Page 5 of I'm sorry, Princess
“I hate you. You took everything from me.”
I cried so hard that night my lungs hurt.
My father wiped my tears and whispered, “She’s unwell, Serena. She didn’t mean it.”
But I know better now.
Love isn’t forced.
Not even from a mother.
Some things stay broken.
I open my laptop, the screen lighting up my face in the dim kitchen. My inbox is filled with meaningless emails, interviews, formalities. One of them is from the FBI. My father’s best friend “recommended” me for a position as a forensic psychologist. The job I don’t want but feel trapped into taking.
They’ll force me to work or force me to marry. Those are my options.
I hover over the file on my desktop titled “My Book.”
A draft I haven’t touched in months.
It’s my secret escape, a fantasy romance where the man burns the whole world to save the woman he loves.
That’s what I want. Not the marriage contracts, not the forced dinners. Not the cold kisses on the cheek or the therapy sessions filled with lies.
Real love. Desperate, dangerous, reckless love.
Sometimes I wonder if anyone has ever truly loved me.
My mother didn’t.
My father loves the idea of me, a Beaumont daughter, a shiny toy to parade.
You’ll smile at me, hold the door open, and my stupid brain will think you care. But no one ever stays. No one ever chooses me.
Except in my book.
In there, he would burn the world for me.
I open my laptop again, trying to silence the ache in my chest by drowning in notifications. One new email pops up. My eyes blur for a second before I blink the tears away. Olivia Backer from the FBI Human Resources Division.
I click.
Dear Serena Beaumont,
Congratulations on your successful application! We are pleased to welcome you to the team.
We were particularly impressed by your qualifications, and we appreciate Chief John Archibald’s strong recommendation on your behalf. It’s clear that you will be a valuable addition to our organization.
Your start date is confirmed for Monday. We look forward to working with you.
I stare at the screen. My fingers tighten around the laptop edges until my knuckles ache.
We appreciate John Archibald’s strong recommendation.
Of course they do.
This wasn’t about me being good enough. It never is.
