by Lara Hunter
I left the park and kicked up my pace as I headed back home. As I approached my apartment, though, I sensed that something wasn’t right. There were a bunch of people milling around outside of it, like they were waiting for somebody to come down.
They turned to look at me at once, like a flock of birds suddenly spying a juicy worm. I was wrong; they weren’t waiting for somebody to come down.
They were waiting for somebody to come back.
“Hey, miss!” one of the reporters squawked. “Can we get a statement from you about the Prince’s new girlfriend?”
I slowed my pace to a walk, panting heavily. “I think you’ve got the wrong person,” I told them, keeping my distance.
But they didn’t buy it.
“I saw you leaving the Prince’s mansion yesterday,” one of them said, and I eyed him up. I didn’t recognize the pudgy man in the gray overcoat. But, then again, I wouldn’t recognize the driver of the car that followed me yesterday, either.
A fiery rage coiled in my belly. Who did these people think they were? A couple of them had stepped toward me, clearly intending to get the scoop on their competition. I didn’t like the look of it.
I turned and ran.
I heard a vague scuffle as a couple of them apparently tried to run after me, yelling their questions, but they didn’t keep up for very long.
My legs and lungs complained bitterly as I fled. Once I was about a half mile from my apartment I stopped, bending over to catch my breath. I didn’t have any money on me, so there wasn’t much I could do if I wanted to stay out long. All I had was the key to my apartment, and my phone, for my music.
My phone! Maybe if I called Kasper, he could help somehow. I didn’t know how the paparazzi operated, and I naively hoped that a quick word from their real target would stop them hounding me down.
The only problem was that I didn’t have Kasper’s direct line. None of us did. I had a phone number for Christopher, who passed along messages as needed. It wasn’t because Kasper didn’t trust his staff, just that he was often traveling.
I leaned against the closest brick wall, still panting and sweating. The cold air nipped at every exposed inch of skin, sapping away my sweat. With a shaky hand, I dialed Christopher’s number and waited
“Hello?” he answered.
“Christopher! Hi, it’s Laurie from Prince van Dijk’s residence.”
There was a pause, then, “Who?”
I frowned. “Laurie Flowers. I’m one of the maids,” I explained. “I need to talk to the Prince. It’s urgent.”
“Why on earth would you need to do that?”
I clenched the hand not holding the phone into a fist. “Because I’m having a little bit of a press problem and I think he might be able to help. We went to that ball together the other day and now I’m being hounded by reporters.”
“Ah, so you’re the ‘doctor,’” he said slyly. “I’m sure this is all very exciting for you, but don’t say a word to them, do you understand?”
“I’m not planning on it,” I snapped.
“Just a reminder that if you do, it’ll mean the end of your job and a breach of your confidentiality agreement. You know that thing you signed when you started working for the Prince?”
“I understand how contracts work,” I said, my tone laced with irritation. “That’s not why I’m calling.”
“You said you had a press problem.”
“Could you please just let me know how to get a hold of Kasper?” I asked. “It’s important.”
“Prince van Dijk is traveling at present,” Christopher said sweetly. “I’ll let him know you called, Lauren.”
“It’s Laurie,” I corrected.
But he’d already hung up.
I swore under my breath, thrusting the phone back into my pocket. Why did the other staff have to be so uptight just because they worked for a prince? Had they ever actually met the man they worked for? He was one of the least uptight people on the planet.
Or, at least, I’d thought he was. In truth, who knew?
Frustrated, I turned back toward my apartment. I’d done all I could. I couldn’t help but wonder if Kasper had actually been with Christopher when I called. Maybe he just didn’t want to talk to me. I started to feel bitter, kicking at pebbles on the sidewalk as I trudged back toward my apartment.
It hadn’t snowed out here the same way it had at Kasper’s. The thin frosting we got in the city had turned to brown slush before it had even finished falling. It had mostly been cleared away, but some small piles of icy goop remained. I kicked through one of those as well, sending a spray of mud toward a passing cyclist, who swore at me as he whizzed by.
I cast my mind back to that night in the mansion with Kasper. I wished I could live in that memory forever, so I wouldn’t have to know the disappointment, sadness, and anger that would come afterward. I wished I was still sitting in front of that fire, watching it light up his face.
But I wasn’t. I was on a cold New York street, shivering and cursing at myself for ever getting in this situation.
I rounded the corner to my apartment block. The reporters were still there, huddled together like penguins in the cold. The glow of their cigarettes lit up the dank corner in front of my front door. Great.
I tried to act casual, flipping up my hood and looking down at my phone as I approached. Maybe they wouldn’t see me.
But they did.
“It’s her!” one of the reporters yelled.
