“You have interns?”
“Two.”
I attempt to form words, but nothing comes out. Caulfield doesn’t seem to notice, though; she’s too busy singing the praises of the interns she hired without bothering to ask for permission. “They both have marketing degrees from Vasgaard University. Excellent references. Big online presence. Stellar work-ethic. Oh, and they’ve signed iron-clad NDAs, of course.”
“Of course,” I agree, as though I’m not totally baffled by the woman standing before me. “But what exactly do these interns do here?”
She beams. “Monitor your Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram presence, mainly. Even I must sleep sometimes, Your Majesty — but the internet never does!”
“Can we back up for a second? I’m just still not sure I understand.”
“Understand what, My Queen?”
“Why, exactly, are people tweeting about me and my gloves — or lack thereof?” Frankly, after everything that’s happened in the past twenty-four hours, the fact that I didn’t wear formal gloves to Alden’s party seems inconsequential.
Caulfield laughs lightly. “You are something of a global phenomenon, Your Majesty. Your story is incredible. I wasn’t going to mention this to you until I had more specifics, but… Oh, what the hell!” She leans in, whispering like a schoolgirl. “Several Hollywood producers have already been in touch with me about the potential for a movie adaptation of your story. I personally think we should hold out for Netflix to make an offer, though. Have you seen The Crown? Queen Elizabeth will look like an old bag of rags, next to you…”
My mouth falls open.
Did she seriously just say that?!
“Oh, listen to me, getting ahead of myself.” She waves away her own words. “The important thing is, your appearance last night generated lots of traction, as I predicted. Several million people are actively tweeting about you. Some of them are negative comments, of course — everyone’s a critic, these days! — but my analysis of the content overall seems overwhelmingly favorable. The millennials simply adored seeing you flout convention by ditching the royal dress code. Power to the people, and all that nonsense!” She winks. “As for the other age brackets… in truth, I’m surprised anyone over the age of fifty even understands how to create a Twitter account, but apparently some of them have figured it out. Your vintage silver dress was a particular hit among the older demographic. A callback to the days of old — assuming they can even remember that far into their pre-dementia days. Senile subjects’ support is still support, though! We’ll take all we can get.”
My hands ball into fists at my sides — mainly to keep from reaching out and throttling the idiot woman chirping away in front of me.
Caulfield remains blissfully unaware of my growing irritation, typing diligently into her phone. “All in all, I’d call this a win on both sides of the curve, Your Majesty! Didn’t I tell you — the people are just pleased to see you out and about after such a long hiatus from the public eye! Keep this up, your Instagram follower count will surpass Prince Harry and that tacky American he married in no time!”
I’m so stunned, I hardly know what to address first — the fact that this woman legitimately thinks it’s appropriate to sell off the tragedy of my life to money-hungry television studios? The creation of multiple unauthorized social media accounts? The hiring of staff members I’ve never even met? The fact that she addressed the world’s longest-reigning British monarch as an old bag of rags?
I decide to start simply, striving to keep my voice level. “How did they even get photographs of me last night? I certainly didn’t post any, Caulfield.”
“Well, of course not, silly. Organic, viral content can never come straight from you — it has to be generated by others to seem authentic.” Her head lifts from the screen long enough to shoot a grin at me. For the first time, I notice there’s a strangely maniacal bent to it. “That’s why I tipped off the paparazzi. They were camped out in the bushes at Westgate, snapping pictures of your arrival.”
I go rigid with tension.
She doesn’t seem to notice. “The rest was easy-peasy — do you have any idea how many people at that party posted photographs and videos of you on their social media pages? I should put them on retainer, they make my job so much easier!”
The strangest feeling is stirring in my chest — a cold front of disbelief colliding with a warm front of rage, condensing to form what can only be described as a storm of absolute fury.
“Caulfield,” I say slowly, teeth clenched.
