by Parker Grey
There’s three over by Beckett and Kieran, and though they’re all giggling and laughing, each of them has his hand on the same girl’s ass. I think I know which one they’re sharing tonight.
And me? There’s a redhead on my lap, though her hair is almost definitely fake, and she’s squirming around like a snake or something. Her tits are fake, and I can see her nipples through the shimmery pink material. After all, she’s practically shoving them up my nose.
“I’ve heard you’ve got a nickname,” she says in a baby-sweet voice, one finger on my chest. Like she’s suddenly coy or something.
I slide my hand over her ass, and even though it’s a nice ass, my cock doesn’t even twitch.
“And what’s that?” I say, my response practiced after hearing this a thousand times.
She smiles and leans in, her lips close to my ear.
“His Royal Hardness,” she purrs.
Too bad right now His Royal Hardness is limper than a wet spaghetti noodle.
“Do they,” I say, the words on autopilot. “Why do they say that?”
Her finger makes its way slowly down my chest, her lips still close to my ear. I close my eyes because of the sudden unpleasant prickling making its way down my spine.
“Because I’ve heard you have a king-sized cock and you know how to use it,” she whispers, her hand now on my lower belly.
A wave of revulsion passes through me, and suddenly I need to leave, now. I need her to get off me and I need to go outside and be somewhere, anywhere else.
I take a deep breath. I’ve never tried to get myself out of this situation before, so I’m not quite sure how to do it.
“Would you mind getting up for a moment?” I ask, politely as I can.
She pouts, not getting up, so I turn on the charm and grin at her as wickedly as I can.
“If you’re going to be a naughty girl, I’ll have to punish you when I get back,” I say, lowering my voice until it’s a growl while I palm her ass, then squeeze. “And you know how I punish naughty girls.”
“Do you promise?” she purrs, fluttering her eyelashes.
“I’m not going to dignify that with an answer,” I say, blatantly staring at her tits.
It works. She stands, wobbling slightly in her sky-high heels.
“I’ll be right back,” I say, and leave. I don’t even say goodbye to the other guys — they’ve all got their faces buried in their respective women, and they’ll figure out that I’ve left eventually.
I head toward the men’s room, but instead of heading in I push open an exit door into an alleyway, and as it clicks behind me, I take a deep breath of the clear, cool night air.
I don’t know what’s happening to me. I’ve never done that before, turned down a hot, ready-to-go girl, but I suddenly just had to get out of there.
Unbidden, I think about the waitress, yet-a-fucking-gain. How if she were wriggling like that on my lap I’d already be balls deep inside her, watching her face as her eyes rolled back as she felt every inch of me.
And fuck, there’s His Royal Hardness. Goddamn it, why couldn’t that happen a minute ago with the redhead?
I consider going back in and seeing if I can keep it up for her, but I’m just not in the mood. Instead I call my driver to pick me up, then head home early.
At least I won’t be in any goddamn tabloids.
Chapter Nine
Ella
When I get home the next day, Peyton and Slade are gathered around the dining room table squealing. Literally squealing, the sound so high-pitched it’s kind of hard to take.
Maybe there’s a new line of luxury eyeshadow, I think as I walk toward them.
“It’s so fancy,” Peyton breathes.
“It’s calligraphied and embossed,” Slade says authoritatively, as if she knows anything about either of those.
“Do you think he wrote it himself?” Peyton asks.
“He has such sexy handwriting.”
“Oh my god, what if he licked the envelope?”
I edge closer, wondering what they could possibly be talking about.
“What should we wear?”
“Oh my God.”
“Oh. My God.”
I walk into the room, and they both turn toward me, their mouths partly open, each holding a thick square of paper in her hand.
“Ella,” Slade says, her voice as serious as I’ve ever heard it. “We have a really big week ahead of us.”
I don’t respond, just raise my eyebrows.
“The prince. Is throwing. A ball,” Peyton adds, then holds out her piece of paper to me.
It’s an invitation.
Your Presence Is Requested
At the Royal Palace, Crystal Ballroom
Friday, May 17
Eight in the Evening
All eligible young women are strongly requested to attend.
