Page 31 of The Dandelion Princess
I run the images through an editing app, blur Gabriella’s face out, add a timestamp, and circle identifying details. Ask some other princess to ignore her hot Viking blood when her sister’s character is called into question.Iwon’t.
I upload the photos to a ReadHe thread—rh/AmItheJerkwad—under the username @trashpandaprincess and compose a post that seems to pour out of my fingertips.
I (m35, nepo baby, narcissist) abandoned my fiancée (f30, perfect, blameless) for over six months to row a tiny boat across the Atlantic, wear tiny-brimmed hats, and post philosophic dude-bro affirmations on my socials. Though Fiancée was busy running her family business, I had aninterest in exploring ethical non-monogamy and social media influence. (Those shirtless beach pics won’t upload themselves.) Now, I know what you’re asking. Did we discuss my research into utilitarian romantic situationships before I left? Answer: No. (My bad) But I live by the rule that what happens in one hemisphere stays in that hemisphere.
In the middle of my soft launch for an open marriage (see pics), Fiancée called off the wedding, leaving me to deal with disgruntled bankers. My family’s company, Schmimmelstain, is restructuring and needs an infusion of cash from her family’s larger and more successful conglomerate. Returning home to negotiate a new settlement, I discovered that Fiancée had cut me out of her life with the same ruthless precision a dermatologist uses to slice off a skin tag.
When ambiguous photos of her standing with an unidentified man surfaced, was I the Jerkwad to let everyone think she was the cheater?
*Edited to add, Yes, I wax my body hair.
I smile—not the smooth, royal smile of a Sondish princess working a rope line, but the murderous smile of a raider with a longboat full of plunder—and hit send. I never consider what might happen downstream.
Two hours later, I am running an intenseSquadRuncampaign when the disaster breaks. My phone blows up, and by the time I pause my game, there are nearly thirty missed messages on the sisters’ group chat.
Freja:It’s you. We know you posted Alma’s problems all over the internet. How could you hide something of this magnitude from us?
I lift my brow.I’mhiding fromher? Be for real.
Alma:You better pray Mama doesn’t find out.
You’d better pray no one finds out.
I’ll help where I can but you have to understand how much hellfire you are manifesting.
Clara:Dominanstid. We found your Chirp archive, too.
My stomach drops, bouncing into my throat.
Clara:What in KING FREDERICH’S literal dungeon were you thinking?
Your fingerprints are everywhere.
You have to take this down.
You have to do it now.
You should consider joining the Broederschap.
No screens. No wi-fi. Start a life of simple subsistence farming and prayer.
She wants to punish me via Anabaptists? Clara—of all people—should know that no one takes ReadHe posts seriously. There’s so much garbage in there.
I throw my phone into my room and return to my game with the obstinate certainty that, eventually, my family will thank me for finally hitting back. I am not going to apologize to my sisters for this, and I won’t pretend I’m sorry for Pietor’s exposure either. Still, as the campaign wraps up, a slow-growing unease chips away at my peace. Until this afternoon, no one except Marc and Alix knew anything about my secret accounts.
A knock on my door pierces my thoughts. Releasing a muffled curse, I hit a button to open it, but keep my eyes on the computer screen.
“It had to be done,” I start with a defense I’ve been planning since I got their texts. “The prime minister has his sights set on all of us and plans to weaponize Alma’s supposed lack of character. I neutralized him. You’re welcome.”
“Ella.” Marc’s voice, soft and low, makes my heart fall into my toes. He leans around the threshold of my office, slowly taking in the surroundings. He brushes the edge of a bulletin board with a finger. The cork board is more than a decade old and pinnedwith lists of Seongan dramas in an attempt at an early ranking system.
His hair falls over his forehead and I fight the feeling of how much I missed him this week. Marc bumps away from the door jamb and retreats to the main suite, removing his suit coat and slinging it over the back of the sofa. He works the tie loose and twists two buttons undone. Slowly, he rolls his cuffs up like he plans to stay.
“Are you here to call me names and remind me I’ll die alone?” I ask, scooting past him. My gown brushes his legs in a chiffon cascade.
He catches my wrist as I pass, his touch feather-light.
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