“Mmm?” She’s smiling down at her phone screen, where video snippet after video snippet of my dance with Alden play out in fifteen second loops. She looks quite pleased with herself; totally unaware of my impending wrath. “What is it, My Queen?”
“You’re fired.”
Her phone, which I thought was permanently affixed to her fingers, clatters to the corridor floor. “What?”
“You. Are. Fired.”
“But, Your Majesty— There must be some kind of misunderstanding—”
“No, I understand perfectly, Caulfield. I understand that you have violated the agreement we made when I hired you to help manage my public image. I understand that, instead of protecting my privacy, you have treated it as a commodity to be sold to the highest bidder.”
“My Queen—”
“I am not done,” I cut her off savagely, leaning in to maintain eye contact. She looks like she wants to sink into the stones and disappear. “But you are. Please take your interns and your social media campaigns and your plans for the TV-movie adaptation of my life and go. You can turn over the passwords to whatever profiles you’ve created to my personal guard on your way out.”
Caulfield deflates visibly before me, a birthday balloon leaking helium five days after the party’s end. “I apologize if I overstepped. I was only trying to help create a groundswell of support for you, Your Majesty. I know things have been difficult lately; I wanted to minimize that by whatever means possible.” She pushes her glasses slightly higher on the bridge of her nose. “If you give me another chance, I’ll show you I can do this job in a way that better suits your needs.”
I hesitate a beat.
Am I being too harsh, here?
“I mean, we don’t have to do the movie right away,” she tells me in what I’m sure she believes is a diplomatic tone. “We can push the timeframe six months or so. The producers I spoke to were hoping for a Christmas release, to maximize revenue over the holidays… but summer is as good a time as any for a trip to the theater.” Her voice drops dramatically, mimicking a movie trailer voiceover. “Hidden Lion: The Untold Story of a Secret Queen. That’s just a working title, for now, but I think it really sizzles. Don’t you agree?”
I take a deep breath, summoning calm. Then another — in through my nose, out through my mouth. Once more. And once more after that. Unfortunately, this exercise does very little to tame my temper.
“Caulfield?”
“Y-yes?” she stammers, eyes going wide behind her thick frames when she hears the wrath plain-as-day in my voice.
“See yourself out. Now.”
I turn and walk away before I can do something rash, like smash my heel down on the screen of her smartphone with all my might.
Rogue Royal: A Queen Without Council
How’s that for a damn working title?
“Hey.”
“Hey yourself.” Chloe’s smile is wobbly, but at least she’s smiling. I take that as a good sign as I approach her bed, the food tray balanced in my hands. My grip is surprisingly steady, considering an hour ago I was brimming with anger at my former advisor.
Amazing what a full stomach of fresh-baked scones can do for one’s disposition.
“I brought you something to eat. I figured you might be hungry.” I pause. “Don’t worry, I didn’t attempt to cook. This is Patricia’s doing.”
“Thanks, E.”
I set the tray down on her bedside table and settle myself on th
e end of her bed. She makes no move to pick up the sandwich or soup I’ve brought her. She’s so thin, I want to shove it into her hands and watch her devour every bite, just to assure myself she’s actually eating. I knit my knuckles together to contain the impulse as I lift my eyes to hers.
“How are you feeling?”
“Honestly?” She laughs without humor. “Like a dumpster fire.”
I wince. “Sorry.”
“Why are you sorry? You didn’t make me snort a fuck-ton of coke followed by what I think was a tab of molly, then wash it down with at least four vodka sodas. That was all me.”
“How much of last night do you remember?”
“Bits and pieces.” Her head tilts. “I remember you standing in that room with all the tapped kegs. Hugging me. Telling me you wanted me to come home.” She swallows harshly. “I don’t remember how we got here, though, or how I got into these god-awful pajamas.”
“Hey!” I protest, glaring at her oversized t-shirt. The phrase NAMASTE IN BED is emblazoned across its front. “That is my favorite sleep shirt! Just because it’s not the designer lingerie you usually wear…”
“I usually don’t wear anything.” She winks with a shadow of her old humor. “Naked sleep is the best sleep.”
