Unsuitable_Reverse Harem Royal Romance

by Penelope Wren

  He looked up harshly just then, seemingly right at me. I nearly dipped down before I realized he couldn't see me through the heavily-tinted windows.

  I peered at him thoughtfully. He could be described as handsome. At least, that's how I'd describe him. He had wavy brown hair and eyes so blue I could tell their color from where I was sitting. His physique was certainly… worthy of all the heavy breathing I was currently engaged in. Probably a result of all that bike-riding. He had a narrow waist and broad shoulders. He was also making those khaki uniform shorts work for him. Again, the bike-riding. He had nice calves. And thighs. My mouth went a little dry as I continued ogling him from the safety of the tinted windows.

  He was very angry-looking though. His brow was furrowed, his face red. That part wasn't attractive in the least.

  I checked myself. He had every right to be upset. He'd just been hit with my car for goodness' sake.

  George extended his hand, closing the wad of cash into the courier's. The courier looked down at it like he'd just been given a handful of angry skunks to dispose of rather than a significant amount of currency. He wrinkled his nose and visibly spat out words in my advisor's direction. Likely something crude, given the hand gesture that followed as he pocketed the cash and stood up. I couldn't really blame him. I wanted to give that gesture to George on the daily.

  I caught sight of his name, Kostas, embroidered on his shirt.

  Even as he uttered what was likely a well-deserved insult in George's direction, I could see something else there. Something in his eyes. That familiar look of someone being pulled under by a current they couldn't fight. I saw that look a lot when I studied my own reflection in the mirror, though I imagine my fight was quite a bit less urgent than the courier's.

  George had a way of taking situations and running with them without giving thought to anyone else. Giving no options, just scenarios upon which he'd already decided. It was infuriating.

  I made up my mind. I simply couldn't just stand—or sit—by and let this happen. I was the princess. If I wanted to speak to one of my subjects, who was George Smithe to tell me differently?

  I shot Amanda a defiant look and reached for the handle. The limo door swung open and I stepped out, my shoe scraping slightly on the sidewalk as I planted it firmly on the ground.

  George whipped around to face me, the look in his eyes gave him the appearance of a man dangling over a precipice and scrabbling for purchase. It was a new look for him.

  "Your HIGHNESS… I have everything under control, there's no need—"

  "I would like to apologize, George," I said adamantly. I'd have to hear about this later, but for now? I was in charge. I knew it. And I was going to take advantage of it.

  I smoothed down the front of my skirt and extended my hand towards the courier. "I'm very sorry this happened, sir."

  He stared at me, those eyes of his were wide with surprise. And even bluer now that I was up close. As a matter of fact, everything was a lot more up close. In a good way.

  He obviously hadn't known I was the one in the limo. His hand came out slowly, grasping mine. It was warm, calloused in places. It completely engulfed my own.

  "I'm Vi," I said with a smile. "And you are… Kostas?" I nodded towards the front of his shirt.

  "Yes? …Yes, I'm Kostas. Kostas Esker." He was still holding my hand, staring intently at my face in disbelief.

  "Well, Mr. Esker, please don't hesitate to contact me if there's anything else you need. I know it might be difficult to think of anything right now, but I can leave my—"

  "It's just… my bike…?" He glanced down at the twisted ball of metal.

  "Oh! Right. I suppose it's your livelihood, isn't it?"

  "I gave him ten thousand notes," George's voice hissed in my ear.

  "Ten thousand. Of course." I held my hand out behind me. It must not have been enough to cover the cost of the bike. Shame on George for short-changing this poor fellow. This poor fellow in his very form-fitting courier uniform. With his narrow waist and really nice legs and… ass and— "Amanda, could you hand me my purse?"

  "Your HIGHNESS," George hissed again. "It's been taken—"

  "How much does a new bike cost, Mr. Esker?" I clicked my pen and opened my checkbook.

  The courier's mouth fell open. Clearly he wasn't expecting this. He closed his mouth and pressed his lips together, looking down at the pavement. "It's just a bike, Highness. Seventy notes should cover the cost of it."

