One: Fairytale Bitch

“I don’t understand you, Fee. I’d sleep with Chuck Bass in a heartbeat,” Savannah breathes. She’s practically in swoon mode now and all for an imaginary character on what is supposedly our favorite show. I always wonder why she just can't say Chuck; it's always Chuck Bass this and Chuck Bass that. “I bet you could if you wanted; we could go to New York and arange a guest staring role as—.”

She stops abruptly as both Nate and Chuck fill up the screen with their gorgeous faces.

I swallow a gag.

Gossip Girl is not my favorite anything. It’s just another one of Savannah’s ever-changing mindless American obsessions that leaves me wanting more. Always more.

Last month she had me wasting two hours a week on Dancing with the Stars.

“I mean it, Sofia; he’s gorgeous,” she continues, and since I did nothing to diffuse the situation—I’m trying to ignore her and look past the television screen—I’ll have to blame myself if she gets herself all worked up and into a tiff, “I just can’t understand you. You don’t find anyone attractive. What about last weekend, at your father’s party, at dinner with Lord Joseph? You looked like you wanted to spit on him.”

Ah, our girl’s not as dumb as I’d once thought. I did want to spit on the fool.

“I did not say he was unattractive.” And I didn’t.

He asked if I could give him a tour of the castle. I took one look at his Italian leather loafers, Hugo Boss leather jacket, and remembered the fedora he left in the coat closet—a heads up from my closest confidant and handmaid, Elena—and almost laughed.

But then the wind blew.

We’d been dining in the East gardens, with the best view of the moon that night. And it was bright, full, and as always, my friend. The wind blew open his jacket and gave the projectile in his pocket just enough momentum to leap.

What the opening of his jacket revealed was a pink and orange Hermes pocket square. Prick. With very questionable fashion sense.

And the projectile? A condom. I bent to spy the tiny lettering. Ribbed, for her pleasure.

Well, it was good to know he was looking out for my best interests.

Savannah, somewhere off dallying with one of the many tools she invites into her bed, doesn’t remember this part. She remembers earlier, at the princess’s table—the princess being yours truly—when the Lord wouldn’t take his eyes off of my cleavage and I, in turn, couldn’t keep my hands off my fish fork. Whilst we ate foie gras and filet mignon, I was planning on stabbing him straight through the throat.

I smiled, playing demure for the crowd, winked at Lord Joseph, scooped up the condom in my own hands and dropped it into my cleavage. I had the twit within moments. Hook, line, and goddamn sinker.

And no one questioned even me when they found Lord Joseph locked in the restricted part of the castle two nights later. Restricted since it hadn’t been renovated for centuries and most of the keys for the dungeons in that area haven’t been seen for months. They’d been stolen, by me of course. For exactly when a situation like this arises.

Men need to be taught their manners before they can become leaders in my country.

“I could practically see you contemplating his death, Sofia,” Sav protests, though it’s not a valid point. Joseph’s gorgeous aristocratic features, auburn hair, and cornflower blue eyes had nothing to do with it.

“Did you not see him contemplating how soon he could bed me? Did that slip past you while you were busy making eyes of that bastard, Speed?” I only know that he must be a bastard because it’s one of Savannah’s qualifiers and his name is Speed. Like the drug that has more disgusting side-effects that I can even begin to name.

She doesn’t contradict me either. Sav’s main goal in life is to perfect the art of perfecting men. “But they all do. Everyone wants you. You’re the princess of Albion and since Damien, everyone thinks you’re this sex-goddess. Plus you’re gorgeous and—”

“How many times must I admonish to you, Savannah? Do not say that name in my presence ever again, or I’ll be forced to take drastic measures. Like, say, I cut your tongue out your throat,” I murmur. My voice takes on that cool tone, which she knows not to cross and fears quite seriously. “And since they all think that undressing me with their eyes and fucking me in their minds is appropriate, I shall take action against all I see fit. Especially the pricks with her pleasure condoms in their pockets. As if they gave the slightest of damns whether or not whoever she is enjoyed it. Are we clear?”

“Shhh! Chuck and Blair are about to make up again!”

I tune her out.

Why is she my best friend again, I ask. Just because contemplating these things has become more interesting than this tedious show. (Chuck and Blair will not make up; they will go on with this ridiculous back and forth for many more episodes to come, though I do commend Blair. She is a queen bitch after my own heart.)