“Trust me, I saw so much naked Chloe last night, I’m set for life.”
Her brows lift. “What?”
“Who do you think helped you shower and put you to bed?”
She groans. “God, I’m sorry. I’m such a fucking mess. You shouldn’t have to deal with this shit, E. You’ve got enough on your plate.”
“Right now, the most important thing on my plate is you,” I inform her. “I meant what I told you last night — you’re my family. There’s nothing I won’t do to help you. That includes shampooing questionable substances out of your hair.”
She winces. “Gross.”
“Totally.”
“I guess I owe you big time now, huh?”
“You don’t owe me anything, Chloe. But you owe it to yourself to figure out why you’re using till the point of blacking out on disgusting bar floors.” I tread carefully, not wanting to push her too hard right off the bat. “You’ve never been averse to the party scene, but from what I can see… things have reached a new level. Not necessarily a healthy level, if you want my opinion.”
She’s curled into a ball, knobby knees pulled to her chest. She stares at the bedspread so intently, you’d think it were a Monet.
“I’m not trying to lecture you, Chloe. God knows, I’m the last person in the world who should be lecturing anyone about anything. I’m a freaking mess, too.” I shake my head lightly. “But I’m worried about you. So is your brother.”
“My brother.”
“Yes.”
Her eyes lift to mine, slightly narrowed. “You know, I’ve always found that a little funny.”
“What?”
“You call me your sister. But never once have I heard you refer to Carter as your brother. He’s always very clearly my brother… never yours.”
I swallow nervously. “Your point being?”
“No point. I just find it interesting.”
I’m suddenly glad she only remembers fragments of last night. She’d be deeply mortified if she knew half the things she said to Carter about me.
I’m not the one who needs an intervention — you are.
You’re the addict, big brother.
You just can’t see it because your drug doesn’t come in a pill or a bottle.
It’s a girl you can’t have, and it’s fucking killing you.
I clear my throat. “I’m glad you’re here. Did I say that already?”
“You might’ve. My memory is a bit hazy.”
“Then, once more for the official record books: I’m happy you’re back home, where you belong.” I reach out and tentatively take her hand in mine. Her skin is ice-cold and far too clammy. “I’m sorry for ever telling you to leave. For making you feel like I didn’t want you in my life. It was a mistake. I was just so blinded by grief, I couldn’t see it. And by the time I pulled myself out of that spiral… you were already long gone.”
Chloe nods. “I understand. Trust me. I’ve made plenty of messes in my own life — drug related and otherwise. You don’t have to apologize to me, E. We’re good.”
“Fine. But can I do one other thing?”
“Depends what it is.”
“Can I be mushy for a second?”
“What do you— oof!” Her question cuts off abruptly as I haul her into my arms. Neither of us is what you’d call touchy-feely; we’ve only ever hugged a handful of times. But I don’t care about any of that right now. I just tighten my hold, squeezing her until she’s complaining about cracked ribs. Her voice is laced with a laugh, though, so I ignore her protests completely.
We’re still wrapped in an embrace when her bedroom door swings inward. We both turn to look as Carter crosses the threshold. He’s shirtless, his hair still damp from a shower, a pair of dark gray sweatpants slung low on his hips. It takes all my self-control to keep from gaping at the sight of his rippling abdominal muscles.
Christ.
I have a distinct memory of the last time I saw them — specifically, of my mouth tracing each indentation, down down down, a slow path from his sternum to his belly button to his—
“Big brother!” Chloe exclaims, shattering my NSFW thought process. “You’re here too?”
Carter scowls darkly. “Of course I’m here too. Who the fuck do you think hauled you out of that club?”
“Um. Emilia?”
“And who do you think told Emilia you were at that club?”
“Ah.” She smiles wanly. “Well. Thanks for making my humiliation a full family affair. Next time maybe we can just go camping or something, though.”
