Owned By the Prince by Tristan Rivers
Chapter 16
Blair
Idon’t go to school for three days. I can’t face Sabine and everyone else in my classes. All the inevitable questions and gossip. I don’t look at any media either. I track my uncle down and send him a message, telling him that he’s a piece of shit and he’s done more damage than he knows. I start looking for a new job since all this royal escapade has done for me is make me even more broke. I don’t call up the last place I worked and beg for my old job back. There’s a good chance they’ll have picked up on my identity already. Instead, I go to a salon advertising free cuts for hair models and have my hair cut into an edgy, asymmetric bob. I pair it with the hipster glasses that I was somehow still wearing when the driver dropped me off at my apartment last night, and I take my résumé around the east end of Londis, figuring that hipsters will be less likely to read gossip rags than the general population.
I find a job in a matter of hours. Since the pay sucks in Londis, restaurants are always desperate for staff. It’s at a painfully hip, retro diner, complete with lots of Formica and vinyl to wipe down. Ugh. But at least no one batted an eyelid when they saw my name, and it’s only a short bus ride from my apartment.
I volunteerto work double shifts two days in a row, desperate to make up some of the money I lost. It’s busy most of the time, and I’m grateful for it, grateful for any distraction from the combination of pain and anger rolling through me in a relentless tide.
When I arrive home on Wednesday night, dog tired, feet burning, there’s a black sedan with tinted windows right outside my building. Tension flickers in my stomach, but I choose to ignore it.
I climb two flights of stairs, unlock my door, and walk in. And then I let out a scream.
There’s a man in a long black overcoat standing in my living room, hands in pockets, not moving. He’s around fifty, short gray hair, hard, intelligent eyes, a scar running the length of one cheek. I take a big step back in the direction of the front door.
He takes a step toward me. “It’s fine. Relax. You’re not in any danger.” His voice is very slow and calm, his accent Scottish or Irish.
“Get the fuck away from me!” I yell.
“Calm down, please.” He lifts a hand, reassuringly. “I’m here from the palace.”
“How the hell did you get into my apartment?”
“It doesn’t matter. But I need you to sit down and listen to me.”
“Not until you tell me how you got through two locked doors.”
He sighs, jangles something in his pocket, and comes out with a keyring full of implements that look like they belong to a Swiss Army knife. “I picked the locks. I apologize for that, but it was necessary. For what it’s worth, it wasn’t easy.”
“That’s very reassuring.”
He indicates the sofa. “Please. I just need to speak to you for a moment. I’m not here to threaten or hurt you.”
I sigh, finally believing him. “Okay.” I perch on the edge of the sofa, poised to escape if need be.
He sits down too, and I see that he has a briefcase. He opens it, pulls out some papers. “This is for you.” He hands me what looks like a check, except it says Certified Bank Draft at the top, and the amount in the little rectangular box is £500,000.
I hand it back to him. “I don’t want his money. I was contracted to work at the palace for four weeks. That didn’t happen. Therefore, I didn’t earn it. I’m not interested.”
His eyes narrow as he regards me with something approaching interest. “I would strongly advise you against rejecting this money. It’s yours. And all I need from you in return is to sign some papers for me.” He hands me a document. I see right away that it’s a contract. I’m being required to never mention anything about my experience at the palace to anybody, ever, on pain of prosecution. Blah, blah, blah.
“Give me a pen,” I say. He hands me one, and I sign immediately. Blair Kirkham, AKA Staycee Duckett. I don’t even have a real signature for Staycee, so I make it up.
“Thank you.” He pushes the check at me again, and I refuse to take it.
“I’m not taking it. I’ve signed the contract. You’ve got what you want. Now I want to forget the whole thing and get on with my life. I don’t want anything from Max.”
“Madam, I urge you one more time to accept this money. It will be easier for everyone.”
I shake my head, then stare at the wall opposite until he stops asking. With a sigh and a creak of his knees, he gets to his feet. “Very well. I wish you the best, Miss Kirkham.”
And he’s gone. I discover that I’m shaking all over. I force myself to take long, slow breaths, and gradually my emotions come back under control. No one’s going to buy me off. I need that money so bad it hurts, but I’m not going to do it. I’m not going to be like my rat-trash uncle. I’m going to see if I can quit my year abroad early, go back to the States. Put my degree on hold for a year and wait tables in New York or some other big city until I’ve paid all my nephew’s medical bills and he’s well again.
Now I can forget about Max, I tell myself. And this is the thought that makes me burst into tears. Because I haven’t forgotten about him at all. I miss his voice, his smell, his strong, protective body. But I hate him because he said he loved me, and then he couldn’t see past that stupid fucking article. I cry more and more bitterly because I know. I know the Prince of Anglia can’t have a relationship with a girl who grew up in a trailer park.
