palace, Crystal Ballroom

  Friday, May 17

  Eight in the Evening

  All eligible young women are strongly requested to attend.

  Black tie.

  I just read the invitation and don’t say anything for a long moment. It’s not like I know Prince Grayson even a little — we interacted for about five minutes total, and my extensive fantasies about him since don’t count — but he didn’t exactly seem like the formal ball type.

  “Why do you think all eligible women are supposed to attend?” Peyton asks.

  I hand the invitation back, keeping my mouth shut.

  Slade gasps.

  “Maybe he’s looking for a wife,” she says, her eyes going wide. “That’s why he sleeps around so much. He’s just been searching for the right woman this whole time, and now he’s almost given up finding her. This is his one last chance...”

  She stares off into the distance, lost in her romantic reverie, and I leave and head to the kitchen before I laugh so hard I snort. Not that I know Prince Grayson beyond being shamelessly hit on, but I’ve got a feeling that he hasn’t been searching for his soulmate this entire time.

  I’m pretty sure he’s just searching for his next conquest.

  I make dinner, we eat, and then I clean the kitchen and do the dishes. Peyton and Slade don’t talk about anything but the ball, and their mother Livia actually encourages them.

  They’re all being stupid. Whatever reason the prince is throwing this ball for, with such short notice, it’s not so he can find a wife. It’s not the fifteen hundreds any more, and that’s not how people date these days. It’s probably to announce his engagement to some high-born noblewoman or a princess from another country, and when Peyton and Slade realize what they’re there for, they’ll be crushed.

  I almost feel bad for them. Almost.

  But I keep thinking about the ball, like I’ve been thinking about Grayson almost non-stop. I don’t know what’s gotten into me, but I’ve replayed our interaction in my head at least a hundred times. I’ve thought endlessly about what could have happened if I’d said yes instead of no.

  And weirdest of all? I think I’m beginning to regret my answer.

  Not that I wanted to swipe my v-card in the bathroom at work or in the back of a limousine, but maybe if I had, I could stop thinking about it so much. Besides, everyone loses their virginity at some point, or almost everyone — why not get a good story out of it?

  By the time I’ve done my chores and turned in for the night, I’ve decided.

  I’m an eligible woman.

  I’m going to ask Livia if I can go to the ball.

  Livia purses her lips. The shape looks vaguely sea-creature like, thanks to extensive fillers and plastic surgery.

  “You want to go to the ball,” she says, tapping a finger against one cheek.”

  “I’m an eligible woman,” I say quietly.

  “Well, technically, that’s a little bit up in the air, isn’t it?” she says, her gaze as cold as steel.

  My stomach hardens into a knot, because she’s right.

  Technically, even though I’m twenty-two, Livia is still my legal guardian and custodian. Any money that I have, she controls. If I run away, the cops deliver me back here.

  I found out the hard way a long time ago that it’s better to just stay.

  “My debt is nearly paid,” I point out.

  She leans back in her chair, an off-white baroque monstrosity that she’s so proud of.

  “Are you remembering to count interest?” she asks, her tone of voice not changing.

  Instantly, my blood boils. The interest is new. She mentioned it for the first time last year when I pointed out that I was nearly paid off, and that was the first time I realized that I have no power in this situation. None.

  After my father died, Livia paid for my room, board, and education. She paid for it from my dead father’s money, but she resented having to spend money on me at all, so she devised a scheme.

  Livia decided that I owed her for all that. Tens of thousands of dollars.

  And Livia’s got friends. Powerful, influential friends, and they’re the ones who granted her custodianship over me, even though I’m legally an adult.

  I’m trapped here until I’ve worked my debt off, and when Livia decided that interest was included, my term got a whole lot longer.

  “Yes, I’m counting the interest,” I whisper.

  “You know that even if he’s looking to marry, he’s not looking for you,” she says, her voice still cool and casual. “He’s looking for a high-born noblewoman with good breeding and lots of money, and my dear Ella, I’m afraid you haven’t got either.”

  I don’t respond. Livia’s specialty is being cruel for cruelty’s sake. Her daughters are mostly just stupid, but Livia is mean.

  “All right,” she suddenly says. “You can go if you finish all your chores and make sure that Peyton and Slade are properly outfitted and ready first.”

