AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Sliding his hands across my back and over my waist, Prince Silas takes a step back. His chin dips down as he meets my gaze, then he reaches up to tuck a strand of dark hair behind my ear. “You okay?”
Why does his voice have to be so kind? His face so earnest? How can he be so good at pretending he cares? And I know he’s pretending. His kind don’t have the heart to care about other people—especially not people they consider lower class.
Before I can answer, a voice comes from above. “Um, you guys want some privacy?” Rhea calls out.
I shake my head, pulling away from the Prince’s touch. My shoes dislodge from the mud, thankfully, and I’m able to put some space between me and his unfairly delicious scent. “I’m coming up.” I take a few steps, and once I’m on solid ground I glance over my shoulder. “Thanks for your help.”
The Prince shrugs. He looks so…human. So normal. So not how I’d expect a royal to look. “It was my pleasure,” he responds, and it sounds like the truth, but I’ve been fooled by his people before. Everything comes out like the truth when you’re used to lying.
I give him my back and walk away, letting Rhea catch up to me when I’m already halfway through the building on my way to the coat check to head out the front door. “I’m going home,” I say when she hooks her arm through mine. “You can stay if you want. I’ll call a cab.”
“Um, no.” Rhea tightens her grip. “I’m leaving with you, and you’re giving me a full rundown of what the heck just happened out there. I want a second-by-second playback. Every word. Every look. Every single thing I missed.”
I try to muster a smile, but I just feel so…tired. I thought I could have one night off—one night away from politics. One night where I just acted and felt like a woman in her prime, when I wasn’t reminded of my class or station in this country, where I didn’t feel like I was worth less than someone born with a different last name.
One night where I could forget what this weekend means to me, and clear my head to honor my father’s memory tomorrow.
But I guess I can’t take a day off. I live in an inequitable society, where monarchs rule above us and we’re constantly reminded of our inferiority. My father never had a day off—why should I be given one?
4
Jazz
Rhea is still huffing when I light the last candle and lay a small bouquet of flowers near the cliff’s edge overlooking Stirling, the capital city of Nord. She takes a big swig of water and wipes her brow, shaking her head. “Whose idea was this, again?”
I smile, shaking my head. “This was your genius plan for a hangover cure.”
“I’m not even hungover, and this is a cure for nothing.” Rhea puts her hands on her hips and lets out a long sigh, letting her eyes drift from the candle in my hand to the flowers and over the city skyline at our feet. She gives me a tight smile, dipping her chin. “I miss him, you know.”
“I know. Dad loved you.”
“He used to call me his second daughter, and I can’t tell you how much that meant to me. I thought I was all strong and grown up, but having your parents take me in while we were in college…”
“Worth a hike up to the ridge?” I grin.
Rhea laughs, nodding. “Yeah.” She glances at me before letting her gaze drift to the city. “Are you going to tell me what happened last night?”
A cold wind makes the candle in my hand flicker, so I cup it with my fingers. My throat feels tight.
Prince Silas had his arms around me last night. He asked me for a kiss, and I wanted to give it to him.
A royal. A man who lords over us normal folk and makes it his mission to leave us feeling small. A man who represents everything I hate about the world—everything that held my father back from being successful in life.
Sighing, I shake my head. “You know, my father saw himself as Lord Birchal’s groundskeeper, and nothing more. He didn’t recognize how clever he was at tinkering with motors and fixing anything he came across. He didn’t realize he could have made a business of it, and actually had a bigger, better life than the cottage on the edge of the Birchal estate.”
Rhea gives me a sad smile, shrugging one shoulder. “Your dad was the happiest man I ever knew. Maybe he didn’t want more.”
“How could he not want more? His boss called him the wrong name for thirty years. Three decades.”
“One time I asked him about it,” Rhea says. “You were in the kitchen with your mom. It was right after the diagnosis, when she could still walk but her tremors were getting bad. You were helping her chop vegetables for dinner, and I was on flashlight-holding duty as your dad fixed the lawnmower. I asked him why he never corrected Birchal when he called him the wrong name.”
My brows arch. “Yeah?”
Rhea shakes her head. “He just laughed. I genuinely don’t think it bothered him.”
“But it should.”
“Why, though? He told me he was able to give you and your mom a good life. He was happy, Jazz. He loved you, and your mom…and me, too. He showed me what it meant to have a dad. I don’t think you should hold that against him.”