Black tie.
I just read the invitation and don’t say anything for a long moment. It’s not like I know Prince Grayson even a little — we interacted for about five minutes total, and my extensive fantasies about him since don’t count — but he didn’t exactly seem like the formal ball type.
“Why do you think all eligible women are supposed to attend?” Peyton asks.
I hand the invitation back, keeping my mouth shut.
Slade gasps.
“Maybe he’s looking for a wife,” she says, her eyes going wide. “That’s why he sleeps around so much. He’s just been searching for the right woman this whole time, and now he’s almost given up finding her. This is his one last chance...”
She stares off into the distance, lost in her romantic reverie, and I leave and head to the kitchen before I laugh so hard I snort. Not that I know Prince Grayson beyond being shamelessly hit on, but I’ve got a feeling that he hasn’t been searching for his soulmate this entire time.
I’m pretty sure he’s just searching for his next conquest.
I make dinner, we eat, and then I clean the kitchen and do the dishes. Peyton and Slade don’t talk about anything but the ball, and their mother Livia actually encourages them.
They’re all being stupid. Whatever reason the prince is throwing this ball for, with such short notice, it’s not so he can find a wife. It’s not the fifteen hundreds any more, and that’s not how people date these days. It’s probably to announce his engagement to some high-born noblewoman or a princess from another country, and when Peyton and Slade realize what they’re there for, they’ll be crushed.
I almost feel bad for them. Almost.
But I keep thinking about the ball, like I’ve been thinking about Grayson almost non-stop. I don’t know what’s gotten into me, but I’ve replayed our interaction in my head at least a hundred times. I’ve thought endlessly about what could have happened if I’d said yes instead of no.
And weirdest of all? I think I’m beginning to regret my answer.
Not that I wanted to swipe my v-card in the bathroom at work or in the back of a limousine, but maybe if I had, I could stop thinking about it so much. Besides, everyone loses their virginity at some point, or almost everyone — why not get a good story out of it?
By the time I’ve done my chores and turned in for the night, I’ve decided.
I’m an eligible woman.
I’m going to ask Livia if I can go to the ball.
Livia purses her lips. The shape looks vaguely sea-creature like, thanks to extensive fillers and plastic surgery.
“You want to go to the ball,” she says, tapping a finger against one cheek.”
“I’m an eligible woman,” I say quietly.
“Well, technically, that’s a little bit up in the air, isn’t it?” she says, her gaze as cold as steel.
My stomach hardens into a knot, because she’s right.
Technically, even though I’m twenty-two, Livia is still my legal guardian and custodian. Any money that I have, she controls. If I run away, the cops deliver me back here.
I found out the hard way a long time ago that
it’s better to just stay.
“My debt is nearly paid,” I point out.
She leans back in her chair, an off-white baroque monstrosity that she’s so proud of.
“Are you remembering to count interest?” she asks, her tone of voice not changing.
Instantly, my blood boils. The interest is new. She mentioned it for the first time last year when I pointed out that I was nearly paid off, and that was the first time I realized that I have no power in this situation. None.
After my father died, Livia paid for my room, board, and education. She paid for it from my dead father’s money, but she resented having to spend money on me at all, so she devised a scheme.
Livia decided that I owed her for all that. Tens of thousands of dollars.
And Livia’s got friends. Powerful, influential friends, and they’re the ones who granted her custodianship over me, even though I’m legally an adult.
I’m trapped here until I’ve worked my debt off, and when Livia decided that interest was included, my term got a whole lot longer.
“Yes, I’m counting the interest,” I whisper.
“You know that even if he’s looking to marry, he’s not looking for you,” she says, her voice still cool and casual. “He’s looking for a high-born noblewoman with good breeding and lots of money, and my dear Ella, I’m afraid you haven’t got either.”
I don’t respond. Livia’s specialty is being cruel for cruelty’s sake. Her daughters are mostly just stupid, but Livia is mean.
“All right,” she suddenly says. “You can go if you finish all your chores and make sure that Peyton and Slade are properly outfitted and ready first.”
