Page 6 of Royal Catch
And didn’t my destiny manifest in the form of a princess offering me a gift that could make my dream come true? Sort of. Polly and I have got a ways to go on that.
I take one step into the ornate audience chamber, nearly seize in shock, and turn to Anna. She’s already out the door, which shuts neatly behind her. I turn back and take a deep calming breath. The massive room makes me feel small—gold trim on everything, a ceiling that looks like it dates back to the Renaissance with elaborate paintings of ethereal beings, an enormous crystal chandelier shining over glossy inlaid hardwood floors. Scores of royal ancestors look down their noses at me from oil paintings along the walls, and at the very end of this massively intimidating room is a huge antique wooden double throne. Queen Alexandra sits there, alone, in a powder blue long-sleeved dress with matching heels, pearl necklace, pearl earrings. She is the definition of regal class, and I’m suddenly feeling like I should’ve worn something less tropical and more in the pastel family.
As if that isn’t intimidating enough, nine women flank the throne in a sea of pastels and straight glossy hair, standing in two neat arcs like a royal beauty pageant is about to take place. My only chance is Miss Congeniality.
I seriously consider bolting. My wild curls and tropical dress stick out like a giraffe at a petting zoo. Before I can make my escape, a servant is at my side, urging me to take my place with the other women. Is Polly’s small inheritance to be split ten ways? Because I don’t think that’s going to cut it for lawyer’s fees.
I’m nearly at the end of the line on the left when a man in a crisp white shirt and black pants announces, “Princess Mary Louise Lyon of the Beaumont Islands.”
I gulp. That’s me. My pulse pounding in my ears, I pray I don’t screw this up for her. I take three steps forward, bow my head to the queen, and do a deep curtsy. I’m not sure how long to hold it. Three seconds seems right. I slowly straighten and address her directly, “Pleased to meet you, Your Majesty.”
The queen smiles, a gentle smile. “Thank you for traveling all this way, Mary. Please join the others.”
I comply, sensing some serious side-eye from the other women.
The queen addresses us and drops a bombshell. “I’ve asked you all here on false pretenses.”
A shocked silence falls. Crap. No inheritance?
The queen continues. “You’re not here to claim a small inheritance.” She pauses, and the tension is so thick it makes me want to shoutGo on!Finally, she does. “You are here for riches beyond your dreams. However, only one of you will be granted these riches.”
The women murmur quietly to each other.
The queen doesn’t elaborate further. Welp, somebody has to ask.
I raise my hand. “How do you decide who gets it?”
The queen’s eyes narrow, her lips pressed tightly together.
“Your Majesty,” I add belatedly.
The queen addresses the room in a crisp tone. “Before we go further, I must ask you to sign a nondisclosure.” She gestures toward a small table, where a man in a charcoal gray suit is waiting to witness the signings. “If you choose not to, you may leave now.”
Not one person leaves. We form an obedient line, because who doesn’t need riches beyond their dreams? Though I suspect some of us might need those riches more than others. I have to hand those riches over to Polly, but she assured me a portion would go toward my foster dad, Mike’s care.
I cleared my schedule and took two weeks’ vacation time to make this happen. You know when the last time was that I took a vacation? Uh, never. My goal always in mind—own my own salon by thirty—means I always work. Even at home, I’m on call for whatever a tenant might need. I’m the super for our apartment building and live rent-free because of it. I can fix lots of stuff thanks to Mike, who was a handyman. I don’t mind hard work. It gets me where I want to go.
I’m last to sign, and I take the time to read the fine print. No talking to the press, no photos, no social media, cell phones to be turned in for the duration. Hey! No phone? What kind of retro technophobic place is this? Can I live without my phone? Who will be there to watch the cat videos? It’s my stress reliever. I’m tense just thinking about not having my phone. I keep reading the fine print for more red flags. We’re required to commit to three weeks for the competition. Three weeks? Competition?
The time frame is going to be tough. I think I can survive without my phone if I’m busy winning this competition, whatever it is. I could probably beat the demure princess squad at most anything. They’re wispy, overly polite women used to being waited on, not used to going after what they want like me. But it’s cutting it really close to Polly’s court date, which is only a week after the competition ends. And if I don’t win the big prize here, that extra week of unpaid days is going to hurt. Mike’s care immediately comes to mind. The doctors say there’s nothing more that can be done for him, and they sent him home to die. Lung cancer. My throat tightens, as it does every time I think of him dying. His foster home was the last one I landed in at seventeen. He even let me stay rent-free in the studio apartment over his garage after I aged out of the foster system. I couldn’t have put myself through beauty school without that safe place to land. I only wish we’d found each other sooner.
I force my mind to practicalities. I’ll dip into my meager savings to cover Mike’s nurse this month. He deserves that much. My boss at the salon is super cool and wants me to be the future owner of her salon, so that’s in my favor, but I’m not sure if she’ll be okay with me not being there for so long. My clients are some of the wealthiest, and they’re very attached to me. The relationship with your hairdresser is sacred. And who will do my job at the apartment building dealing with the tenants? What if I end up homeless and unemployed? My savings won’t cover me and a home nurse for very long.
I glance around at the sea of pastel princesses, which reminds me of Polly, who probably used to exclusively wear pastels and pearls and is now facing wearing orange and getting beat up on the regular by some tough bitch named Spike. I don’t know the bitch’s name, but I bet I’m close.
I raise my hand, glancing at the queen on her throne and then the lawyer guy across the table from me, making sure they both hear me. “I have a question. What competition could possibly take three weeks?”
Silence. The princesses dart dark looks at me.What? I’m the only one who cares about the specifics?
“I mean, I only get two weeks…” I trail off, suddenly realizing Polly doesn’t have a job with specific vacation-time restrictions. “I have some prior commitments.”
“Change them,” the queen says as if she fully expects to be obeyed.
I worry my lower lip. If I can’t work it out with my boss back home, this might be over before it even begins.
The lawyer guy speaks up. “Only the winner will remain for the full three weeks. It’s entirely possible you won’t make it that long.” His lip curls like he expects me to lose whatever this thing is right away.
I square my shoulders and straighten my spine. I have never backed down from a challenge. I’ll get a friend to apartment-sit, have her farm out any emergency repair work for the tenants, and hold the small things for my return. I’ll beg my boss at the salon for the time off and convince my clients to wait for me by offering a free home styling for any special occasion. I will emerge victorious. That’s my new mantra—victory! For Polly, for me, for Mike, and to shove it in this snotty lawyer’s face.