  "Oh," I said on an exhale, feeling the heat rising in my cheeks. Embarrassed, I looked down. "I suppose you'll have some left over then."

  "I'm giving it to a shelter. The one on Blaine Street," he mumbled defensively, glaring in George's direction. I gathered from context clues that George must have implied Mr. Esker would use it for nefarious purposes or something. I shot a look at my advisor that didn't quite match the emotion of the courier's, but likely allied me with him at the very least.

  "A homeless shelter? That sounds like a worthwhile donation." I smiled. In an entirely too wide fashion. Too much smiling. Too many teeth. I blamed it on my nerves. "I'll tell you what, I'll double the amount you were going to donate. I'll give it in your name and you keep the rest of the ten thousand notes, okay?" I began scribbling out a check for twenty thousand notes when the flash of camera bulbs on the sidewalk beside us distracted me.

  They must have been tailing us from the minute we left the palace. The ship dedication was a hot topic in the media, and had been since its very construction. If the media in Tinerly knew how to do anything, it was how to squeeze the very last drops of juice from a thoroughly-squeezed lemon.

  I finished writing out the check and handed it to Kostas hurriedly. The sudden flash of the cameras had startled me and I just wanted all of this to be over, ogling aside. I hadn't wanted to create a scene, simply to do the right thing. My hands shook as I held the check out towards him.

  I steeled my expression, trying to keep my eyes hard and my face neutral. I knew how easily a photo could be turned in one direction or another by an unscrupulous reporter.

  He chuckled, his tone dark and humorless. "Is that what this was? A photo op? My mistake for actually thinking one of the royals could be a decent human being…"

  He spoke the words like a child expelling bad-tasting medicine. Like he'd been holding them in his mouth and he couldn't wait for an opportunity to be rid of them.

  My mouth was drier than before and my face was flushed with heat. I brought my hand up to my forehead without thinking. No matter what I did, the words wouldn't come.

  "I guess I'm just a fluff piece, huh?" he continued, to my mortification. "Picture of you on the front page being nice to a lowly subject so that no one sees the latest bullshit your idiot father is forcing on us? Because fuck that, Your 'Highness'."

  He tore up the check into tiny pink pieces, throwing them up in the air. They fluttered down to the sidewalk like snow. I followed their descent with my eyes, blinking back the tears that threatened to fall.

  Amanda's hand was on my shoulder, tugging me back into the limo as George chastised Mr. Esker, who looked angry enough to spontaneously combust.

  I allowed my assistant to tuck me back into the plush limo seat. I turned my head to look out the opposite window, my cheeks were still burning with the humiliation that came with being dressed down in public by someone who basically hit the nail on the head, though I had been just as surprised by the cameras as he had been.

  What was I thinking? I hadn't gone out to apologize for the good of the courier. I'd gone out to ease my own conscience. And look what had happened: I felt even worse.

  "Amanda?"

  "Hmm?"

  "Find out the name of the shelter on Blaine Street. I want to make sure they get that money. Send it anonymously."

  Amanda was silent for a moment, but she finally nodded in reluctant agreement. "Vi…you can't let him get to you. There are so many people who are angry right now. None of it is your fault."

&nb
sp; "He was right, though. He was just a fluff piece. I'm just a fluff piece."

  I was. I was just a big puff of cotton candy to offset the policies and laws the Council was voting into being. Policies that, as I understood it, were wholly unpopular with the masses. My hairstyle and shoes, however? Those were safe topics to make the Crown look better in the public eye.

  Cotton candy was all sugar and air, no substance. Just like me.

  Let them eat cake, indeed.

  Here I had been worried about which prince I was going to choose to marry, when there were people suffering in my country. Due to the 'bullshit' my idiot father was forcing on them. The so-called 'bullshit'.

  I supposed that had stung the worst of all, hearing my father being called an idiot.

  I didn't believe it for a second; no one who spoke with or knew him at all would. He simply made unpopular decisions. Very unpopular.

