Page 5 of Royal Catch
“And what will you do with them?” I’m thinking some kind of god-awful reception or royal ball, either of which sounds tedious as hell.
“Wewill put them to the test.”
I shift in my seat, not liking the sound of this. “How?”
She looks out the window for a moment before turning back to me. “We need fresh blood, fresh ideas to help Villroy thrive again for generations to come. So we will see who is best up to the task.”
“And then I will choose one?”
Her hazel eyes gleam. “The last survivor will be the one.”
I jolt. She couldn’t possibly mean…I lean close and whisper, “Survivor as in a battle to the death?” I know we have Viking blood, but we’ve been the height of royal decorum for centuries.
She rolls her eyes. “It will be likeSurvivor, that reality TV show. Your father and I have been watching a lot of TV since he’s been bedridden.”
My jaw drops. She’s cracked under the strain of my father’s illness.
She goes on in an animated voice. “There will be a series of challenges designed to eliminate those candidates not up to the task.” She cocks her head. “Or maybe it will be more like that showThe Bachelor, where we’ll narrow it down by compatibility.”
My gut churns as I picture women clawing their way through whatever barbaric challenges my mother has concocted, desperate to win. Only the most aggressive woman could make it through all that, and then I will have to marry her. I need a helpmate, not a hellion.
I open my mouth to protest, but then she smiles, the first genuine smile I’ve seen from her in a very long time, and I nearly smile back to see it. If I wasn’t being bandied about as a prize in this insane competition, I might manage it.
“Let’s call it both!” she exclaims cheerfully. “SurvivormeetsThe Bachelorroyal style!”
I have to ask. “Are you feeling okay? Have you been sleeping?”
“I’m fine. I’ve already told your father, and he is all for it. He says it’ll bring some life into the palace, and besides, this will help prepare you to be king. You’ll need to use grace, diplomacy, and keen judgment to make the right choice.”
This never would’ve happened before my father was ill. I cling to the only thin thread of reason left to me. “So it is my choice. Ultimately.”
“Subject to royal approval.” Which means the king and queen must also agree with my choice. King and queen trumps prince. Hell. What if I end up with the wildly inappropriate cheetah-heeled Polly as my queen because she resembles some reality TV contestant my parents like? This is madness.
I’d like to howl my displeasure, but I take one look at her rare beaming smile, and I cave. “So be it.”
She squeezes my hand, a rare display of affection. “I knew you’d understand. The other women will be arriving shortly. The games begin tomorrow.”
I don’t even want to know. Lack of sleep, this insane competition, my father’s declining health, the future of the kingdom—my brain shuts down in protest.
I politely take my leave and make my way to my third-floor suite without a thought in my head besides sleep.
I dream of a cheetah heel clocking me on the jaw, her ankle propped on my shoulder, her body shuddering around me.
I wake in a cold sweat.
Chapter Three
Anna
I have a maid! Her name is Anna, which freaks me out because that’s my name too. I fear they’re onto me, but Anna is so calm and eager to please, I’m forced to conclude I’m being paranoid. As it turns out, that’s the least of my concerns because now Anna is walking me to the audience chamber in the west wing to meet Queen Alexandra for the first time about the inheritance. The queen! I’m sure I’m supposed to bow my head and curtsy. Beyond that, I’m at a loss.
I smooth clammy hands down my dress, the last of my tropical wardrobe selections. Polly is from the tropical Beaumont Islands in the Caribbean. The dress is fuchsia with a bright white and yellow flower pattern, halter top, cinched at the waist, ending mid-thigh. Too bad Polly didn’t bring her royal clothes with her to Tampa or I might’ve matched her better. She’d shopped at Target for her new princess-in-hiding identity.
The only good news in this screwed-up situation is that Polly wore hats with veils when she was in the public eye (as required of single royal women in her homeland), so I could pass for her. We’re both curly-haired brunettes, both early twenties (I’m twenty-three), similar average figure, and nearly the same height (I’m five feet nine). Polly assured me she’d never met the Villroy royalty. Her social circle was stiflingly small.
Anna gives me a tight smile as we approach the double doors of the audience chamber, which makes me nervous like she’s worried for me. Maybe it’s because she urged me to wear a white shawl over my shoulders and I declined. Too granny for my tastes. She also wanted to do my hair up, but who’s the certified hairdresser here? I left my hair down; my curls are impossible to tame. The only thing to do with it is prevent frizz.
Not to brag, but I did put myself through beauty school and worked my way into a ritzy salon with a buttload of happy clients. My plan has always been to scrape together enough funds to buy the salon from my boss when she retires in seven years. Owner of my own salon by thirty. I’m a big believer in manifesting your own destiny. I’ve got a vision board and goal Post-its all over my studio apartment. I repeat my goal like a mantra the moment I wake up:I will own my own salon by thirty. Some might say it’s a little woo-woo. I say screw you, what can it hurt?
