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I stare at my sister, grinding my teeth. “That doesn’t mean I need to give speeches whenever you tell me to.” Or fail at giving speeches, I should say. My thoughts flick to last night. To Jacinthe.
I’m sure she’d love watching me stumble over my words. She’d eviscerate me if I gave a shitty speech, using my failures as a line in her fucking dissertations about abolishing the monarchy. I’d just be another argument to prove her point.
And why shouldn’t I be? I’ve read Jacinthe’s—Jazz’s—articles. She’s not wrong. She writes brilliantly, and I’d be outgunned if I ever tried to go up against her intellectually. She makes her living writing, when I can hardly make my way through a full page of text.
Last night I thought I had a chance with her? Please. A woman like her would never want someone like me, and not just because I’m part of the royal family. She’d never slum it with someone who can barely read.
“Why don’t you make me do something I’m good at, Pen?”
Penelope’s jaw tightens. She arches a brow, squaring her shoulders, looking every bit a queen. “Like what, sleep with every woman from here to Argyle?” Her voice is icy-cold, eyes trained on me. “You don’t seem to be much good at anything else. Or maybe I should send you to get drunk. You seem to be pretty good at that, too.”
I throw the blankets off, light glinting off the gold thread of the embroidered initials on my boxers. I stomp to my en-suite bathroom. I’m sick of this shit. Sick of the insults and the razor-sharp words. Sick of feeling like less.
“You need to make up for this, Silas!” she calls out right before I slam the door.
Make up for it. Ha! She’d be asking me to make up for making a fool out of myself if I’d made the fucking speech, too. She’d be asking me why I couldn’t read the paper, then commanding me to go see a public speaking specialist. She knows I’m dyslexic. She knows I’ve struggled with it my whole life. It’s why I was homeschooled for the last six years of my education. It’s why the other kids at school made fun of me, mocked me, called me a moron.
That doesn’t magically go away just because I’m an adult now. I’ve worked with specialists and had all my speeches printed with special dyslexic-friendly font. I’ve tried. And you know what happens when I try? I fucking fail, that’s what.
I can’t do what normal people can do. I can’t read with ease and stand up in front of a crowd of intellectuals and act like I’m their equal. I’m not.
My sister should understand these things, but she thinks just because I’m older now I’ve somehow gotten over my disabilities. I’m sick of constantly reminding her I’m defective. Sick of constantly using the dyslexia as a crutch. Sick of seeing the pity in her eyes when I bring it up.
But I can’t stand in front of a room full of PhDs and educated, stuffy old bastards and watch them judge me for not being able to get through a simple, boilerplate royal speech.
I’d rather drink—and talk to beautiful women who have made a career out of hating my family. Even the dimming in Jazz’s eyes when I told her my name was worth the few minutes we had before. Even if she hates me now, at least I got to exist beside her as her equal.
Not a royal. Not Your Highness. Not a prince—and not a stupid, bumbling idiot, either.
Last night, I was just…me.
Closing my eyes under the shower, I let myself think of Jacinthe. Ebony hair and sharp, almost harsh features. She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Next to that creek, I saw a different side of her. She wasn’t the hard-hitting reporter, the interviewer who takes shit from no one.
She was human. Thought she’d lost her father’s ring, and I could feel the panic and hurt pulsing off her in waves. Helping her was… This sounds ridiculous, but helping her find that stupid ring felt like the first good thing I’d done in a while. The first thing that felt real. True. Honest.
I wash off the stink of alcohol and stumble down to the breakfast room, inhaling a piece of toast and scalding-hot coffee.
As I sit on a cushioned chair, staring at the polished table extending in front of me, my thoughts keep circling on what happened last night. I saw Jazz walk in. Saw her glance at the dance floor, then turn away. Saw her make her way through the building and exit out through the back.
There’d been a tugging in my gut, a need to follow her. To know who she was.
It’s still there as I throw back a second cup of coffee, that ache pulsing deep inside me.
I should resist. I saw the way Jacinthe looked at me when she figured out who I was. She…recoiled. As if I disgusted her.
Could she ever look past the fact that I’m a prince? Could we ever get a few minutes like the ones that happened before she knew who I was?
Sighing, I push the thought aside. I need to get a grip. Get this woman out of my head. Maybe get a drink or ten to forget about the pressure Penelope’s trying to heap on me. Find a warm pussy to sink myself into just to forget what it feels like to be a disappointment to everyone who bothers to care—but for the first time in a long, long time, the thought of a woman’s arms doesn’t seem so appealing. Not unless those arms happen to belong to a certain midnight-haired reporter.
Fuck it. I can’t get Jacinthe Crawley out of my mind, and she needs to know it.
I nod to the waiter in the corner, who whisks my plate and cup away as I stand up. Striding through the castle, I avoid my sister’s wing, grab my camera from my chambers, and slink to the garages. Waving off a driver, I grab a set of keys for myself and get behind the wheel of a fast sports car. As soon as the cold really hits, this vehicle will stay covered for the winter, but I’m going to enjoy it while I can.
Revving the engine, I exit the castle and make my way toward the city. A sprinkling of snow is falling in big, white clusters, melting as soon as it hits the ground. I wish I could capture the color of the sky right now. It’s somewhere between grey, white, and blue. A photo wouldn’t do it justice, but I’d still try. I glance at the passenger seat, where my camera sits in its case, but choose not to stop. I need to get far away from the palace right now, if only to clear my mind.
I drive through the streets of the city, making my way to a small shop not far from the castle. There’s a parking spot reserved for members of the royal household behind the building, and I slide into it and cut the engine.
It’s cold outside when I exit my car. I flip my collar up and duck my head as I hurry to the door, shielding my face from the wind—and from prying eyes. Finding the door unlocked, I enter the dim space and follow the narrow, musky corridor to the front of the shop.
