Almost My Prince

by Miranda King

  But like a custom cellphone ringtone, a knock expressed personality. The subsequent rock-hard quality of this knock bespoke formality and authority. Perhaps this was someone connected with Howard.

  Mom must have thought the same because she shot for the door. But after a peep through the keyhole, Mom donned her incognito attire: Sunglasses and a Kelly scarf, that famous 1940s-styled headscarf wrap named after Grace Kelly.

  Mom’s policy of CYA was “cover her face” when she and I were in places that had a high risk of exposing us to the media, so that no one could link me back to my father. I understood that Mom was being extra cautious right now because of all the media outside.

  But, Dear Lord, the way Mom shielded her face reminded me of how Granny protected her couch in plastic, except they had different motivations.

  Granny did it to preserve Grandpa’s memory, and that included everything she could think of that he’d touched and owned and loved.

  Mom wrapped up in her Kelly scarf to hide her connection with me because of my illegitimate birth and my emerald eyes and my father.

  I could guarantee my father wasn’t at the door. I hadn’t been in the same room with him since I was seven.

  But this was someone significant, judging by Mom’s oh-how-good-of-you-to-come, high-pitched voice. And it was someone that didn’t bother her to know we were related because she unwound her scarf and discarded her sunglasses like she’d only arrived herself.

  A massive man in a sleek, black suit followed behind Mom and filled our living room with his impressive muscles. I noted his black sunglasses and brown hair, cut military style.

  Within seconds, I recognized him as the recently acquired, constant tagalong of my best friend. But what was he doing here?

  He leaned to say something near Mom’s ear and offered her his cellphone.

  She carefully passed it off to me as though she were handing over the Olympic torch, as though this cellphone had traveled countless miles to get to me, as though I were someone significant to whoever was on the other end of the line.

  The only person I was important to in this world was already in the room—Granny.

  Unless…

  “It’s Michael.” Confirmed the prince’s unmistakable baritone voice on the phone. “You’re not taking my calls.”

  Oh, I got it. He was ticked because I was ignoring him. What did he expect after what he’d done?

  “Michael, now’s not a good time,” I said. “There’s—”

  “Stanvard’s rejection, the school letting you go, and the reporters hounding you,” he said. “And your mom,” he teased. “Need I say more?”

  “How—” I answered my own question. “Lexi.”

  “She could be head of the CIA.” He chuckled. “In truth, Sass, I’ve been keeping tabs on you because”—a deep sigh—“I care for you.” And then he baited me. “Harvard grad, haven’t you figured that out by now?”

  “Not entirely, Oxford man, and you’d better count your lucky stars I’m even talking to you right now,” I said. “Because of you, people are taking bets on whether you asked me to marry you or make me your mistress!” I forced out the words hoping to calm down the ire raising in my blood. “What the hell was ‘we’re just friends’ and your damn wink all about anyway?”

  “Staking a claim,” he said, “while waiting for you to realize we’d make a good team.”

  “Yes, we get along. That’s why we’re friends,” I tossed back at him. “You need me to wink back at you, too?”

  “I’ll take that wink—and anything else I can get from you.”

  “Mixed signals, Michael,” I said. “What exactly do you want from me? I’d prefer you tell me first, before the media.”

  “Come to Maravista, Sass,” he said. “Meet my family, let my people see how wonderful you are”—he waited a breath—“wear my grandmother’s ring.”

  “Was that another attempt at a proposal?” I taunted.

  He already knew I wasn’t going to marry him, didn’t he? We’d done some variation of this a half-dozen times, so he should by now.

  “Here’s a tip, Michael, a girl wants more from a man than jewelry—she wants the words, too.”

  Okay, okay, okay. I know I said I hated All Talk, No Action.

  But a marriage proposal—or an attempted one—by its very definition should talk of love, commitment, and at a minimum mention some derivative of the word marry.

  For whatever reason, Michael, the Crown Prince of Maravista, couldn’t say any of those words. Well, at least not to me.