We’re best friends because Savannah deserves me and I deserve her. Also, she doesn’t think the mindless paparazzo who follow me are glamorous, like some would; she finds them déclassé. And I don’t scare her. Even though I’m very good at doing so with most people.

You see, I’m not exactly your typical fairy-tale princess.

—

When I woke the next morning, Elena had already run my bathwater and laid out my uniform for school. I knew when I got back from getting cleaned up, she’d have my breakfast—a croissant, eggs Benedict with crab, and fresh berries from the farmer’s market—and be waiting to style my hair once I’ve dressed.

Elena and I take pleasure in the littlest things. One being routine.

I bit into the croissant just as she starts combing the knots out of the tips of my hair and I try not to complain, since the pastry is just flaky enough and buttery enough and my eggs smell magnificent, but I really hate this part.

“Couldn’t you use a bit of detangling spray?” Nibble, nibble, tense-up, yank. I’m surprised every day that I don’t lose inches of hair from all of this.

“If you’d like, but,” and in the mirror of my vintage white vanity, I see her smirk, “I thought we agreed your hair did better without much product.”

I sigh and then tense up again in preparation for another sharp tug. “This is divine, you are horrid, and what is it you have to tell me?”

Her light chuckle is the only sign I have that she’s heard me. Elena’s face is a composed mask of concentration. I know she must have something to say.

“I should tell you…Peter’s just gotten back. I saw him last night,” she murmurs after a minute. A tell tale pink tinges her cheeks and Lena concentrates even more on keeping her face neutral, but I know the truth. And I really wish I didn’t know what she meant by “saw him”.

I don’t even know why she bothers to hide when it’s just us around.

Peter’s my twin brother. I love him to death and Elena is in love with him. She has been since we were sixteen and—gag me with a spoon—they had their first rendezvous. We were vacationing in St. Barts and I insisted Elena come. I couldn’t brave the social scene of such a high profile vacation spot alone, of course.

Bad idea.

“I could do it, you know, Lena. With a month’s allowance and a decent forger to do the papers for us, we’d get you some decent lineage and once you guys got married, we’d be sisters. Imagine, first you’ll be Lady Elena and then Queen Elena.”

My brother will be King of all of Albion—fourteen minutes older, my ass—and I’ll always be a princess, unless the unspeakable happens and something happens to him.

When I was a child my theology teacher made me read The Chronicles of Narnia. For a while my only dream was that I’d be named Susan and we had two younger siblings. Then we could all be Kings and Queens. But alas, we do not live in Narnia, there are no talking animals here, and it’ll always be King Peter, the valiant—totally false, unless you’re looking through Elena’s eyes; he’s a total pansy—and me, Princess Sofia.

Queen Sofia, the divine, if I had my way—or maybe a combination of: the glorious, magnificent, swoon worthy, boxer-dropping, and feisty. But in truth, if I was going to be queen, it’d probably go something like: Queen Sofia, the frightful. Or just, something simple like, I don’t know…the bitch.

“And what if this forger decides he wants to make a mockery of our country, what then Sofia? What would we do if he decided to sell our story to one of those magazines you hate so much?”

She’s angry and I know I shouldn’t have mentioned it, but I just can’t see how things being this way can be fair. Since Elena’s working class and she works in the castle, it’s pretty much the unspoken rule that Peter could never be with her.

And the worst part is that Elena will take whatever she can get from Peter. He cheats on every single one of his girlfriends—and he’s had many, believe me—with Lena and she doesn’t say anything, because that’s the only way it can be.

Please.

I can’t even stand to hear all that bull Peter feeds her. It’s the only thing we disagree on. Me and Pete, I mean.

Once she’s done, I can tell Lena’s put out with me, but I’m not budging on the subject. She’s at the entrance to my chambers when I call back out to her. “Is Peter coming to school today? Or is he too tired from the trip?”

She goes beet red and just when I know she’s going to murmur yes, I cut her off. “Oh, right, you’re probably going to spend the day nursing him back to health. Tell him I’ll make sure to let his girlfriend know he’ll be out for another few days; god forbid she come looking for him while you two are playing doctor.”

I see rage slip over her features, shattering her usually calm mask. She slams the door on her way out, but I don’t care. Because if she lets that little dig bother her, how much more horrible will it be when Peter’s girlfriend does come a’ knocking? The girl’s got to toughen up and she should be glad I’m the one helping her do it.

