by Parker Grey
“Could you describe her?” Livia asks.
“Blonde hair, blue eyes. Heart-shaped face, about five-foot-four, I’d say. Very pretty, seemed a little shy. I’d like to make sure she’s at the ball tomorrow night,” I go on, trying to impress the importance of this mission onto Livia.
Her expression doesn’t change. Her face doesn’t move, not even the tiniest bit. Just a perfectly blank mask, which is strange.
“I don’t think I employ anyone who matches that description,” she says, and leans forward slightly. In doing so, she displays just the right amount of cleavage for the situation. “But, Your Highness, to be completely honest, I do have two employees who aren’t on the books. Could it be one of them?”
I sit up a little straighter, my heart suddenly pounding. I’m close to finding her, I can feel it.
“Do they match the description?” I ask, trying not to sound too excited.
Livia pulls out her phone, giving me a coy look.
“I shouldn’t be telling you this,” she admits in a tone of voice that might work on another man, “but when employees call out sick, sometimes my daughters waitress under the table. This is them.”
She holds out the phone, and I nearly grab it from her hand. On it is two pictures of two girls, but my heart sinks almost immediately. Her daughters are fine-looking, almost pretty, but neither of them is the waitress.
I just shake my head and hand the phone back, even though I’ve got the urge to fling it out the window. I swear I thought this was it, this was how I found her.
“Your daughters are lovely, but I’m afraid neither is the girl I’m looking for. Thanks for your time, Mrs. Tremaine,” I say, and stand.
Her face still doesn’t change as she curtsies again and I leave. On the way out, I want to punch the walls, the doors, everything that’s seemingly standing in my way.
I don’t know anything about this girl. I don’t know why I want to find her so badly, but I do.
I want her. I need her.
And I’m going to find her, no matter what.
Chapter Eleven
Ella
Hold still,” I tell Slade as she ducks her head to check her phone for the fortieth time. I see her roll her eyes in the mirror, and I ignore it, pinning another curl into place.
This is the very last chore on the enormous list Livia gave me at the beginning of the week, and right now, I’m more nervous than a bunch of bees trapped in a box.
I haven’t slept more than four hours a night since then. If I haven’t been doing their bidding, I’ve been working on my dress for the ball, silently thanking the powers that be that I learned to sew as a kid.
It’s not the fanciest dress, and it certainly wasn’t the most expensive, but it’s pretty and tasteful and meets the qualifications of a ball gown. Peyton was getting rid of a sapphire-blue dress that was “too last season,” so I took it and made some changes.
It’s one-shouldered and sparkly, with a skirt that flares out when I twirl, and I’ve got a really old pair of silver heels to wear with it.
At last, Slade and Peyton are ready. They fuss around for a while longer, demanding to know whether they look pretty or not, drinking champagne by the flute and touching up their lipstick.
I really, really want to go get ready myself. It won’t take me that long, but I don’t want to be too late to the ball.
But I also agreed not to leave before Slade and Peyton, who said that they don’t want to walk in with me.
There are footsteps down the marble staircase, and the three of us turn to see Livia.
Wearing a blood-red ball gown, her hair up and makeup done.
“Mom, come on,” Slade says, barely glancing at her mother.
I frown.
“You’re going to the ball?” I ask.
Livia struts down the rest of the stairs, barely glancing my way. It’s a chilly night, and she’s got a fur stole around her shoulders.
“Of course I’m going,” she says, her voice pure ice. “I’m eligible, aren’t I?”
Her eyes meet mine, and an involuntary shiver moves through me.
“By the way, Ella,” she says, turning toward the door. “Thank you for doing all those chores this week. Since you were so busy, I thought I’d help out by starting a load of laundry. There’s a load of white sheets bleaching in the machine right now, along with those cleaning rags you had on that mannequin in your room.”
Livia smiles with just her lips, and I’m shocked into silence. My dress was on the mannequin, the one I’m wearing tonight, and she just...
...My dress...
My mouth falls open, my vision blurring. I try to say something but I can’t get any sound out of my mouth, but it doesn’t matter because the three of them are sweeping out the door, and it closes behind them with an ominous thud.
On autopilot, I walk to my room. Tears are rolling down my cheeks, but I barely even feel them as I rush towards the servants’ wing, even though I already know what I’m going to find.
My hands are shaking as I open the washing machine.
There, on top, is my dress. Or what was my dress.
She bleached it into an ugly, mottled gray-blue, but that’s not all. My dress is a horrible color, but even worse, it’s cut into pieces. Little strips, about an inch wide.
I just stare. After this last week, of getting almost no sleep and working my fingers to the bone all for this one tiny spark of hope, all I can do is stare.
How could I think she was actually going to be nice to me? I wonder numbly. How could I be so gullible?
Slowly, I shut the lid of the washing machine. I walk back into my room.
And then I lay on my bed and cry.
Fifteen minutes later, my phone buzzes.
Flynn: How’s the ball?
I take a deep breath and wonder if I should just lie, because I don’t feel like going into it with Flynn. But he’ll get the truth out of me eventually anyway, so there’s no point.
Me: I’m not there.
Flynn: What?