  No surprise. It’s in my DNA.

  I’d inherited this defect—call it genetic, call it psychosomatic, but definitely call it a curse—and it went back for twelve generations of women, spanning over two hundred years, that traced to Lady Tessa Wellborn, known and ridiculed as “The Contessa,” and her arrival in America with her unborn, illegitimate daughter, fathered by a prince who couldn’t marry her.

  The decision she’d made before leaving France had impacted all of her descendants—even down to Granny and Mom, and now me.

  Twelve generations of Wellborn women had fallen in love with powerful men—only those men never had married them.

  Not a one.

  Because of those powerful men, all of my successive great-grandmothers spent their lives as either prostitutes, adulteresses, mistresses, or brokenhearted—for some women, all of above.

  But the Contessa had another option for her and her daughter.

  A respectable one…

  I’d never understood why she hadn’t taken it. All I knew is that I wanted to be nothing like my ancestors.

  Only Granny had almost escaped our family curse, until Grandpa, age of only fifty-one, died of a heart attack on their wedding day, thirty years in the making.

  So, no. No prince for me.

  We didn’t suit anyway. My blood carried a two-hundred-year-old proven inoculation against marriage to a prince, and this prince suffered an allergic reaction to even saying the word marry.

  Michael tried again. “I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

  What was that? A proposition to be his mistress? What did he really want?

  “Mixed signals again, Oxford man. Not once did I hear the word ‘marry.’”

  “I can’t say the words, Sass,” he said. “But let me show you instead.”

  No Talk, All Action? That was a new one.

  “Think about why you can’t say the words, Michael,” I said. “Then you’ll figure out what I already know—I’m not the girl for you.”

  Mom shrieked, “No! Don’t let him go!” in the background, so I locked myself up in the bedroom, pressed my back against the wall, and sank my butt—no need to say derrière here, Mom wasn’t in the room—down to the floor.

  “I can accept that you need some time,” he allowed. “But pack. My man Nathan will help you get ready.”

  “For what?”

  “He’s taking you back to Maravista”—his voice commanded two centuries’ worth of inherited royal entitlement—“where you belong, with me.”

  “No.” I matched his tone. I had the aid of my own two century’s worth of inherited angst caused by the Contessa running through my veins. “I can’t just pick up and go because you said so.”

  “Let me protect you.”

  “No.” That might have come out petulant, but I won’t admit to it.

  “Then let me help you out as a friend,” he said. “This media problem is my fault.”

  It was, but not all of it.

  He might have played to the press with a there’s-something-going-on-you-need-to-figure-out wink, but I’d started it all with that you’re-a-naughty-prince slap at the doll convention.

  “I’m listening.” I had no full-time job, no law school. What did I have to lose?

  “Our friends have gotten together,” he said. “Everything’s worked out. My sister needs help on a special teaching project, and you’re the only one who could possibly manage workin
g with her.”

  “What kind of—”

  “Something about teaching how to design doll clothes.”

  “Guess I know a little something about that.” Lexi and I had our own business designing and selling doll clothes called Mini-Couture, or MC for short. MC was our part-time gig, and it didn’t even whittle a dent in our tuition bills.

  “And Bo, my cousin, set up something with his brother, another cousin.”

  “Bo is your cousin?” There was so much about this man I didn’t know, like who his family was and all these cousins.

  His sister, Divina, and I were best friends at Harvard and attended doll conventions together, but I’d never traveled to Europe to visit at her house—wait… Mansion? Castle? Palace? This was one time I wish Granny hadn’t prohibited me growing up from reading those “tittle-tattle magazines,” or what the rest of the world called tabloids.

  “Bo’s brother is Fallon Madson, ever heard of him?”

  “Sure, he’s one of the top trial attorneys in the world. He wrote one of my textbooks.”

  “He’s agreed to take you on as an assistant coach for his mock trial team. Working with him would help you get in to Stanvard Law next year.”

