by L V Chase
Not My Prince
Roman Academy Rules Book One
L. V. Chase
Copyright © 2020 by L. V. Chase
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to names, characters, businesses, events, incidents, and locations are products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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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
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
About the Author
1
Cin
“Cin, don’t be so difficult,” my mother says, running her hands over the smooth silk tablecloth on the restaurant table. She peers at me through her platinum blonde bangs, the strands nearly getting caught in her fake eyelashes. “Men want someone innocent and naive. They want control. Your job is to reassure them of their dominance in the relationship.”
I twirl the butter knife in my hand, refraining from pointing out the lack of stunning successes in her own history. “Sounds like they’d be better off adopting a kid. Or a puppy.”
She snatches the knife out of my hand and places it back on the napkin. She stares at the two forks beside it before placing the knife back on the other side of my appetizer plate. If she was concerned about things being misplaced, she should have been more concerned about the two of us in this upscale restaurant. I’ve avoided letting my arms touch the white tablecloth. I’m afraid of lifting my arms away from it and seeing twin stains left behind. It’s what happens when you grow out of the dirt.
“You may have a point,” she snaps. “There are five-year-olds with better manners than you. Poodles, too, probably.”
She might be right. I’m doing my best not to squirm in my seat, and I’m hating it. The overhead lights might give the other guests the appearance of saintly halos, but my mother looks like she’s waiting in a booking room for a cop to chew her out. I can’t imagine I look much better.
“I’m trying to give you a chance,” my mother continues. “Cin, listen to me. You nearly flunked last year. The only reason the interviewer’s coming is to fill some pity quota. So they can say they gave everyone an equal chance.”
She takes a deep drink of her wine. The waiter appears, refilling her wine and my glass of water, somehow keeping an eye on her unquenchable thirst.
“Thank you,” I say.
“My pleasure,” the waiter says.
His eyes drop down to my blouse. It’s about two sizes too small, but it’s the only piece of clothing I own that doesn’t come from a clothing drive or look like it came from one. I place my hand over my chest where three buttons meet my collarbone. He smiles faintly before walking away.
My mother sips her wine. “This guy, this interviewer, or whatever he is—he’s paying for the meal, right?”
“He didn’t say.”
“The only reason I came is…” She shakes her head, her lip curled up in distaste. “This is hopeless, isn’t it? I love you, Cin, but school isn’t one of your strong points. When you were in fourth grade, your teacher called to tell me you spelled English wrong.”
“I have dyslexia, Mom.” I pick up the knife again, twisting it between my fingers. “But remember the point of that call? I misspelled English but nailed bitch.”
She waves away my explanation. “If that excuse tells you anything, it’s that you should be focusing on your body, not your brain. So, focus. When a man walks toward you, what do you do?”
I set the knife back down. “Look down. Act coy. Interested, but not too interested.”
She sips from her glass, wiping away the drop of wine on her bottom lip with the back of her hand. “When he’s in front of you, what do you do?”
“Flirt by touching his tie,” I say. “Make sure it’s silk.”
“Then?”
I lean back in my chair, looking over toward the entrance doors. He should be here any minute.
“Cin,” my mother prompts.
“Look for other designer labels. Look for small accessories like a Rolex. Check for car keys.”
“I’m sorry, am I boring you, Cinnamon?” My mother grips her wine glass like it’s going to run away. “I’m trying to prepare you for the real world. I don’t want you to struggle like I did.”
She only uses my full name when she’s trying to needle me extra hard. She knows I can’t stand it. What kind of mother gives her daughter a stripper’s name? The one sitting across from me, that’s who.
I sit up, looking at her again. “That’s what this meeting’s for.”
“This meeting isn’t going to do anything. Art? You think art is the answer?” She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. “I’ve lived for thirty-four years. You don’t think I’ve learned a little more than you? Your youth is all you have. Use it. You can have art as a fun little hobby after you get married.”
“I’d prefer to make it on my own.”
She rolls her eyes. “And just how have you been doing on your own? We should look up your last boyfriend sometime. What was his name?”
I pick at my nails. Paint traces the cuticles, bright red lines. “Damian White.”
“Right. What’s Damian up to now? Did her take over his daddy’s car shop? Oh, no. That’s right. His daddy lost his business, and all Damian’s going to inherit is a fat pile of debt. You really want to be tied to that for the rest of your life?”
“Mom, you already won that war,” I say. “Let it go.”