“Did you think we’d be gone, sweetheart?”
“We’ll leave a lot quicker if you just give us a statement.”
I sighed, sizing up the ragtag group. There were five reporters in total, all of them holding out their smartphones and staring at me expectantly. The one closest to me stubbed out his cigarette and stepped closer, blocking my path to the front door.
“All I want is a name, little lady,” he said. He stank of stale cigarettes and cheap cologne. I tried to sidestep around him, but he blocked me. “My paper pays good money for information. You just give me a lead to follow to find out more about Prince Kasper’s new girlfriend, and you’ll be able to afford some real nice Christmas gifts for your family this year. How’s that sound?”
I narrowed my eyes. “I’m just trying to get into my apartment. If you could please get out of my way.”
The other reporters took the opportunity to surround me while I was distracted. I didn’t realize they hunted in packs.
“Hey, wait a second,” the bad-smelling reporter said. “Aren’t you the girl? No, surely not!”
“That can’t be her,” squawked another. “I’ve never seen her around before. Why would the Prince date a nobody?”
“Hey, sweetheart, put the hood down so we can see your face.”
“Don’t you walk away from us!”
It felt like the more I tried to push through them, the more they resisted. It was like wading through sand. I was jostled from every angle as they tried and failed to get me to speak.
But by then they didn’t need to.
“It’s definitely her!” the first one yelled triumphantly. “Look at those eyes—I’d recognize gray eyes like that anywhere.”
“But what’s she doing living out here?” another one asked. “Hey sweetheart, what are you doing living out here? Is there a penthouse hidden in this crappy apartment building?”
They all laughed cruelly, and my eyes pricked with tears. I needed to get away. The door loomed ahead of me, but I was struggling to reach it. They could see how much they were affecting me, and they knew how to make sure it hurt.
“Come on, don’t be like that!” one of them yelled. “We just want to help you tell your story. If you don’t talk to us, don’t you think everyone’s going to think you’re a loser when they find out you live here? Huh? What kind of place is this for a prince’s girlfriend?”
“Yeah,” the bad-smelling one chorused. “Just set the story straight with us. Tell us how it really is and we’ll make sure th
ey do you right when the story comes out.”
“I don’t want to talk to anyone,” I cried out. “Please leave. You’ve got the wrong girl.”
“More like the Prince has got the wrong girl!” one of them yelled, and a chorus of laughter assaulted my ears again. Jeering, hateful laughter.
“No wonder we saw you leaving his place,” another reporter added. “He probably doesn’t have the right vaccinations to come out here.”
“She could have given them to him, though,” one piped up. “She’s a doctor. Right, honey?”
“She’s no doctor! Look at where she lives!”
I finally burst through to my building’s front door, but the pack closed in on me as I tried to put my key in the lock. My hands were shaking, and I could barely see from the tears blurring my eyes.
“Don’t be a prude, honey,” one of them cooed. “Tell us more about you and the Prince. Do you two play doctor?”
This was the final straw.
I rounded on them, teeth gritted. “I’m not his girlfriend!” I shouted. “I’m not his doctor! I’m just a maid!”
The cacophony halted. The reporters stared at me, wide-eyed, as if they hadn’t expected me to speak. I had time to take one breath before they were on me again, asking me even more questions.
I turned and finished unlocking my door, pushing it closed behind me to stop them from getting in. I managed not to cry until I made it to the elevator. But, as soon as the doors closed, I broke down in tears.
THIRTEEN
What do I do now?
Having made it inside my apartment, I collapsed like the weight of the world rested on my shoulders, sinking down onto a floor none of the reporters likely realized was as spotless as spotless could be. I was frustrated, furious, and above all, I was hurt.
I knew they were trying to get a rise out of me, and that was why they’d taken to insulting me. But knowing that and feeling it were different things entirely. I looked around balefully at my apartment, all my worldly possessions.
Sure, I didn’t have a lot of money, but I’d done my best to make things work. I fixed up any issues by myself because my landlord was useless. Most of my decorations I’d made by hand after not being able to afford their commercially produced counterparts. And I was proud of the life I’d built there.
Or I had been, at least.
Now it was just the “dingy hellhole” the reporters had said it was. It didn’t matter how many hours I’d spent painting old furniture to make it look new, or hanging string lights to make it feel warmer, it was just a crappy apartment pretending to be something better.
Just like me.
I groaned, heaving myself off the floor and over to the couch. The last thing I wanted was to feel like this. But what was I supposed to do? Part of me wondered what would happen if I did talk to the reporters. I could set the story straight, tell them I was just his stand-in date after he was unable to get a hold of his first one. They’d understand that, surely? I could tell them that Kasper and I have a strictly platonic relationship, and that the night ended with him dropping me off at my apartment building.
