Page 37 of The Prince of Broken Crowns

None of this does really?—

Ding.

A text comes through, and I have my earbuds in, so I startle.

Releasing a shaky breath, I pick up my phone, and my brows furrow at the unrecognizable number. When I open the message, my confusion dwindles.

Hey, it’s me, Lily. I meant to exchange numbers with you earlier but totally spaced out, so I called the school and got it. Sorry if that’s weird, but I wanted to let you know that Wren and I will be there in like half an hour, and then we can head to the party!

I prop up on my arms as I stare at the screen. I don’t feel like attending this party for so many reasons, but blowing her off is a bitch move.

Me: Okay, I’ll get ready then.

I program her number into my phone and, a second later, she texts me again.

Lily: Awesome! We’ll have so much fun. I promise.

I want to believe her, but I can be naturally pessimistic when it comes to parties, perhaps because the ones my parents always threw were an absolute shitshow.

Pushing up, I climb off the bed and begin rummaging through my clothes. For an instant, I consider texting Lily to see what I should wear, but I’m getting tired of worrying about that. It’s not who I am, and I don’t want to lose myself in this place. So, I pull on a pair of fishnet tights, a short, black skirt, and a worn Nirvana T-shirt I found at a secondhand store. Then I slip on my leather jacket, my boots, and pull my hair into a messy ponytail. I put on my dark eyeliner and mascara, and since it’s a party, I add some maroon lipstick to the mix.

I call it good, and it only took me about twenty minutes, so I wander into the living room area and sink onto the sofa to wait for Lily and Wren.

I’m a mixture of nervousness—which I hate—and exhaustion—which is normal. But a tiny, tiny part of me is curious to see what party life as a royal will be like.

I sit on the sofa and scroll through my social media accounts for about ten or so minutes before the door opens up.

“I know. He’s so hot,” Wren is saying as her and Lily walk into the room. “Maybe I could persuade him into making out with me for a bit tonight?”

“You shouldn’t have to persuade anyone to make out with you,” Lily informs her as she shuts the door.

“Maybe. But couldn’t I just lower my self-worth for one night?” she asks. “Is it really that big of a deal?”

“I don’t think …” Lily trails off as her gaze finds me. Then her eyes go huge. “Holy crap, you look like Grunge Barbie.”

“Hey, so do not,” I protest, rising to my feet. “I don’t even have blonde hair.”

“Not all Barbies have blonde hair,” Lily comments while eyeing me over. “Man, I so wish I could pull off the grunge look.”

“You can do whatever you want,” Wren tells her while assessing me. “And so can you. But I feel like I should warn you that if you go to the party tonight dressed like that, you’ll be treated like fresh meat.”

“Thanks for the warning, but I can handle my own.” I stand up, tugging at the hem of my skirt. “I need to be me. It’s important.”

Wren nods. “I can respect that. And I don’t think it will necessarily be a bad thing. I just think you’ll be hit on a lot, because you’re new and different.”

“And hot,” Lily adds with a shake of her head. “Man, I wish I could pull off that look.”

I turn toward her. “Who says you can’t?”

“My pasty skin and blonde hair.” Her shoulders slump as she sighs. “Whenever I’ve tried the all-dark vibe, it washes me out. Whatever. I’ll put on a boring pastel dress or something,” she mumbles then goes into her room and shuts the door behind her.

“Now I just feel bad,” I mumble, tugging at the hem of my skirt.

Wren laughs under her breath. “Don’t feel bad. That’s just how Lily is—overdramatic about everything. But she’s loyal as hell, even to a fault almost.” She sits down on the armrest of a nearby chair and considers something. “Can I ask you kind of a personal question?”

“Um … sure.” I retake a seat on the sofa. “I mean, you can ask, and I’ll decide if I want to answer.”

“Okay.” She mulls something over. “How did you get the scholarship here? It’s been driving me crazy, because Royal Academy has never, ever allowed scholarship students in before, but then they suddenly decide to this year, and you’re the only one who gets accepted? It’s just driving me crazy.” She briefly pauses. “Not that I’m saying it’s a bad thing. I wish they’d let more in. It’s just my journalist side has been trying to piece together the whys behind it.” She crosses her legs as she rotates toward me. “This school has a history of doing suspicious things—dusting shit under the rug, doing coverups for assaults and hazing—and my goal as a writer is to bring to light some of these dark secrets they’re trying to hide.”

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