by James Tate
Princess Ballot
Royals of Arbon Academy
Tate James
Jaymin Eve
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
To Be Continued…
Also by the authors:
Jaymin Eve & Tate James
Princess Ballot: Royals of Arbon Academy #1
Copyright © Jaymin Eve & Tate James 2019
All rights reserved
First published in 2019
Eve, Jaymin
James, Tate
Princess Ballot: Royals of Arbon Academy #1
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. All characters in this publication other than those clearly in the public domain are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cover: Tamara Kokic
Editing: Heather Long (content) and Jax Garren (line).
To the constant companions who motivate us to write every day.
Our mortgages.
This is for you, you ungrateful fucks.
Chapter 1
“Violet Rose Spencer.”
I groaned. I’d literally just sat on the threadbare sofa, and of course, it was now that my name blasted across the loudspeaker.
“Someone wants you, flower bitch,” the girl next to me sneered as a derisive laugh left her mouth. “Must be a nice change.”
Yeah, yeah, I was an orphan. But so was she, so the insult really didn’t pack the same punch. Neither did the mockery of my “flowery” name. I was used to it.
“At least my name finally got called,” I told her, smiling sweetly. “Your last foster home sent you back in two days. New record wasn’t it?”
Her smile fell, and I turned my back, leaving her fuming. “Screw you, Violet,” she called, but I was already down the hall giving zero fucks.
“Violet Rose Spencer,” the matron called again, eliciting more laughter from behind me.
My mother had gifted me one thing: my name. Violets and roses had been her two favorite flowers, according to the nurse who’d been with her while she hemorrhaged and died on the operating table, leaving me an orphan.
Apparently she’d never mentioned a father, and so far no one had come forward to claim me.
“Violet Rose Spencer, you have five minutes to make your way to the matron.”
This time the matron sounded annoyed, but I didn’t bother to rush. I wasn’t a ward of the state anymore. I’d turned eighteen the week before, and they couldn’t punish me anymore. I was only here waiting for my final paperwork—which was probably what this summons was about—before I moved on to college. State college of course, but for the first time I would have control of my life. Freedom to make my own choices, instead of being shuffled around foster and group homes at the whims of people who wanted to play “family” with me.
“Vi!” Meredith yelled, rushing across the room. Meredith Mossman, with her waist-length, strawberry-blond hair, big blue eyes, and curves for days, was the closest thing I had to a friend in this shithole. A friendship born of circumstance, seeing as she was one of the five other girls I’d shared a room with for the last few years. She and I were going to be college roomies when we got our acceptance letters. Hopefully. We had a plan B if that didn’t work out.
“There’s someone in the front room waiting for you,” she whispered. “A man I’ve never seen before.” Her voice dropped even lower. “He’s kinda hot in an old-dude way.”
That gave me a moment’s pause because the paperwork shouldn't require a stranger’s input. And a hot stranger at that. Maybe the matron was finally getting some—might improve her temperament.
“Only one way to find out,” I said, linking my arm through Meredith’s and dragging her along with me. The matron had an office at the front of the group home. This was where she dished out the good and bad news, disciplined us, and hid away when she was just done with kids for the day. And considering Mission State Home was one of the largest in Michigan, housing fifty kids at a time, she was often hiding.
There was a real potential for violence and corruption with this many children under one roof, albeit a large roof, but the matron managed to keep it under control. One thing I could say about this place: I’d never felt unsafe. Unlike many other “homes” I’d grown up in.
When I knocked, the matron looked up, as did the man who was sitting across from her in the padded chair. The nice chair. If you didn’t get to sit in it, you were stuck with the rickety old stool that was propped in the corner.
“Violet, please come in,” the matron said as she waved me in. “Miss Mossman, you’re dismissed.”
Fuck. Looked like my moral support was gone. Meredith gave me a commiserating glance, before backing out of the room. The matron got to her feet then, crossing around the desk to close the door. She was dressed very nicely in a pressed, woolen skirt suit, the jacket closed over her round figure, the buttons looking like they were working very hard to keep all of her shit contained. Her steel-gray hair was slicked back, her lips a garish red, and despite the fact that she still looked every one of her sixty years, she was presenting quite the polished front.
“Violet, please take a seat.” She waved magnanimously toward the stool, and I sighed as I pulled it out.
I’d been doing my best to ignore the man sitting there because men in general made me wary, and strange men were at the bottom of my list of trustworthy species.
Pulling the stool in closer to the desk, I kept a decent distance between the man and me. Despite not staring at him, I made a mental note on how nicely he was dressed. His black suit didn’t have a single wrinkle or mark and flawlessly fit across his broad shoulders.
