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Wouldn’t engaging in a real-world game of Pretty Pretty Princess be a waste of everyone’s time?
His money I could happily waste.
We’d just call it asshole tax and that would be that.
However, my time?
Not so much.
Between proving to the wanna be queen of Atlantica I still have valuable purpose at The Institute in spite of being pregnant and skimming through what to expect while pregnant books during less beloved episodes of my favorite franchise, I don’t have minutes to waste on unnecessary shit such as being properly clothed by the long lost Skarsgård sister.
That was a priority when being there for Wes was a priority.
When showing up as the future Mrs. Wilcox was a priority.
When I was learning to be queen of an empire, I’m highly underqualified to even be a townsperson in.
My world?
It’s the one under the waves.
The one I’ll never have to wear something this ridiculous in order to rule.
Wet and dry suits are definitely my favorite black-tie attire.
“You wanna try the green one on again?” Evie politely suggests. “Perhaps if we keep your hair down it’ll redirect focus up to your chest – where we both know you like it – and away from your stomach area – where we both know you don’t.”
“No.” Folding my arms firmly under the uneven cut of the gown is attached to a sardonic smirk. “I’d rather not wear The Spearmint Gum gown to the gala for the Global Society of Pathological Liars.”
“Pathological Outliers,” Mom swiftly corrects.
“That’s what I said.”
“No, what you described would be a charity event to support con artists…” the woman who gave birth to me does her best not to grin. “This is a charity event to support an organization that’s committed to better public health, medicine, and awareness on a global scale.”
“God, that sounds so boring,” is thoughtlessly mumbled. “And I can’t even fucking drink to make it interesting.”
“Or…really…eat,” Jenni adds on an uncomfortable cringe. “They’re doing a whole app night-”
“Hors d'oeuvres,” her boss revises to imply more class.
“-to go with the open bar thing and it’s all shit you’re not supposed to eat according to the pregnancy blogs I’ve been reading for you.”
“For me?”
“Like for me to help you, help you through this whole pregnancy team change.” For some reason, her sports metaphor captures my interest rather than repels it. “You’re the head coach – obvs – and Wes is the assistant couch – double obvs – and your mom is like the equipment manager – really obvs – and like Evie is clearly somewhere in operations-”
“Don’t say obvs again,” the latter instantly grouses.
“Which kind of leaves me to be like the rando that has to be ready for whatever assist is ness, so that’s what I’m doin’.” Her baby pink blouse covered shoulders innocently bounce. “Reading things and making sure I have answers when answers are needed about things that maybe you might have questions over like what types of foods you can’t eat at these events such as raw oysters or mango tuna tartare-”
“I don’t like either of those not pregnant.”
“Goat cheese and salami stuffed dates-”
“I like two of those things.”
“And bananas foster bites.”