She shakes her head. “I did a good thing for you, baby girl. It wasn’t pretty, but it was for your own good.”
I look towards the door again. The interviewer is late. I love my mother, but if I have to sit through her idea of etiquette lessons any longer, I might snap.
“Cin,” she calls softly so that I turn back to her. “Focus. Pretend a man’s in front of you. He asks what you think about some scandal or war or whatever. What do you say?”
I let out a harsh breath. “A wealthy man would never ask me that. They'd be too busy talking about their struggle between choosing whether to vacation in Bali or Tahiti.”
She slaps her palm against the table. The couple sitting in the table behind her jolt, glancing over at us before quickly looking away. You’d think poverty was contagious.
“I’m trying to help,” my mother hisses. “For once, just once, you could be a little more grateful.”
“I am, Mom,” I say, reaching over the table. She pulls away from my hand. I settle my hands back on my lap.
“Sorry,” I mutter before continuing. “I’d figure out what he wants me to say by answering slowly while watching his expression. If I can’t figure it out, I tell him I don’t know anything about it.”
“Good,” she says, smiling. “In your case, I’d stick to saying you don’t know anything. You’re not good at reading expressions.”
As she takes another sip of her wine, I turn towards a framed painting hanging on the wall beside us. It’s the Colosseum in Rome, but the colors rain down onto the Pantheon. I wonder about the painter and her ambitions. Did she ever want her painting to do more than sit over there while people devoured stuffed shells? Or was having this place buy her painting already more than her wildest dream?
How many artists failed to achieve even this much? Hundreds of thousands? Millions?
Who the fuck am I to think I could do better?
The maître d' stops at our table, gesturing to the chair beside my mother. The man behind him doesn’t say anything before reaching across the table to shake my hand. I hurriedly shake it. It’s clammy.
This man looks like the manager of a train-wreck celebrity. His suit is pristine, but he has the sunken face of an addict and the barely concealed expression of someone who’s lost all hope in humanity. His hair is also two shades darker than his eyebrows, so he must have given up hope halfway through his dye job.
Fuck. I’m getting just as judgmental as my mother.
“You must be the Reeves girl from Washington High,” he says. He turns to shake my mother’s hand as the maître d' walks away. “And you must be her mother, although I might think you were her sister if I didn’t know better.”
He knows the exact right button to push. My mother’s face lights up, the biggest smile I’ve seen on her in years. She pats the chair at her side, and John Byrnes sits, setting his bag down beside him.
He isn’t quite what I pictured. For a prestigious private school that’s known to launch careers and open doors to elite art school, I figured he’d be in a suit and tie. But I had also figured that he’d have a bit more flair, like an expressive, creative person.
I hold my hands in my lap. “Hello, Mr. Byrnes. It’s so nice to meet you. This is such a nice restaurant. I’ve never been here before.”
“You should try the stuffed flank steak,” he says. “It’s a masterclass in fine cuisine.”
My mother is eyeing him like he’s the steak, but she’s hungry for signs of wealth. Her eyes focus on his gold cufflinks as she plays with her hair.
As Mr. Byrnes and the waitress discuss the wine selection, my mother leans towards me. “He’s at least upper-middle class. This is your first test. Get him interested in you and make this whole charade worth it,” she whispers.
When he turns back towards us, I take a quick sip of my water. My mother’s eyes are drilling into me. I refold my napkin into the shape of a sailboat.
“So, Miss Reeves,” he says, clasping his hands over his appetizer plate. “Let’s discuss your body of work. It showed an enormous amount of potential. However, Roman Academy has noticed a trend where our art scholarship students tend to have a rebellious streak. As admirable as that can be for certain organizations, our school isn’t interested in such attributes. We believe in community and cooperation. Would you consider yourself to fit our expectations?”
That wasn’t the first question I expected. I stare blankly for a second. “I’m not interested in making any trouble,” I finally say. “Just art.”
He nods. “So, would you consider yourself to be accommodating?”
I force a smile, trying to relax the tension in my shoulders. I grew up on a block where being accommodating was asking to be put in the crosshairs. But if it’s between going to this private school or going back to that school, I’d be the president of accommodation.
“I care about other people,” I say. “So, I care about whether or not they’re happy. I’d consider that accommodating.”
His smile reminds me of the one the local drug dealer gives me when I pass him every day. He wants to get under my skin and under me, and he’s lets me know that in more colorful ways each time. I try to ignore him, but he’s getting pushier. It’ll be only a few more walks before I accommodate that idiot with a trip to the hospital.