  Amanda's hand appeared on mine, squeezing gently before George reentered the limo. He sat down without a word, buckling his seatbelt over his waist and pinching the bridge of his nose for a few seconds as the driver pulled away from the curb.

  "Sit up straight, Princess. That's Etrian silk… that dress."

  I snapped to attention, immediately straightening my back and pressing my knees together. My mind was still back on the curb with the angry courier, growing further and further away.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Kostas

  I swore again loudly as the black limo zoomed off. The group of photographers and reporters had started to disperse as soon as it became clear I wasn't going to talk to them.

  I fought back the urge to flip up my middle finger at those who remained on the sidewalk around the scene of the accident. Instead, I hoisted my battered bike up over my shoulder. I still had a delivery to make. To some law offices downtown. Luckily, the package was just a certified letter and nothing breakable, or I'd be doubly screwed.

  I darted through the crowds as best as I could with a crumpled ball of metal and bike tires on my shoulder. I nearly tripped over at least three people sitting on the walkways. It seemed like the beggars were out en masse today. Or maybe there were just more. It wasn't just the beggars out today, though. The walkways were filling up with protesters, the latter of which I hadn't seen this far from the docks before.

  It was a mess downtown, and it all had to do with that damn luxury liner. The Sofia's dedication was today. How could I have forgotten when it was splashed across the front page of every paper in the country, as if Justana had no other newsworthy events to report on other than that expensive piece of garbage in the harbor?

  Just thinking about the stupid eyesore was enough to get my blood boiling again. Anew. Afresh. Two years of hard labor had gone into building that monstrosity, a gift to the Etrian king. A gift to thank him for his pseudo-involvement in a war that Justana shouldn't have started, a war that had nearly crippled our country. A war that we were just now recovering from. If what the bulk of the population—those not born to undeserved privilege—was doing could be called recovering.

  I would have been right there with the protesters if my job wasn't on the line. My boss wasn't really a fan of peaceful protests if it interfered with packages being delivered.

  Just thinking about the tax dollars wasted…

  I took a deep breath to calm down, trying to clear my mind of all the idiocy I'd witnessed. Of course, once I'd done that, the only thing I could think about was her.

  The fucking nerve she had. Princess Violet. Trying to smooth things over, fluff up her Daddy's reputation by donating money to one shelter. One shelter out of dozens in this city alone. Did she think that a smile, a royal hand-shake with her silky, soft hand, and a single check were going to make up for how many people had lost their homes?

  No matter how sweet her smile or how soft her skin was, she was still a member of the privileged class.

  I bit my lip and forced the image of the princess out of my mind. I wasn't thinking straight. Clearly, I was more shaken up than I'd previously thought.

  I arrived at the law offices, opting to leave my mangled bike on the sidewalk outside. I sighed audibly when it wouldn't fit in the bike rack and decided not to use the lock. If someone thought they could salvage it and decided to steal it, more power to them.

  I leapt up the stairs two at a time, not calm enough to wait for an elevator. My knee stung, but the pain took my mind off the pesky memory of the princess' soft hand encased in mine. It had been so small, so delicate-looking, yet she had a firm grip.

  A firm grip and, at the risk of sounding like a weak-willed sycophant, she also had a nice smile. A really nice smile. I'd been taken aback by how attractive she'd been up close.

  Not that she wasn't attractive from afar. In fact, I couldn't even count the number of times I'd heard the equivalent of locker room talk surrounding Princess Violet, especially in the repair garage at work.

  There was something classic about her look. The full lips, the smooth brown hair, the piercing blue eyes. Her narrow waist and hourglass figure, which made for a nice silhouette.

  She had extremely good fashion sense. Probably. According to all the magazines, anyway. It wasn't really my wheelhouse. I wasn't sure how much of it was sense and how much it was the media falling all over itself to suck up because she was royalty. I couldn't really find anything to complain about in regards to her attire today, however. A pale green, silky dress that hugged her waist and dipped down a tasteful amount in the front.