I’m knee deep in designer accessories and fine jewelry when Peter comes in.

I don’t have to look at the doorway to my closet to know it’s him. My brother and I are a study in contrasts if we stand next to each other and don’t move, but in the way we move and act, we’re just the same.

And no one can enter a room quite as quietly Peter can. Except me.

“Why do you do that to her,” Peter asks. It’s so typical. I’m bored already and he’s not even talking about himself yet.

“I seriously hope you didn’t come in here to accuse me of being insensitive, Peter.” I hold up a pair of Dior earrings featuring numerous diamonds and bright orange seahorses. Definitely too under-the-sea for me.

“You always are.”

No to the white-gold bow-like necklace. Too pretty-little-package for me.

“I realize you can’t begin to put yourself in Elena’s position, so I won’t even ask, but can you even begin to understand how hard it is for her? I honestly don’t think so. So do me a favor and please hop off your high fucking horse and know that I am not the one who hurts her most.” I wish I could have sounded detached, but this giving me an anger headache.

I take my time unwrapping the piece of mint chocolate and pop it in my mouth. Once it’s melted and I finally let me shoulders relax, knowing I’ll need to make an appointment to get the knots out of my neck soon. “Welcome home, I guess.”

“Don’t be jealous, Fee. It was an all guys trip and you hate all of my guy friends,” Peter finally steps all the way in and sits down next to me and my cavernous jewelry box. He’s wrong. I hate all of Peter’s friends. It doesn’t matter what they’ve got between their legs.

“How was Aspen, then? And Jackson Hole,” I sniff. “Bang any hot American chicks?”

I’m not jealous. I swear. Impromptu ski trips to Colorado and Wyoming would interest me, if not for Peter’s pig friends tagging along. But an invite would have been nice. Since I’m a much better skier than he’ll ever be and I’ve always loved the shopping in Aspen.

“I think it’s painfully obvious you don’t want to hear about that, Sofia,” he picks up one of the many delicate pieces in my collection and balances it on the tip of his finger, “How was dinner last weekend? I was thoroughly sad to miss it.”

“I locked Lord Joseph in the dungeons after he asked for a tour and passed me a condom. No one found him for two days,” I pause to slip on my bracelet, finally deciding on a gold charm bracelet from Tiffany with a single custom made charm that says “Fee” in loopy cursive. A present from someone I refuse to remember.

I tossed the matching earrings into my marble fireplace months ago. I feel a dull ache around my wrist, which will probably get much worse as the day wears on, from having the bracelet there after so long. It’s probably all mental, but after one more day of wearing it, I’ll be able to watch it burn too.

Watching the earrings melt almost made me cry. It also almost made me want to call him and then the thought of doing so made me throw up. I was very proud of my body’s response.

“It’s a good thing I thought to sneak him some food, don’t you think so Peter,” I ask him evenly, while tugging a brightly colored silk scarf around my neck. It would accentuate the fact that I’m wearing nothing under my blazer but a cute little demi bra. Limited edition La Perla.

Bad girl, Fee, Savannah will probably say, that’s not proper princess behavior. But for now who cares? They crank up the heat much too much in the Academy for my liking. And sweating is so goddamn unattractive.

“Passed you a condom?” I can see his anger rising though he’s perfectly still and though I’m trying to keep my mouth completely sealed, a child-like giggle escapes.

Peter only raises a single eyebrow; sometimes it makes me sick how alike we are. “In a manner of speaking, it kind of jumped out of his pocket…when the wind blew.”

“Delightful. We shall see if he’s brave enough to face you again tonight,” he rises up easily and bows to me, “Princess Fee, I must bid thee farewell. I’ve left someone très important waiting.”

Suddenly I was struck with the mental image of those to playing doctor yet again and almost lost my breakfast. “Tell Elena I said that giving you a sponge bath would totally make you two sexual deviants. And I swear to god, if she ever tries to say a word about it to me, her life will be in serious danger.”

Then I remember Peter mentioning dinner and groan a second time. We’d have to take the helicopters out to their manor tonight. I can’t remember the occasion, especially since it didn’t warrant my father’s attendance, but Peter and I have to go.

Hopefully Joseph doesn’t plan on exacting any revenge. I’d hate to embarrass the boy by one upping him on his own turf.

My security detail, Knox and Vix—her real name’s Victoria, but having a driver named Vix is particularly badass, especially when your security guard is named Knox and your brother’s team includes a Kelvin and an Owen—meet me at the gate by the north lawn where I’m texting Savannah to make sure she’ll be ready when we get to her house.