  “Yes, but Lexi said I was already ‘in’ this year until the scandals started,” I lamented. “She said I need to show Stanvard I’ll be a serious and professional law student and stay scandal-free.” I dared to hope I could revive Grandpa’s dream for me. “Going to Maravista would be adding more fuel to the fire on this media frenzy. Don’t you see that, Michael?”

  “That’s where I come in,” he said. “Tabloids are outlawed in Maravista. No pictures, Sass. The paparazzi won’t even follow you around because they’re not allowed here.”

  “No more stalking me.” I whispered it like a prayer.

  “I can’t stop the world from talking about you, but they’ll just be guessing because, no, they can’t stalk you once you’re inside my borders,” he said. “They can still take pictures when you’re outside of Maravista, but as long as you’re here with me, I can protect you.”

  “You actually do have everything worked out.”

  “Almost,” he said. “I need you, Sass.”

  I need you?

  He’d cut straight into my Achilles’ heel. Not that I’d tell him. Like Granny had said, a girl was entitled to her secrets.

  “I’ve got to think about it, Michael. You can’t just spring this on a girl all at once, you know.”

  “One more thing,” he said. “Nathan stays, even if you don’t come.”

  “No—”

  “Not up for debate,” he said. “But his orders are to bring you home to me… and he will, one way or another.”

  “Don’t count your lucky stars on that one, Michael,” I said. “And thanks for giving me that handsome hunk.” And just because I could, I said, “I’ll keep him all for myself.”

  I ended the call without so much as a goodbye. Perhaps not the best idea to hang up on the man who was on the brink of ruling an entire European kingdom, but I didn’t like his tone.

  Maybe his offer to go to Maravista was the best thing I had going on at the moment, but I wouldn’t be bullied into it. Perhaps I should go, but I couldn’t leave Granny.

  I opened the bedroom door, and Mom recoiled back a step. She pressed down on her skirt and adjusted her hair as if she’d come from the bathroom. I knew better.

  “He asked me to go to Maravista,” I said without preamble. She’d find out one way or another.

  Mom clapped her hands together. “You should—”

  I held up my hand to stop her.

  “Please, not now.” I walked past her. All I sought was Granny, and thankfully Mom followed me without protest into the living room.

  Granny stared at Grandpa’s plaques on the wall from the same chair where I’d left her. I repositioned myself on the floor and propped my head against her knees. She skimmed her fingers along the crown of my head while I explained what Michael had proposed—and not proposed.

  “I’m so confused, Granny.” I gazed up into the chocolate depths of her eyes.

  “I’m not. The answer’s clear,” she said. “Go to Maravista.” She cupped her hand along the side of my cheek. “It’s your best chance to get away from all these cameras and to show Stanvard Law, to show them all that you’re”—she glided her hand down under my chin—“your Grandpa’s little genius.”

  She’d left out the “sassy” part of Grandpa’s endearment for me, but I supposed she’d assumed the world had seen enough of my sass when I’d slapped the prince.

  “But what about you?” I said. Granny depended on me for my half of the rent and food money, especially since Mom had stopped helping us the day I turned eighteen. “You need me.”

  Didn’t she?

  “Go.” She dropped her hand from my chin. “I don’t need you.”

  “Yes, you do,” I protested. “Who’s going to help you with all the yard sales and eBay. You don’t even know how to log in.”

  “We can figure all that out,” she said. “Don’t forget, I was buying and selling long before eBay came along.”

  “But what if I don’t earn enough to cover my share of the rent here?”

  If I could roommate with my cousin Bella who lived near Maravista, then I might be able to cover the money for Granny, too.

  “For the love of dolls, go!” Granny said. “I don’t need you.”

  “But—”

  “Go, I don’t need you,” she said in a simple statement. But I couldn’t swear it was fact.

  Maravista, Maravista. Oh, Maravista. Would going there turn my life around? Help me get into Stanvard Law? Honor my Grandpa’s legacy? Take away Granny’s tears?

  Oh, Maravista. Did I have a better option?

  No.

