Page 20 of I'm sorry, Princess
Istep into the room, my nerves a tangled mess.
This is it, my first job as a psychologist working for the FBI.
It still feels surreal, and I can’t help but wonder if I’m truly ready for this. What if I fail? What if I say the wrong thing? The thought sends a shiver through me, but I push it aside.
The room is exactly how I imagined it, or at least how my mom described it so many times in her stories. A big, sterile space, the kind that feels more clinical than welcoming. The walls are a dull, oppressive grey, and in the center is a simple metal table with two chairs on either side.
The most unnerving part is the glass. The enormous, one-way window that spans an entirewall. I can’t see them, but I know the detectives are on the other side, watching and listening to everything that happens here.
It’s intimidating.
My mom never described the feeling of it, though. She made it sound glamorous. Powerful.
She would know. She’s one of the most renowned forensic interviewers in England, a national hero after helping expose a traitor to the crown. To so many people, she’s a role model, an icon.
To me, she’s… complicated.
I love her, I truly do. I see everything she’s done for me, the sacrifices, the endless ways she’s tried to hold our world together, and I appreciate it more than she’ll ever know. But sometimes… sometimes it feels like I’m nothing more than a shadow trailing after her. Like I’m constantly trying to earn her love, her approval, her recognition.
All I want is for her to see me, not as a burden, not as a mistake, not as the girl who stole the man she loved most. I want her to see me as her daughter, flesh of her flesh, not the enemy who ruined her life. Because I can feel it, buried in the way she looks at me when she thinks I’m not watching: that tiny flicker of resentment, that unspoken reminder that I was the one who took everything from her. Her husband. Her career. Her happiness.
And so I try harder. I bend myself into shapes I think will please her, fight battles I shouldn’t have to fight, just for a taste of what I crave most, her love. Not the dutiful affection of a mother carrying a wound she can’t forget, but love that’s real and whole and unconditional. A love that doesn’t make me feel like I’m constantly apologizing for existing.
What I really love, what I’ve always loved, is literature. Books were my escape, my sanctuary. I wanted to be awriter, to create worlds with my words, to live a life full of stories.
But my parents had other plans.
My mom, with her sharp precision and unrelenting expectations, saw me as her protégé. And my dad? He was no better, pushing the idea that I’d marry a rich, powerful senator and carve out a future built on influence and prestige.
It was never about my dreams. It was about their vision for me.
And now, here I am, standing in this cold, grey room, wearing the career they planned for me like a second skin that doesn’t quite fit.
I take a deep breath, trying to shake off the doubt. This is my life now, whether I chose it or not.
They know exactly how I feel about arranged marriage, but for now, they’ve left me alone.
At least for now.
I know it’s only a matter of time before they find someone they deem suitable and start pushing. They’ve always controlled me, my choices, my life.
I’m 24 years old, and I’m working for the FBI. How? Because I’m the daughter of Thomas and Lauren Beaumont.
I understand how privileged I am. No one in their right mind could get this kind of job straight out of graduation, not without connections. But that’s how the world works, and I’ve learned to accept it.
Am I grateful for what my parents have given me? Of course. But sometimes, I catch myself wishing for something simpler. Something normal.
Even if this career wasn’t my first choice, I’ve grown to enjoy it. Studying psychology opened a door I didn’t expect. I’ve developed a quiet passion for understanding howpeople think, for peeling back the layers of their minds and finding what lies beneath.
If I’d followed my father’s advice and studied politics instead, I’d probably be bored out of my mind. Psychology, at least, gives me something to hold onto.
I graduated from Princeton University, top of my class, with the highest grades they’d seen in years. I’m prepared for this job because I spent six relentless years preparing for everything.
But it wasn’t just the university, it was my parents. They groomed me to be perfect. To be their perfect daughter.
I studied. I excelled. I never caused problems.
Because I knew how much it mattered to them to have the perfect family. To maintain the image they’d built.