They’re late actually. Or I’m early as usual.

Knox is this huge ex-body builder or something. He’s American, from Brooklyn, so his accent always makes me laugh without me wanting it to. Victoria’s Albian, but she grew up in Wales so her accent’s odd too.

They start to bow and “Your Highness” me, but it’s become a habit to not give them the time to and I slip past them and start marching to the car before Knox can get angry. He’s always angry with me about something or other. I guess I mouth off from time to time, but I feel I should be allowed to.

It can be one of my many royal allowances.

Not that I’m that kind of person. I don’t get off on that whole, you’re the subject and I’m the princess bit, but I have got a few cousins who do. God forbid I ever—God forbid.

“Late, as usual,” I murmur before sliding into the dark limo. It’s adorned with gray, black, and blue flags in the front and the back.

They match my uniform actually. The plaid skirts are gray, black, and blue with some silver running through it and the blazer is black with a silver crest. You’re supposed to wear a matching oxford underneath, but I’ve come to find that most rules they want you to follow at the Academy aren’t worth anyone’s time, much less mine.

“What’s the hold up,” I ask, after about thirty seconds of the loitering in front of the castle. When I’m especially bored like now, I usually start picking at my nails and I’ll be pissed off later, when I see that my nail beds look gross.

“Your father’s on the line,” Knox calls back to me and my face brightens immediately. I can hear Knox biting his lip on my title, but I press the button before he can say anything else.

“Daddy?”

“Sofia, I hear that tone. Whatever you’re trying to get out of, don’t even try it. I just got off the phone with your brother and he told me what you did to Joseph. Lord knows I should have been about to figure it out by now.”

I almost reached over and disconnected the call. Not that I don’t enjoy a casual call from dear old dad, but what’s the point of being a girl if you can’t manipulate your father?

“I had my reasons,” I pouted and then frowned. No point in pouting if no one can see it.

“I’m sure, but that’s not really what I called for. Now as you know, the Minister’s nephew is starting at the Academy today and I—,” he may have continued on, but about what, I just don’t know.

“Yeah, Dad, I got it. Show the kid around; make sure he doesn’t have to sit alone at lunch. Can’t have the Minister’s nephew getting antsy on his first day here, now can we? Why I have to do this and not Peter, who the hell knows, but I will do it, Dad. Don’t you worry about it at all. I’ll give the American a very warm welcome.”

Father’s quite good at letting me get through a rant as long as we’re not in public. If so, he’ll level me with a look much more severe than I can even muster. Although that only happens once in a while; I can pretty much control myself when people are watching or find another outlet.

For example, keeping the young Lord Joseph as a pet down in the dungeons. Now that was almost too fun. Just the thought that idiot clanging on the decrepit bars gets me giddy. He may have even pissed himself when I threw two baguettes and a block of cheese at him five hours later.

“You’ve got almost too much of your mother in you, God rest her soul. Lord knows I loved her more than the stars and moon, but that mouth. Your mother’s mouth could bring even me to my knees,” his voice took on a wistful tone I don’t imagine many people get to hear. But who can you really talk to about your late wife, but your children?

I struggled with something to say before he switched the subject. “Shouldn’t you be at school by now anyway? Where’s Savannah?”

Had I been inside he would have asked about Elena. “Yeah, um, we’re about to leave to pick her up now. And I’m not really late. I’ve got time.”

“Oh. Alright, then,” he said and hung right up, like always. No extended goodbyes from dear old dad. Sometimes I love it and others, it’s just a bit unsettling.

“Let’s get Sav quickly; I’ve got a few things to take care of at school,” I called and leant my head back into the seat rest and closed my eyes in silent debate.

What kind of flunky should I use? Someone close, like Savannah? Or one on the outer rungs of the little hierarchy called high school.

Hmph. I’d have to decide when I got a look at the guy. And if he pissed me off, he’d get the most pathetic little underling I could find. Or, no. I’d have Sav assign some flunky to find someone even lower than the underling themselves.

Shit, he’d probably get someone pitiful even if he did bow down and lay prostrate at my feet. And it has absolutely nothing to do with my noble blood. I’m typically just a bitch like that.

A/N: Sofia’s just lovely, right? Lol. This is the second new story I’m starting, within a day of the other. I know. HORRIBLE!