Additional impressions I got while not staring at him included that he was mid-forties, rich, and bored. He just sat there, waiting for the matron to stop fussing, his eyes half-lidded and empty.
“Are you sure I can’t get you anything to drink, Mr. Wainwright?” she asked.
The expensively dressed gentleman shook his head, letting out an almost inaudible sigh. “No, thank you, Madam Bonnell.” He lifted his wrist, revealing a gleaming watch under the cuff of his suit. “I’m on a tight deadline, as I explained last night when I phoned, and I really do need to be on my way.”
Mr. Wainwright was apparently a very important person, if his general attitude was anything to go by. With a small huff, he turned to me, and I was finally forced to acknowledge his presence. “Ms. Spencer,” he said with a nod, “are you ready to leave?”
He looked on the floor to either side of me like he was searching for something, then lifted his dark brown eyes back in my direction.
I refused to let my emotions show on my face, working very hard to keep it blank. “Excuse me? Leave for where?”
At this the matron cleared her throat. “Apologies, I haven't had a chance to speak with Violet yet, and as such, she has no idea this is happening.”
I narrowed my eyes at her. She meant that by the time she got the phone call last night, she was halfway through her schnapps and Jeopardy and had forgotten to tell me right until this moment.
I cleared my throat, a weird feeling swirling in my stomach. I had a decent radar for danger, but that wasn’t the vibe here. Still, I was anxious to know what this was all about.
Mr. Wainwright shot the matron a disparaging look, a look he did very well, before he reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He leaned closer and held it out to me.
Warily, I reached out and took the paper, marveling at how thick and heavy it was. I’d never seen paper like it before. Since they’d cut back on cutting trees down, paper of any kind was rare to see, but this quality … almost never.
My hands shook as I opened it because for the life of me, I had not a single clue what was happening here.
The writing inside was hand-lettered in a sweeping, spectacular calligraphy.
Dear Violet Rose Spencer,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been randomly selected from a ballot of over fifteen million displaced children to attend the prestigious Arbon Academy. Our college has a long tradition of producing the finest leaders, professionals, and royalty the world has ever seen.
This is the opportunity of a lifetime, offered once every five years.
Your tuition, room, meals, and essentials are all covered under your scholarship, and you will graduate with the chance to secure a job in whichever field you desire.
Our representative will oversee your passport and travel arrangements.
We look forward to having you at Arbon Academy.
With kindest regards,
Lord Winston Morgan
Dean of Arbon Academy
I read it twice.
“Is this a fucking joke?” I asked the man, my voice wavering as I swung between anger and confusion.
The matron gasped. “Violet. Language!”
Yeah, for sure. Because the previous however many years of chastising me in regards to language hadn’t worked, but one more shot would be the ticket.
Mr. Wainwright didn’t seem to care. “I promise that this is not a joke, Ms. Spencer. Do you remember entering a ballot? It would have been about this time last year.”
The matron leaned over her desk. “Yes, you had to go in for blood and a cheek swab, remember? To ensure that you were in good enough health to take part in it.”
The blood part sent the memory hurtling to the forefront of my mind. Meredith had all but held me down while they did the draw. It was the needle that I hated, not the blood. I was certainly no stranger to seeing my own blood.
“The Princess Ballot,” I said softly.
Mr. Wainwright glared at me then. “We discourage the use of that name. The fact that some of the previous ballot winners have married into royalty is a mere coincidence of circumstances. We make no promises regarding your future beyond providing the best education and opportunities.”
I snorted. “Okay, sure. Except that all of the ballot winners have ended up marrying a royal, so yeah. Pretty sure calling it the Princess Ballot is appropriate.”
In all fairness, it wasn’t only women who were selected in the ballot. But the number of men who’d been selected, and ended up as a prince was low. Also, “prince or princess ballot” just didn’t have the same catchy ring to it.
He didn’t answer, but there was a flicker of something in his dark eyes. The look bothered me, but I couldn’t quite pinpoint why that was. I turned my eyes back to the paper. The Princess Ballot was famous around the world, and not for one second had I ever expected that I would be chosen. Being chosen was like winning the lotto. As the letter said, over fifteen million people between the ages of fifteen and twenty-two entered.
Arbon Academy was the most exclusive, prestigious, and out of reach school in the world. Its location was a closely held secret—somewhere in Europe—and it was the college of choice for royalty and the children of billionaires. How did I know all of this? Everyone knew this. Arbon was both the most tightly held secret and also the most gossiped about college in the world. No one knew details, but damn did they love to guess.
Fifteen million.
“Ms. Spencer?”
I met the gaze of the man here to change my life.