I try my best to wade through the rest of Mr. Byrnes’ questions. They’re the usual ones I expect—about my aspirations, my expectations, how I deal with failure—but the last few questions slither out of nowhere.
He sips the last of his wine. “Do you believe people should be respected for their financial wealth?”
“Sometimes,” I say. My mother nudges her knee against my knee. “Well, all people should be respected.”
“Does money buy happiness?”
I look down at my hands, prying another flake of paint off of my nails. “It can buy peace of mind. Sometimes.”
“Would you be willing to have your photo taken for the school files?”
My head shoots up. “Do you mean for the photo ID?”
“You haven’t been accepted yet,” he says smoothly. “We just like to have photos of the applicants, so we can remember that we’re talking about real people and not just names on transcripts. It helps when we have a discussion with the full committee.”
“Oh.”
My mother touches my arm, her thumb hidden underneath digging sharply into my skin. “Of course, she’d love to. Cin is very accommodating.”
As Mr. Byrnes turns to his bag, pulling out a camera, my mother stands up and moves over to the chair beside me. She leans forward, hugging me. She never hugs me.
“Be provocative,” she whispers in my ear, still holding me tight. She undoes the first button on my blouse. I scramble to fasten it again, but she shoves my hands away. “It’s practice. Put some effort into it.”
As she pulls away, I see Mr. Byrnes watching us.
“We can use the backdrop of the inner entrance,” he says.
He motions towards the front of the restaurant where it’s only slightly more private than out here. The three of us walk over. My mother’s still trying to whisper advice.
“Belly in,” she says. “Butt and chest out. Use the poses I taught you.”
I spot the waiter from before watching us as well. I look away.
“Ready?” Mr. Byrnes asks.
I try to put on a genuine smile. “As ready as I’ll ever be,” I say.
The first flash blinds me for a moment, but the second flash isn’t as harsh. As he keeps taking photos, I try to act demure and sensual, but after the third flash, I notice his face. It’s that look. The gleam in his eyes reminds me of the same one Mr. Crowder, my biology teacher, gave me from time to time. Mr. Crowder was fired after his wife discovered he’d pressured students into sleeping with him.
“Thank you, Miss Reeves,” he says, lowering his camera and packing it away.
I blink, the dim lighting of the restaurant feeling strange after the camera flashes.
“It was a pleasure to have this moment with you,” he says with a finality to his tone.
“You’re not staying to eat?” my mother asks, eyeing her glass of wine on the table in the distance.
“No, but I’ll pick up the bill,” he reassures her. He understands my mother on a troubling level.
He guides us back our table and waits until we’re seated before shaking our hands again. He pulls his bag’s strap over his shoulder and leaves us. He stops to talk to a waitress, handing her his card. The two of them walk out of the room.
“Ugh,” my mother says. “You know why he cut the meeting short, right? You were so cold. Men hate frigid women.”
“Or he had other meetings to go to,” I say.
“Or he had other meetings to go to,” she mocks. She run
s her hand over my two-tone hair. For her birthday, she insisted I dye it blonde, which turned golden over my darker brown shade. But it’s been over eight months and my natural hair color is starting to win the war. “You need to dye this again. Men love blondes.”
“They also love sports cars, but I’m not going to turn into a Mustang.”
She pinches my waist. I jerk away from her, but she pulls a smile that could be playful or cruel.
“You also have to lose that baby fat. You’re eighteen now, Cin,” she says. “You have to be a woman.”
It’s strange for her to talk about weight considering I got my curves from her, and she weighs more than I do. Or, it would be strange if she hadn’t been talking about it since I was twelve.
She tousles her own hair “I could have won any man when I was your age. If I could relive it, I would. But then I got pregnant, and you did…this to my body.”
She turns her head away from me. I place my hand on her shoulder. It’s our dance—she wallows in her pity, and I give her comfort. I’m exhausted with it, but she’s all I have. It’s easy to cling to a problem when it’s familiar.
But I’m ready to let go. I’m done being accommodating.
2
Grayson
"I do," she says.
"I do," he says.
The dead blue sky erupts with loud bangs, colored smoke, and bright flashes, a pyrotechnic display put on by a team from Beijing. A full orchestra imported from Paris breaks into an overture of shrill trumpets and whining violins. A choir of young boys imported from Venice hits high notes like someone pinched off their balls.