But then, what about the kiss? Surely somebody would come forward and say that they’d seen us making out at the ball. Perhaps somebody even had pictures of it. The thought sickened me. It was supposed to be a private moment, and for a very short time, it had been.
I remembered how his lips felt against mine—so soft and tender in the darkness. He’d held me reverently, like I might break if he let me go. And with nobody watching for those few seconds, I’d found something there with him. And I’d thought he had too. Now, I didn’t know what to think.
It was time to call my mother.
I dialed my mom’s number and cuddled into the couch, pulling one of the blankets she’d knitted me across my lap as I did. It put me in the right frame of mind.
“Hey, honey,” she answered. “How are you?”
“I’ve been better,” I replied dully.
“Is it work?” she asked, her tone laced with concern. “Are they treating you all right?”
My mom had a deep and unwavering suspicion of the wealthy. Even though the confidentiality clause in my contract prevented me from telling her exactly which rich person I worked for, she’d been against me going to work for Kasper from the beginning, stating that all the wealthy ever did for the poor was take advantage of them.
“Work is fine,” I replied. “It’s a guy, actually.”
I practically heard her sit up and start paying attention. “A guy? What guy? Since when do you have a guy in your life?”
I smiled. “It’s sort of new. But he isn’t really in my life, so no need to start picking out wedding dresses just yet.”
“I’ll start saving up,” she announced. “I don’t want my only daughter having one of those crappy, chicken-finger weddings. I went to one of those for one of the girls at work and let me tell you, darling, there just isn’t a classy way to eat chicken fingers. Even with a knife and fork.”
“Duly noted, Mom.” I chuckled. “But my problem is a little bit more complicated than what to serve at the wedding.’
“Of course. I’m listening, baby.”
My chest tightened at her words. I missed her. I didn’t live in the inner city, nor did I want to. We weren’t millions of miles away, but sometimes it still felt like an ocean was between us because we were both so busy.
“I’ve been kind of pursued by this guy who’s got a bit more money to throw around than your average Joe,” I explained. “And I’m worried that I’m more into it than he is because I haven’t really heard much from him. But then again, he’s also super busy.”
My mother gasped. “You’re dating your boss!”
“Mom, no!” I cried. “Definitely not.”
“Laurie Ann Flowers, do not lie to your mother,” she said sternly. “You’re dating your boss, aren’t you?”
“Fine,” I admitted, pulling the blanket up under my chin. “But we’re not dating. We’ve spent two evenings together, and he kissed me, but that’s it.”
“And he’s being a bit distant, you say?”
I sighed. “You could put it like that. He’s just never around and he doesn’t tell me when I’m not going to see him for days.”
“Mm,” she grunted. “I don’t like the sound of that. Has he given you any inclination as to what he wants in your relationship?”
“No,” I replied. “But then again, that’s not something people really do these days. Not at this stage, anyway.” I curled a piece of dark brown hair from my ponytail around my finger. “There was this ball that I went to with him, and now a bunch of reporters are waiting outside my apartment because they want to know if we’re a couple.”
She snorted derisively. “Sounds like I need to hire a mob of reporters next time I start dating a guy and I’m not sure if he’s going to commit.”
“Mom!”
“Okay, okay,” she laughed. “Let’s figure this out. What are your concerns?”
“Well, I’m worried he doesn’t have the same kind of feelings for me and just used me to pass the time.”
“I’m afraid that’s a possibility, honey,” she said.
“Way to be Captain Negative there, Mom!” I replied. “You don’t even know him.”
“I don’t need to!” she retorted. “Those super-rich types never think about anybody but themselves. And it’s nice people like you, who’ve had to work their buns off to get what they want in life, who end up suffering.” She paused. “Speaking of which, how is the working your buns off going?”
“It’s going well. I made some extra money being his date to the ball, so that’s something.”
My mom had been stressing about my education since the day they cut funding for my scholarship program. She was one of the main factors that had pushed me to continue my education, even though saving up the money for it would take me years.
“So you’re a prostitute now?” she yowled.
I wince
d and moved the phone away from my ear. “Mom, relax. I just went so he wouldn’t have to go alone.”
“I really am not liking the sound of this guy. I know you can’t tell me who he is, but can you give me a hint?”
I frowned and rose from the couch, moving to the kitchen. “No, and I don’t want to. Not when I still have no idea what I’m going to do.”
“Well, what are your options?” she asked.
I filled the kettle with water, balancing the phone against my shoulder as I did. “I could sell my story to the reporters parked outside my apartment,” I said. “But that would mean I’d lose my job, all hope of future romance with this guy, and possibly get sued in the process.”