Crossing his arms over his chest, he gives her a patented look of older sibling disapproval. “Don’t be cute. There’s nothing cute about this situation and you know it, Chloe.”
“Sorry, I wasn’t aware I was being cute. I’ll work on being less adorable starting immediately.”
“I mean it. You aren’t sixteen anymore. You’re an adult. You need to start taking better care of yourself,” he says sternly. “No more benders. No more going off the rails, falling off the wagon. No more of this half-sober, half-hot-mess line you’ve been treading.”
“No more?” She laughs. “Or else… what, exactly? Are you going to take away my bong? Institute a curfew? Am I grounded, Dad?”
Carter’s jaw clenches at her flippancy. “I’m not your father, Chloe, but I might as well be. I am the only person who’s had your back since the day you took your first breath in this world.”
“Isn’t that sort of your obligation as my older brother?” Her nose scrunches. “Aren’t you required by law to be an utter pain in my ass?”
Carter doesn’t even crack a smile. “Just because I’ve been there in the past to clean up your messes doesn’t mean I always will be. How many times do you expect me to stand on the sidelines, waiting to step in when you inevitably decide to destroy yourself?”
She flinches. “If I’m such a burden, just leave already. I don’t need you.”
“That’s rich, given how many times I’ve pulled you back from the brink.” His laugh is so bitter, it almost makes me wince. “You know, if you’re going to keep doing this, you could at least have the decency to let me know in advance, so I know where to send the ambulance. Hey, Carter, I’m planning to do so much blow my heart stops tonight. Should be good for defibrillation around midnight. Tell the paramedics I’ll be on the floor of a vomit-covered stall in the women’s restroom at Club Coriander.”
“You’re such an asshole,” she snaps.
“And you’re an addict. We’ve all got crosses to bear, little sister. I’m working on my issues; what are you doing about yours?”
They glare at each other, at an impasse. Stony silence descends over the room. With a bolstering breath, I wade into it.<
br />
“I think we’ve established that no one in this room is perfect,” I murmur. “Everybody is a mess in their own way. Everybody needs help sometimes. There’s no shame in admitting that.” I swallow hard. “Chloe… I want to be there for you. We—” I glance quickly at Carter, and he gives a small nod. “We both want to be there for you. But the thing is, no matter how much anyone else wants to help… it won’t make a damn bit of difference. Not until you’re ready to accept it. Not until you’re ready to help yourself.”
Her head pivots toward me, eyes narrowed to slits. “You think I haven’t tried to get clean? You think I haven’t attempted staying sober? You make it sound so fucking easy.”
“I never said it was easy. It’s going to be hard. It’ll probably feel damn near impossible, some days.”
“Delightful,” she mutters.
“Chloe.”
I wait until she looks at me and, when she does, I see the fear in her eyes. It’s there, simmering just below the sassy retorts and snappy comebacks.
She’s afraid.
Afraid of what we’re saying. Afraid of the tough road that lies ahead of her. Afraid she won’t be able to stay upright without the crutch of happy pills and gin-soaked benders.
“I may not have known you all that long, but I think I know you pretty well, Chloe Thorne,” I whisper softly. “So I know you don’t want to keep living like this. Not really. Not if you’re being honest with yourself.”
Her fingers flex against the fabric of the bedspread, tapping out nervous patterns. Her only answer is a noncommittal hum through pursed lips.
I lean in, trying to catch her eyes again. “If I’m right — if you actually want to change — you have to commit to it completely. That means no more snorting coke at shitty clubs. It also means no more convenient baggie of pills in your pockets, no more stash of pot gummy bears, no more bong hits before breakfast. You can’t leave the door to addiction ajar; this time, you have to shut it completely. All or nothing.”
“Look — I know it’s been bad, lately. I’ve been bad,” she says in a small voice. “But this is all being blown out of proportion. A little pot isn’t going to hurt me. I’m going to be better. Try harder. I promise. Moderation. That’s the key.”
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