  Not that I'd been looking. And if I had been? Well. I'd just been hit by a car. I hadn't been thinking straight.

  Still wasn't, if my current train of thought was any indication. I shouldn't be thinking about how attractive the princess looked in that dress. I should be thinking about how absolutely clueless she was as to the plight of the working class in Justana. She was the heir to the throne, after all. Who cared about how well the heir dressed when the country was going down the drain with all the grace of an angry cat in a toilet bowl?

  I had collected myself somewhat by the time I reached the fourth floor landing. I managed composure, even if I was a little sweaty and scuffed up.

  It wouldn't be a big deal, though. I'd gotten to the law offices with minutes to spare, upheld the mission statement of my employer. . At least the Justana Delivery Service's reputation wouldn't be tarnished by a stupid accident.

  I dropped off the paperwork and accepted a tip from Karen, the receptionist. She usually giggled and blushed whenever I talked to her, but I must have looked more rough than I had realized. Instead of flirting, she'd smiled nervously, pressing a larger than normal tip into my hand before I turned to leave.

  I stuck the bills deep in my pocket, along with the stack of cash I'd received from the princess' advisor. I elected to use the elevator on my way out; my knee was really starting to smart. I burst out of the air conditioned lobby and into the heat, scowling at my bike, which was still sitting there. A sad heap of twisted metal on the sidewalk.

  I made my way back to the main branch of JDS with the mess hoisted over my back again, intending to drop what was left of the bike in the garage. I'd have to ask one of the mechanics if it was salvageable. True, I had a stack of notes in my pocket that would more than cover it, but it had been a nice bike. I wasn't sure I could find another I liked as much. I was a creature of habit, if I was anything. And that bike had been mine. .

  I was ready to leave it in a corner somewhere when I spotted Kerry Martin wiping down his hands on a rag. The mechanic's station was empty, an opening if there ever was one.

  Most of the mechanics wouldn't work on bikes. They were only paid for the repairs they made to the electric scooters and delivery vans, so they usually put the bike couriers off until we ended up fixing it ourselves.

  Kerry, on the other hand, was a friend of mine. He didn't mind taking a look at my bike when it wasn't busy in the garage.

  I plopped the bicycle-turned-pretzel on the ground, holding it upright with one hand.
"Can I borrow you for a minute?"

  Kerry turned, his eyes widening. "Whoa. What the hell happened?"

  I shrugged. "Fell off a curb."

  "I'm gonna repeat myself. Dude. What the hell happened?" He wasn't looking at the bike, he was looking at me. "You look like you got hit by a car or something."

  "A limo, but that's beside the point. Can you look at my bike?"

  Kerry blinked, running a greasy hand through his short, spiky blond hair. "Okay…Are you alright, though? Do I need to take you to the hospital or something?"

  I shook my head. "I'm fine. I jumped mostly out of the way. The bike did not."

  "Is your leg bleeding?"

  I looked down at the one I'd skinned. It was indeed bleeding. Dripping down as far as my sock cuff.

  "It's just a scratch, man. Can you help me fix this?" I gestured to the bike.

  Kerry scoffed. "Fix what? It's a ball of metal…"

  "I mean, I understand that I might have to replace some parts. Just tell me what I need to do."

  My friend shook his head in disbelief. He walked around the bike, flicking the rear reflector and sending a spray of orange plastic shards everywhere. He bent slightly to remove the seat post, handing it to me.

  "There. Replace the rest. Did you get a license plate number? You should at least get a couple of x-rays and a new bike out of it. And a few days off work might do you some good. Do you own a neck brace? You should probably start wearing one. You know. Until you get your settlement. "

  I rolled my eyes. "I don't waste my time trying to sue rich people for money I don't need. Besides. They already paid me a 'settlement'. "I tugged the stack of cash out of my pocket. Not all the way out, but enough for Kerry to see.

  "Holy SHIT! Who ran you over?"

  "I didn't get run over."

  "Details," Kerry scoffed. "Fine. Who hit you with their mother-fucking limousine?"

  I tried to shush him.