My mouth drops open.
“I can?” I say, astonished that Livia is being nice to me for once.
A smile crosses her face without reaching her eyes.
“Why not?” she says, and stands from her ugly-but-expensive chair and walks for the door. I’m just standing perfectly still, amazed that she said yes.
In the doorway, Livia turns back to me.
“Oh, Ella,” she says. “You’ll have to find something to wear.”
Chapter Ten
Grayson
“Hi, welcome to Tremaine’s—”
The hostess looks up at my face and stops short, the words dying on her lips.
“...Diner, how can I help you?” she finally finishes, her voice sounding a little dazed.
It’s a reaction I get pretty often, being the prince and all. I smile at her.
“I’ve actually got a meeting with the manager,” I say.
She just nods.
“Right. Of course, let me go see if Diane is here right now, I’ll be right back can I get you coffee or water or anything? You can please feel free to sit at the bar and someone will be right along.”
The words tumble nervously out of her mouth, and I give her my best royal smile.
“I’m quite all right, thank you,” I say.
See? I know my manners sometimes.
“Be right back,” she whispers, and then scurries off.
I wander to a display case full of pies and stand there for a long moment, peering in. They look okay as far as pies go: apple and banana creme and coconut and cherry, but my stomach is clenching inside me anyway.
The diner search hasn’t turned up shit. I’m starting to think that I hallucinated this girl, because no diner’s got an employment record of anyone who looks like her, not a single one in the entire city. It feels like I’m on some wild goose chase, only someone changed the rules and I have no idea what they are any more.
The ball is tonight, so this is my last chance to find her. After the ball, my father’s decreed that I narrow the pool, starting with the women at the ball. And I can’t imagine getting married to someone else, only to one day find the waitress.
“Hi. Excuse me?” it’s the hostess again, and I turn. She’s wringing her hands together in front of herself, looking so nervous she might jump out of her skin.
“Hi, sorry, so Diane isn’t around right now but the owner is here? Livia Tremaine? Would you like to talk to her instead?”
I smile at the girl, because she seems nearly terrified of me. Any other time, I’d probably try to seduce her, but the thought just doesn’t hold any appeal right now.
In fact, I haven’t gotten laid since I first met the waitress. Nearly a week. It’s my longest dry spell since I was a teenager, and it feels strange as hell.
“The owner would be just fine,” I say.
The girl nods and leads me back, apologizing again and again as we walk through the kitchen and then a narrow, hot hallway, since it’s the only way to Livia’s office.
Just as I’m about to step through her office door, something clicks. The Tremaine Diner must be the same Tremaine as Tremaine Holdings LLC, one of the biggest real estate developers in the city.
Gustav Tremaine, the guy who built the Tremaine empire from nothing, died about ten years ago. I was a kid, and I don’t remember the details all that well, but it was something sudden and tragic. A car accident, I think. I do remember there was a scandal because he hadn’t left a will, and after all the dust settled his second wife, who he’d only been married to for a few years, was in control of the company as well as all Gustav’s assets.
Livia Tremaine is standing up when I walk in, behind a big ugly metal desk, and she curtsies with as much grace as her tiny space will allow her.
“Prince Grayson, Your Highness,” she says. “Please accept my apologies for the state of the office, I didn’t know I was expecting you today—”
I wave her off.
“I gave you no reason to expect me,” I say, my tone formal and official.
“It’s certainly an honor. Please, sit.”
I follow her hand and sit in an office chair that’s definitely seen better days.
“I’m looking for someone who I believe is an employee of yours,” I say. “And while we’ve combed through your employee records, we’ve never managed to find this girl.”
Livia’s smiling at me, her teeth big and bright white, her hair bleach-blonde and perfectly waved on either side of her face, her eyelashes fake and her earrings huge. Everything about her screams trophy wife.
“What’s her name?”
I fold my hands in my lap and lean back, exuding an aura of authority even in this dingy place.
“I’m not actually sure,” I admit. “She wasn’t wearing a name tag when she served me last week.”
I could swear something in Livia’s face changes, but I don’t know what.
“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 t
he 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.