Me: She didn’t let me go.
Almost instantly, my phone rings. It’s Flynn, and before I’ve even said anything he’s yelling.
“What do you mean she didn’t let you? You did everything she asked! You made that dress! You refinished the floors and cleaned out the garage!”
I take a deep breath, try not to cry, and tell him the story. When I finish, there’s a long, long pause on the other end of the line, so long I think he’s gone.
“Flynn?” I ask.
“I’m here,” he says, his voice sounding far away. “And you know what? Ella, I got this.”
“You’ve got what?”
“This fucked-up situation. Fuck Livia and fuck her bitch-ass daughters, you held up your end of the bargain.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I sigh.
“Like hell it doesn’t. Ella, go take a shower and grab your best foundation garments, because I’m gonna be there in twenty minutes.”
Flynn hangs up without waiting for a response, and I’m left lying on my bed, staring at my phone.
Slowly, I sit up. I dry my eyes.
And, wondering what the hell Flynn thinks he’s doing, I head into the shower.
Chapter Twelve
Grayson
I hate these damned things.
I’ve never liked balls. Not for a second, not even because they usually afford me a chance at a veritable buffet of women. They’re too straight-laced for me, too formal. There are tons of social rules and guidelines that I have to follow, and I’ve learned the hard way what happens when I don’t follow them.
My father happens is what.
A dance ends. I bow to the girl I was dancing with, and she curtsies. There’s a hopeful look in her eyes but I’m already glancing away as the music fades, scanning the crowd at the edges of the dance floor for the waitress.
She’s not there. I’ve been looking for her all night, but I haven’t seen her, and since this ball is bein
g thrown in my honor, it’s been hard for me to escape the dance floor.
“Thank you,” I tell my dance partner, but before she can even open her mouth to respond, I’m gone, walking briskly from the dance floor and toward a hallway. I don’t care if it’s just to the bathroom, I need to get out of here for five minutes and catch my breath.
“Your Highness,” an older man says, stepping into my path. He’s got steel-gray hair and he’s holding both his hands out, palms up, like he’s showing off a jewelry case full of expensive watches.
“Lord Graviston,” I answer, slowing without stopping.
“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of introducing you to my daughter and my niece,” he begins, but I smile and hold up one hand.
“I’m so sorry, you’ve caught me in a moment of need,” I say. It would be more polite to simply stay and chat to the daughters — both kind of pretty, but plain — but I don’t think I can handle one more courteous statement right now.
He smiles beseechingly.
“Apologies, Your Highness,” he says. “Perhaps I can introduce you later.”
I nod, then keep walking away, toward the VIP restrooms. Of course we have them. It’s a palace, and my family and I aren’t about to wait in a line to pee.
I walk through a hall, open a door, and nod at a guard who opens the door into the VIP bathroom lounge for me.
And I stop dead in my tracks.
My sister and Declan are sitting on a couch together, and she’s laughing. Clearly, it’s at something he’s said, because she’s got one hand over her mouth, her cheeks bright pink and her eyes dancing.
Hell no. Hell fucking goddamn no, Declan can’t be in here alone making my little sister laugh. I know what Declan got up to last weekend — the phrase “could suck a golf ball through a garden hose” was used in a text — and there is no way he’s getting anywhere near Aurora.
“Grayson!” my sister exclaims, still laughing. “You never told me that Declan has an amazing impression of Lord Whiffleboff.”
The guard, who’s still holding the door, clears his throat politely. I step forward and he lets the door swing closed, leaving the three of us alone.
“I didn’t know Declan had an amazing impression of Lord Whiffleboff,” I say, keeping my voice as neutral and even as I possibly can.
“It’s really good,” she says, still laughing, but neither of us are really paying attention to her. I’m glaring daggers at Declan, and he’s glaring right back.
If you touch her I’ll murder you, I think, hoping he gets the message.
I don’t care what kingdom you’re heir to, if you so much as touch my little sister I’ll hunt you down and murder you.
“Come on, show Grayson,” Aurora says, lightly resting her fingertips on Declan’s shoulder.
I nearly explode. Yeah, I’m a fucking hypocrite, given that I behave just as badly as he does, but I don’t care.
If I find his filthy paws on my sister, I’ll kill him. I will.
“I don’t know if I can do it on command,” Declan says, finally breaking our glare-off and looking over at Aurora. “If it’s going to be any good it needs to be spontaneous.”
“Please?” Aurora asks, tilting her head just a little.
Declan shakes his head.
“Fine,” she says, rolling her eyes teasingly. “Well, if you get the urge to spontaneously make fun of any of my father’s other cranky old advisors, you’ll come find me, won’t you?”
“Of course,” Declan responds.
Aurora smiles at him, then stands.
“Mother is probably searching for me right now,” she says. “You know how she is, ‘Never too early to start considering a match,’ like, jeez Mom, can I be old enough to legally drink first? Bye!”
With that, my little sister practically bounces from the room, a ray of sunshine just like her name.
I snap my head back toward Declan, who holds up both palms.
“I didn’t touch her,” he says. “She was in here when I came in, we chatted for a little while, that’s it. You know your whole family is practically my family too, Aurora’s like my little sister.”