  I knew it. Granny knew it. Hell, even Mom not only knew it—she practically was picking out my wedding dress.

  I would not marry Michael—that I could swear as a fact.

  Even if I had to remind him, over and over and over.

  “Sass to Trade in Her American Passport to Reign as the Future Queen of Maravista”

  -Gossip Weekly

  “Sass Chooses Slums Outside Maravista Instead of the Palace”

  -Royal Rumor Report

  Oh, Maravista.

  Honey-dipped sunshine cascaded down the verdant hilltops to the sandy beaches below. White-tipped waves charged against the silken shoreline, and they kissed, over and over and over.

  The portly ocean, decked out in a dazzling, glittery blue, danced with the light wind. Whenever the wind dipped, it caused the ocean to bulge and ripple at its surface, exposing its sparkly bits.

  Vast stretches of yachts docked along the ports, and others claimed the horizon with their triangular sails or steel physiques.

  Muscle cars, sophisticated sedans, and limos lined the highway artery that separated the white-cabana covered beaches from the mansion-clad hillsides.

  Maravista was the private paradise for the ultra-rich and officially royal.

  It took more than fame to step past this country’s fortified gates. It took several thousand dollars for non-citizens to secure a one-day ticket into the country—and that bill hiked up for each day added. Or, it took my way—a work visa signed by the prince.

  I traveled to my first day of work by bike, a rusty beach cruiser I’d picked up secondhand in the Worker District, or what locals called the “WD,” the lower-income housing areas right outside the border gates to Maravista.

  France, to the left, and Italy, to the right, technically split the rights to the WD, but most of the inhabitants commuted to Maravista for work, like me.

  I shared a room with my cousin Bella in her apartment, or as they call it here “flat,” on the French side. We slept above her doll shop, Darling Dolls and Day Spa. It wasn’t a day spa for the ladies—it was for the dolls.

  I’d never stepped foot in Europe, nor had seen her shop in person, although I’d sent her p
lenty of my custom doll clothes to sell here. But I was pretty sure no one in our neighborhood cared a lick about dolls, much less sending one to a day spa for face repainting and hair restyling.

  Her business was like trying to sell fur coats in a desert.

  Not that Maravista or the WD was a desert—hardly, with the Mediterranean Sea at its front door. The rich, classical history of this “Old World” Mediterranean region and its patriarchal mentality, instilled probably before the Greeks and the Romans traipsed these lands, pervaded much of the culture.

  I offer as my own Exhibit A, this skirt I wore, and note I’m riding a bicycle. Yep, who did that? Apparently, I did. I thanked my lucky stars for Nathan—and no, I didn’t “keep” him, but I was tempted. He primed me for much of the culture shock I’d face, including the dress code at my new job.

  My teacher contract stated that “only skirts or dresses, no shorter than one inch above the knees, constitute appropriate attire for females and must be worn at all times while on school grounds.” I smirked at this provision. Only wearing skirts or dresses to work? Were we stuck in the 1950s?

  So I decided to dress the part, and since I now lived scant steps away from Italy, I aimed to resemble Audrey Hepburn’s outfit in Roman Holiday, a Granny favorite.

  Mattel’s Barbie Collector division had made miniature replicas of this outfit that sold for more than I paid for my whole yard sale imitation, consisting of a white button-down, collared shirt, with rolled short sleeves, and a lightly flared, beige A-line skirt.

  Although my skirt was much shorter than the one in the movie.

  I had my satchel in the bike’s basket, and I peddled along to work with my hair flowing—probably more like tangling—behind me. But, hell if I cared.

  I stretched my hands out from the handlebars like I was flying… such freedom. I was in Europe—eek! I had a real, full-time job—finally! No cameras followed me—yay! And I was on track to earning acceptance into Stanvard Law—hooray!

  All of this because of beautiful Maravista—and if the prince deserved any credit, I’d never admit it. His ego was soaring higher than his jet plane that’d brought me here. He’d anticipated that I’d stay as his guest at his home, The Diamond Palace.