  My mouth drops open.

  “I can?” I say, astonished that Livia is being nice to me for once.

  A smile crosses her face without reaching her eyes.

  “Why not?” she says, and stands from her ugly-but-expensive chair and walks for the door. I’m just standing perfectly still, amazed that she said yes.

  In the doorway, Livia turns back to me.

  “Oh, Ella,” she says. “You’ll have to find something to wear.”

  Chapter Ten

  Grayson

  Hi, welcome to Tremaine’s—”

  The hostess looks up at my face and stops short, the words dying on her lips.

  “...Diner, how can I help you?” she finally finishes, her voice sounding a little dazed.

  It’s a reaction I get pretty often, being the prince and all. I smile at her.

  “I’ve actually got a meeting with the manager,” I say.

  She just nods.

  “Right. Of course, let me go see if Diane is here right now, I’ll be right back can I get you coffee or water or anything? You can please feel free to sit at the bar and someone will be right along.”

  The words tumble nervously out of her mouth, and I give her my best royal smile.

  “I’m quite all right, thank you,” I say.

  See? I know my manners sometimes.

  “Be right back,” she whispers, and then scurries off.

  I wander to a display case full of pies and stand there for a long moment, peering in. They look okay as far as pies go: apple and banana creme and coconut and cherry, but my stomach is clenching inside me anyway.

  The diner search hasn’t turned up shit. I’m starting to think that I hallucinated this girl, because no diner’s got an employment record of anyone who looks like her, not a single one in the entire city. It feels like I’m on some wild goose chase, only someone changed the rules and I have no idea what they are any more.

  The ball is tonight, so this is my last chance to find her. After the ball, my father’s decreed that I narrow the pool, starting with the women at the ball. And I can’t imagine getting married to someone else, only to one day find the waitress.

  “Hi. Excuse me?” it’s the hostess again, and I turn. She’s wringing her hands together in front of herself, looking so nervous she might jump out of her skin.

  “Hi, sorry, so Diane isn’t around right now but the owner is here? Livia Tremaine? Would you like to talk to her instead?”

  I smile at the girl, because she seems nearly terrified of me. Any other time, I’d probably try to seduce her, but the thought just doesn’t hold any appeal right now.

  In fact, I haven’t gotten laid since I first met the waitress. Nearly a week. It’s my longest dry spell since I was a teenager, and it feels strange as hell.

  “The owner would be just
fine,” I say.

  The girl nods and leads me back, apologizing again and again as we walk through the kitchen and then a narrow, hot hallway, since it’s the only way to Livia’s office.

  Just as I’m about to step through her office door, something clicks. The Tremaine Diner must be the same Tremaine as Tremaine Holdings LLC, one of the biggest real estate developers in the city.

  Gustav Tremaine, the guy who built the Tremaine empire from nothing, died about ten years ago. I was a kid, and I don’t remember the details all that well, but it was something sudden and tragic. A car accident, I think. I do remember there was a scandal because he hadn’t left a will, and after all the dust settled his second wife, who he’d only been married to for a few years, was in control of the company as well as all Gustav’s assets.

  Livia Tremaine is standing up when I walk in, behind a big ugly metal desk, and she curtsies with as much grace as her tiny space will allow her.

  “Prince Grayson, Your Highness,” she says. “Please accept my apologies for the state of the office, I didn’t know I was expecting you today—”

  I wave her off.

  “I gave you no reason to expect me,” I say, my tone formal and official.

  “It’s certainly an honor. Please, sit.”

  I follow her hand and sit in an office chair that’s definitely seen better days.

  “I’m looking for someone who I believe is an employee of yours,” I say. “And while we’ve combed through your employee records, we’ve never managed to find this girl.”

  Livia’s smiling at me, her teeth big and bright white, her hair bleach-blonde and perfectly waved on either side of her face, her eyelashes fake and her earrings huge. Everything about her screams trophy wife.

  “What’s her name?”

  I fold my hands in my lap and lean back, exuding an aura of authority even in this dingy place.

  “I’m not actually sure,” I admit. “She wasn’t wearing a name tag when she served me last week.”

  I could swear something in Livia’s face changes, but I don’t know what.