I almost say sure, your little sister who just got back from boarding school all grown up, but I don’t. Declan may not respect very many rules, but I’m pretty sure he’ll respect this one.
“Anyone but my sister,” I say, leveling one finger at him. “Seriously, Declan. One hand on her and I’ll light you on fire.”
“As far as I’m concerned, Aurora’s still got cooties,” he says.
“Good.”
“See you out on the dance floor?” he asks, and I nod. Declan leaves, and now I’ve got the whole lounge to myself.
I’m not stupid. I’ve got eyes, and I’ve noticed that not only is my little sister gorgeous, she attracts her fair share of male attention.
But fucking Declan. He’s my best friend, but that means I know exactly what he’s been up to. He doesn’t date or fall in love. The most he does is fuck women twice before he gets tired of them.
And I want better for my little sister. Way fucking better.
I sigh, push my hand through my hair, and go into the men’s to take a piss.
Maybe the waitress will be there when I get back.
Chapter Thirteen
Ella
All right, here we are,” Flynn says, and the car stops.
I pull the cooling mask he brought me off my eyes and look through the windshield, but it doesn’t clear much up. All I see is a big, windowless building that says Hot Lips on the side in screamingly pink neon.
“Where’s here?” I ask, totally baffled. “Is being a stripper really my only option if I can’t go to the ball?”
“The Hot Lips Lounge is a classy establishment, thank you very much,” he says. “And congratulations, girl, after weeks of asking you’re finally about to meet Thomas.”
And now it all makes sense. Flynn’s new boyfriend Thomas moonlights as Charlize LaCroix, one of the most in-demand drag performers in the kingdom. Or, at least, that’s what Flynn says. I’m not really up on the drag scene, to be honest.
“Wait,” I say. “Am I borrowing a dress from Thomas? I thought you said he was six feet tall and a former linebacker.”
Flynn grins at me, opening his car door.
“He is, and every inch of that body is glorious,” he says. “But if I know one person who can work his magic and get you looking right for this ball, it’s him. You coming, or what?”
I follow Flynn into the Hot Lips Lounge without another word. The bouncer at the door nods at Flynn, and then we’re inside.
On stage, there’s a woman — well, a drag queen — strutting back and forth and lip synching to a song I’ve never heard before, but the crowd is going absolutely insane for her.
And honestly, it’s impressive. I think I’d die of stage fright if I had to do anything like that, and this queen not only has stage presence, but she’s an amazing dancer. In five-inch heels.
Flynn leans over to me.
“That’s my boo,” he says proudly, and my mouth drops open.
“She can do anything she wants to me!” I say.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m sitting on an overturned milk crate backstage, and Charlize LaCroix is leaning one elbow on a vanity, looking at me.
“She cut your dress up and bleached it?” she says, her red lips an O of astonishment. “That’s not just overkill, she sounds like a straight-up psychopath. What on earth are you still doing there, girl?”
I open my mouth to go into the whole ‘legal custodian’ thing, but Flynn cuts me off.
“I’ll explain it later, but I’m with you there,” he says, standing behind me, arms crossed. “I’ve told her a thousand times, she can come sleep on my couch until she figures something out instead of babysitting two grown-ass morons and living with the Wicked Witch herself. But right now, we’ve got to get her to this ball. She’s already an hour late.”
Charlize looks at me th
oughtfully, tapping one long fake red nail against the countertop.
“I’ll have to see if I can borrow a few things,” she says. “You’re not exactly my size or my skin tone, sweetheart.”
“If you can’t, it’s no big—”
Charlize just laughs.
“Who said can’t?” she says, standing. “You’re gonna leave here looking like the finest piece of princess-to-be ass that Prince Grayson has seen in his damn life. Let me change outta this mess and I’ll get started on you.”
Charlize takes her wig off and plops it onto a mannequin head, then grabs a pile of clothes and walks behind a screen.
“By the way, when the wig is on I’m Charlize, but when it’s off I’m Thomas,” he says. “Plan your statements accordingly.”
Flynn chuckles as Thomas’s sparkly red dress flops over the top of the screen, followed shortly by hose, a bra, garters, a corset, and undergarments I don’t even recognize.
After a moment, Thomas walks out in basketball shorts and a Tremaine’s Diner t-shirt, pulling his fake eyelashes off. It’s a little strange to see a huge, in-shape guy still wearing lipstick, blush, and more eyeshadow than I’ve owned in my entire life, but I go with it.
“All right,” he says, eyeing me up and down. “Stand up, give us a twirl, and tell me your measurements.”
There’s a pinprick in my back, and I gasp.
“Sorry, sweetie,” Thomas murmurs. “Almost done. Flynn, can you hold this any tighter?”
My new dress tightens around me, and I hold my breath. It’s a surprisingly understated dress for one I got from a drag show, but it’s blue, shimmery, and when it moves it catches the light in a way that makes my breath catch.
They haven’t let me look in the mirror yet, though, so I’ve got no clue whether I look normal or like I’ve been dressed by a drag queen.
“All right,” Thomas finally says, releasing my dress and stepping back. “Time to turn around.”