Page 31 of I'm sorry, Princess
And worse, I don’t want to be alone.
I want him.
The thought terrifies me as much as it thrills me. My body aches with it, my chest tight with longing. My lips part on a shaky breath as the room spins, but it doesn’t matter. The images don’t leave. The fantasy grows sharper. Stronger.
I close my eyes and let myself fall. Let myself feel the heat, the hunger, the shame. I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t.
I open my eyes, and regret hits me like a tidal wave.
Regret for the drinking. Regret for... the other thing.
My head pounds, the kind of headache no amount of ibuprofen can touch. As I drag myself to the mirror, I barely recognize the girl staring back at me. The shadows under my eyes are darker than ever, evidence of nights spent chasing something I can’t seem to find.
When was the last time I had a good night’s sleep?
I try to steady my breathing, leaning against the sink as my thoughts race.
I’ve been pushing myself too hard, reading, studying, and consuming every psychology book and article I canfind, all in the name of meeting my father’s impossible expectations.
And in doing so, I’ve forgotten what I love most.
Writing.
Being a romantasy writer has always been my dream. I started a novel last year, pouring my heart into it, but now it sits unfinished. The spark is gone, replaced by exhaustion and self-doubt.
What would I even write about? My life isn’t exactly a source of inspiration. I have no love life. My days are predictable. I’d fail miserably at creating something imaginative or exciting.
When people look at me, they probably think I have the perfect life. Young, beautiful, and successful, or so they assume. They see my job and my family’s wealth and think I have it all.
But they’re wrong.
I’m not rich, my parents are. My success feels like theirs, not mine.
A tear slides down my cheek, warm and uninvited. I don’t even bother to wipe it away. Another follows, and before I know it, I’m sobbing.
Why am I such a mess?
Shame clings to me like a second skin, the memory of last night replaying in my mind. How could I let myself get so aroused by a stranger’s flirtation? Yes, he was the most handsome man I’ve ever seen, but that doesn’t excuse it.
It’s not normal.
I’m 24 years old, almost 25, and what do I have to show for it? No plan, no direction, no real control over my own life.
I’m just a puppet.
My parents’ puppet.
I wipe away the tears and step into the shower, letting the warm water wash over me. It doesn’t erase the heaviness I feel, but it helps me reset, even if just a little.
I have to be at work by 9 AM, and I’m already cutting it close.
After a quick shower, I pull myself together, doing my signature makeup with practiced efficiency and twisting my hair into a sleek bun. Today, I opt for a beige Polo dress that fits perfectly, paired with my YSL high heels. Polished, professional, and just distracting enough to make me feel like I have some control over how the day goes.
But my head is still buzzing, a dull throb that refuses to fade. Last night was a mistake, drinking when I knew I had to work the next morning was reckless. I can’t even stomach coffee right now, and the lack of caffeine isn’t helping my already fragile mood.
As I step into the office, I notice a familiar figure standing with Ian.
My father.
