Page 6 of Royal Doll

Royal Psycho: Why, hello, love. Delighted to hear from you. Yes, it is.

Why does it sound like he absolutely expected me to text him? I told him no, numerous times, in various ways.

And then I bloody texted him, like an idiot.

I stuff my phone back in my pocket and head home, resolutely ignoring the three beeps I feel through my pants.

It’s one thirty this time, and I enter a blissfully silent apartment. Ellie and Meg have work in the morning on weekdays, so they save all sexcapades for the weekend.

I make a conscious effort to start the kettle and brew some herbal tea, before sinking on the sofa and retrieving my phone.

Royal Psycho: It’s been some time since I indulged in middle of the night texting. Isn’t it customary to receive interesting pictures at this time?

Royal Psycho: Or filthy promises. I’m not fussy.

Royal Psycho: Come on, Liv. You wouldn’t have texted me if you didn’t want to play.

I find myself imagining his voice as I read the words, and I flush.

Me: I was driving, if you must know. And no pictures for you. You’ve seen enough of me, don’t you think?

Royal Psycho: Not nearly as much as I will, and soon. If a hundred grand isn’t enough, name your price.

My jaw drops. Name my fucking price?

Me: I told you I wasn’t a whore.

Royal Psycho: Everything is for sale.

Me: Oh yeah? How much do YOU cost?

Royal Psycho: I’d fuck anyone for a billion in cash.

I grunt in annoyance, because truth be told, I don’t think anyone would refuse that deal, even billionaires.

Me: What if that’s my price? A billion.

Royal Psycho: Now we’re talking.

Me: You’d pay it?

Royal Psycho: No, but we can start the negotiations.

Me: Cheapskate.

Royal Psycho: Any businessman worth his salt knows not to pay more than the market value on a product. I’m quite certain you’ll lower your fee.

Me: *middle finger emoji*

Royal Psycho: Now, now. That wasn’t very mature of you. Two hundred and fifty thousand.

I blink.

My brain can’t even comprehend the concept of two hundred and fifty thousand euros. I know the apartment I lived in with my father is worth sixty thousand. A little over four apartments?

I also know how much my tuition is for the next year at Crompton College: ten thousand a year. I couldn’t afford that, but it, along with the eight grand for housing, is covered by my scholarship.

I have another acceptance burning a hole in my bedside drawer: the Royal University of Anderia, one of the best colleges in the entire freaking world. They offered me a social scholarship, covering housing, but nothing for the tuition—unsurprisingly. I have good grades, but just getting in was a miracle; the merit scholarships are only given to geniuses like Jinx, or the one-in-a-million talents like Tricks.

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