Page 12 of The Prince of Broken Crowns

“Oh yes, of course you do. I wasn’t implying that you didn’t know how to read.” She grows flustered. “In fact, we’re well aware of how intelligent you are—a straight-A student and all-star track athlete.”

“I’m not that smart,” I stress. “It’s easy to get straight A’s in northside schools.” And that’s the sad truth. Lower class means a lower education due to lack of funding.

Yep, Social Darwinism at its finest.

“Don’t underestimate yourself.” She tries to sound encouraging. “We’re viewed your test scores. You’re an exceptional student and athlete, and you’re going to make a great addition to the academy.”

It takes my brain a moment to process what she said. “Wait … What?”

“You’ve been selected by our client to receive a scholarship for the Royal Academy,” the man finally speaks. “It will cover room and board, and all of your tuition and book fees for the next four years.”

My gaze shifts between the two of them, and then I laugh. “Okay, who put you up to this?” Before either of them responds, a thought slams into my mind that makes me stiffen. “Wait—did Drew and his gang have you do this to lure me out of the house?”

It seems like too much of a creative plan for Drew and his gang, but it could be possible. The woman does sort of look familiar. Then again, her face is relatively generic. I move to shut the door, anyway.

“Wait,” the woman calls out. “We’re not here to lure you out of the house. I don’t know who Drew or his gang is, and I assure you this is real.”

“Bullshit,” I call her out. “The Royal Academy doesn’t just hand out scholarships. Like I said, I read the news; I know the deal. Only the rich and royal go there. There are no lower-class pity handouts. And even if in some weird alternate realm there was, I’m not the sort of person who’d be lucky enough to get one.”

She inches closer to the door. “This isn’t luck. Our client decided last year that he wanted to handpick one student from the northside and give them the opportunity of a lifetime. He spent months sorting through school records, trying to find the perfect candidate, and he selected you based on your achievements.”

My skepticism stays present. “Did those records also tell you I’m on probation and am currently facing assault charges? Because that doesn’t seem like much of an achievement.”

“He’s well aware of your probation status, and he was informed this morning about the charges that were filed against you last night,” she tells me then looks at the man. “Give her the envelope, Bruce. She clearly needs proof.” She snaps her fingers at him.

Bruce barely shifts his stance as he sticks his hand into his suit jacket, retrieves a blue envelope, and hands it to me.

Written across the front, in perfect cursive handwriting, is “Maddison Averly,” and the back is sealed with the wax seal of a crown stamp—the Royal Academy’s logo.

“There’s more paperwork you’ll have to fill out,” the woman explains, “but this is an official invitation. Once you’ve accepted it, we’ll take you down to the office where we can cross the T’s and dot the I’s, and make everything official.”

The envelope looks legitimate, but wariness nibbles at my insides.

“Who’s your client?” I smooth my thumb over the wax seal.

“He’d like to remain anonymous,” she clarifies. “This is something he’s chosen to do out of pure kindness and nothing more. If word gets out who he is, it’ll become a publicity stunt.”

Anonymous, just like the person who bailed me out of jail. Could this be the same person?

Although, she said her client found out about my new arrest charges this morning …

I don’t know … This entire thing is weird as hell. It can’t be real? How could it be? My life sucks. It’s supposed to suck. I’ve accepted that it probably will for quite a while. So, how can something like this be happening to me?

I need a minute or two to process this and also to see if it could even be legit.

“Can I have some time to think this over?” I ask without opening the envelope.

Surprise flickers in her eyes. “Um … Sure.” She tucks a strand of red hair behind her ear. “But I can only give you a day at most since classes start next Wednesday.”

“Okay, I’ll let you know no later than tomorrow if I will accept it.” And I’ll spend the rest of the day figuring out if this is real because it can’t be.

It just can’t.

I search for signs of Drew and his gang lurking in the parking lot, convinced they’re behind this. Not a sign of them is in sight, though. However, a sleek, black Mercedes is parked amid the rusted cars and beat-up trucks.

The woman takes a card from her pocket and gives it to me. “This is my contact information. My name is Bethany, and this is my colleague, Bruce. We work for the Royal Fairland Law Firm down on Main. Call me when you’re ready to accept, and you can come down to the office and sign the paperwork.” She says it with such certainty, like there’s no way I won’t accept.

And why wouldn’t I? It’s a great opportunity.

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