“How can I trust this is real?” I asked softly. “You could be anyone with a piece of paper and expensive suit. I’d prefer not to end up on the black-market or in the sex trade.”
There was no way I was lucky enough to be chosen for this. It had to be either a joke, a mistake, or something untoward. The matron cleared her throat, her face splotchy and red like I’d just embarrassed her.
But the man, again, didn’t seem annoyed. “I have another message for you.”
When he reached down, I noticed for the first time that there was a briefcase at his feet. He pulled from it a small device. It was like nothing I’d ever seen before, about the size of a mini-laptop, and when he opened it, a familiar face appeared. Aged in his fifties, he was of Japanese descent with a golden, sun-kissed glow, almond eyes, and pitch black hair with not a hint of gray.
“Good morning, Violet.”
I jumped because I’d thought it was a video recording, not a video-call.
“K-King Munroe,” I stuttered. “Your Majesty.”
Holy shit, I was talking to the King of New America!
He smiled, probably well used to bumbling morons. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he said easily. “I wanted to personally congratulate you on this opportunity. It has been twenty-five years since we’ve had an American chosen, so this is very exciting for the entire country.”
It was real. Holy fucking fuck.
“For your safety, we will not be announcing your name,” the leader of New America continued, and I paid attention. “But it will be known that an American will be joining the ranks of the upper elite attending Arbon Academy.”
“I have no idea what to say,” I admitted honestly. “I think I’m still in shock.”
I’d probably be in shock for the entire four years of my college degree.
Oh my god! I was going to get the best education in the world, and it was all free. Free food and room and essentials for the next four years. No working five jobs just to get by while trying to study and better my life.
Tears pricked at my eyes then. I hadn’t cried since I was young, but right now, I allowed myself this moment of weakness—all the while finishing my conversation with the most important man in our country.
When Mr. Wainwright returned the small device to his leather bag, I just sat on my rickety stool like a stunned idiot.
“Do you have any other questions?” he said, and I lifted my gaze to meet his fully for the first time.
“Just one: when do we leave?”
Chapter 2
How many people could say their first ever plane ride was on Royal Air One? However many it was, I had just joined their hallowed ranks.
“How did you get my passport so quickly?” I asked, leaning right back in a huge white leather chair. It was so padded and comfortable I knew I’d have no issue sleeping right where I was.
Mr. Wainwright, who was the only other person onboard, except two pilots and two cabin crew, answered in his succinct way. “His Royal Highness had all of your documents done up before I even arrived. The school contacts the leader of the country first to make arrangements, and then we inform the person who was chosen.”
His Royal Highness, aka the king of New America. Arranging travel for me, video chatting … geez, we were practically friends now.
“Were there really fifteen million entries?” I asked, my voice low and unsure. No matter how much evidence had been presented to me—hello, Royal Air One—I was still unable to completely trust in my good fortun
e.
“There were 15,456,788 to be exact, from all fifty kingdoms.”
Those numbers blew my mind. Even though I had a dozen or more questions hovering on the tip of my tongue, I could tell that Mr. Wainwright was over entertaining me, as his phone was in his hand as he scrolled through it. I decided to try and sleep for the rest of the flight. I had four years to learn about my new world. No need to rush it all now.
Due to international security and a bunch of other things pertaining to secrecy and blah blah, we’d taken off from America in the middle of the night, making the journey under cover of darkness. All I knew was that we were heading for Europe, but the rest was classified.
Even though my head was buzzing with everything that had happened, my body operating on a low level of “going to Disneyland for the first time” excitement, and my stomach grumbling, I managed to slip into a dreamless sleep, not stirring until someone gently shook my shoulder.
“Ma’am, we have arrived at the airfield,” the pretty brunette attendant told me, her face hovering quite close to mine. “Please make yourself presentable and then exit the cabin via the front stairs.”
The way she said presentable made me think that I looked like a hot mess. That wouldn’t surprise me, my blond curls were somewhat unruly. Usually I braided them before sleep, otherwise I woke up with tangles and side-fros that were not at all attractive. In my excitement last night, I’d forgotten to do that, which meant I had quite the mission ahead of me.
My bag was already waiting in the bathroom, and I took a two-minute shower, brushed my teeth, and changed into one of the few sets of clothing I owned. Wards of the state weren’t exactly flush with fashionable clothing, and the money I’d earned from my part-time diner job was supposed to be for college. My jeans and ribbed long-sleeved shirt would have to do. Just like America, January in Europe was cold—in most places—and I assumed wherever we’d landed was no different. But winter coats were an expensive luxury, so I’d just have to grit my teeth and bear it.