But this was the first time Ruben had joined her on one of those visits. Not that he hadn’t wanted to come. Only, after the things her father had said about him over the phone, Cherry was slightly hesitant to put them in a room together.
Magz: Where are you? What’s happening? Did dad kill your boyfriend? Cuz if so RIP, he was cute or whateva
Cherry: Has anyone ever told you that you’re really annoying?
Magz: You, every day since my birth. Jealousy is a disease, sis.
Cherry was hunting down the appropriate emojis for her response when her mother spoke over the soft hum of the TV.
“So,” Petra said, her eyes still on her crochet hook. “That’s your gentleman friend, then?”
This was Petra’s first mention of Ruben since he’d arrived at the house with Cherry almost an hour before. Cherry took the odd timing in stride. Her mother liked to unnerve people.
“Yes. That’s him.” She swiped her palms against the front of her jeans. They felt suddenly clammy.
“Mm.” Petra said. She imbued that single syllable with a wealth of meaning that Cherry could not begin to decipher, but was slightly worried by. “He sort out him family problem?”
“Yes,” Cherry said, for what felt like the thousandth time. “He and his family have been granted indefinite leave to remain.”
Petra looked over the top of her silver reading glasses. “His poor sister all good?”
Cherry didn’t bother to say that Lydia was Ruben’s sister-in-law, or that soon she wouldn’t even be that, once her divorce went through. It didn’t seem pertinent. “Yes. She’s doing quite well. So are the children.”
Petra nodded, her lips pursed. She had dimples rather like Cherry’s, but they were no indication of good will.
“Mum, could you stop being all mysterious and just tell me if you like him or not?”
Petra looked up at her daughter in apparent surprise. “Why wouldn’t I like him?”
“Um…” Cherry floundered. “I don’t know. You weren’t very happy when you found out about… The engagement.”
“The fake engagement,” Petra corrected with a sniff. “He isn’t my own blood who lied to me and disappeared out the country without warning! Why wouldn’t I like him?”
Cherry sighed. “Would you like me to apologise again?”
Petra snipped off the end of her yarn. “It couldn’t hurt, Cherry Pop. Keep going ’til I tell you to stop.” She flicked her gaze over to her daughter, a slight smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “And come over here. Sit by me. I want another look at that ring.”
Just as Cherry settled down beside her mother, the door to the study finally opened.
It took her a moment to realise that the voices floating down the hall were raised in friendly exuberance rather than disagreement. Cherry pressed a hand to her chest and breathed out a sigh of relief.
“We must cycle. Do you cycle, Ruben?”
“Not really, Sir, but I can. I’d like that.”
“Excellent, excellent. I cycle every morning. Good for my blood pressure, doctor says.” As always, David Neita’s voice entered the room before he did.
Ruben stepped in first, meeting Cherry’s eyes with a grin. She knew by the look on his face that things had gone well.
Then she looked at her dad’s face and realised things had gone really well. As soft-hearted as he was on the inside, his expression tended to hover somewhere between vague displeasure and pained annoyance, unless he was in an extremely good mood.
Right now, he was looking positively joyful. What on earth had Ruben said to him?
Petra set her crocheting aside and clapped her hands. “Well! Now you two are done, I’ll set the table. Come, Cherry, pour the drinks for me.”
“Coming.” Before she followed her mother into the kitchen, Cherry pulled out her phone and replied to Maggie.
Cherry: All good. Dad seems to like him???
Magz: This one’s a real prince charming ;-)
Ruben was no stranger to high-pressure situations, but meeting Cherry’s parents had taken at least five years off his life.
Still, it was over now. And nothing had gone wrong. In fact, he thought, as he slid into the driver’s seat of his new BMW, things had gone pretty damn right.
Cherry was in the passenger seat, fussing with her hair in the visor mirror. It was late, but there was still some light in the sky. Enough to cast shadows over the soft planes of her face, the curves of her lips, her cheeks.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered.
She turned to face him with a smile. Her lips were bubblegum pink. He’d spent the whole day wanting to find out if she tasted as good as she looked.
But he wasn’t about to give in to that temptation. Not now. He had something important to say, and if he didn’t get the words out while he was still on a high, who knew when he’d find the courage.
“You’re quite pretty yourself,” she said. “You clean up well, Mr. Ambjørn.”
He’d never get tired of hearing that name. It really was his now, and it suited him better than his title ever had. Especially because it was who he’d been when they’d first met.
Or who he was trying to be. It had taken Cherry for him to finally become that man. A man who was truly free.
He took her hand in his. Her left hand, where his mother’s ring gleamed on her fourth finger. Neither of them had mentioned it over the last few months, in the chaos of adjusting to a new life, weathering the media attention. But every morning, when they woke up in Cherry’s flat holding hands, he felt the stones pressing against his fingers.
“When I gave you this,” he said, “I was in love with you.” He brought her hand up to his lips, kissed it softly. “I’d never been in love before. I thought the way I felt then was impossible to beat. That my heart couldn’t bear anything more intense. But I was wrong.
“Every day I spend with you, my love grows. I go to sleep thinking I can’t possibly need you more than I do in that moment. But every morning, without fail, I wake up and see you and fall all over again, harder every time. I love it. I love you. And I never want to be without you, Cherry. Not ever. I’ve given you the ring, I’ve paraded you in front of family and strangers as my fiancée, but I’ve never really asked you this before. So I’m asking now.”
He took a breath, and it felt like the first one he’d taken since starting this speech. His eyes were focused on the ring, his ring, on her finger. She hadn’t taken it off, and that meant something. It had to.
“Cherry Neita,” he said, and wondered if she could hear his voice shaking, or if it was all in his head. “I have waited my whole life for you.” He forced himself to look up, to meet her gaze as he asked, “Will you marry me?”
Her face broke into a smile. Of all the smiles he’d seen on this brilliant woman’s face, his woman’s face, this was the sweetest. Tears swam in her deep brown eyes, but she grinned helplessly, without restraint, joyous as the sun.
“Yes,” she said, and her voice was shaking too. “Oh, my God, yes.” She grabbed the back of his head and pulled him forward, kissing him with reckless passion, still smiling. It was probably the most awkward kiss they’d ever had, teary and laughing with teeth catching teeth, and he’d never been happier.
“Oh, Lord,” she giggled. “Did you tell my dad about this?”
Ruben shrugged, biting back a smirk. “I may have begged his daughter’s hand in marriage…”
“No wonder he likes you so much! Jesus, Ruben, what year is it?”
He pressed a kiss to her nose. “The year I marry the love of my life without her father scowling at me through the service.”
She snorted. “You’re impossible.”
“That’s why you like me so much.”
Cherry cupped a hand against his jaw. “No,” she said, her voice soft. “That’s why I love you.”
THE END
Thank you for reading The Princess Trap. If you enjoyed it, please consider telling your friend
s or posting a short review. Word of mouth is an author’s best friend and much appreciated.
Thank you,
Talia x
Author’s Note
I was supposed to be writing my dissertation when I dreamt up a character named Cherry Neita.
For every 1000 words of research I wrote, Cherry dragged 1000 words of prose from me. And she kept going until I’d finished her story. I did manage to finish the dissertation, too, but it took a lot longer than it should have.
I can’t say I mind, though.
Some people might say that this story is about a black princess, but Cherry never actually becomes a princess. This is entirely due to my own bias; as much as I love Disney films, the reality of the monarchy has always made me uncomfortable. Probably because, y’know, colonialism and classism and all that good stuff.
Plus, as the characters of Harald and Sophronia show… all that glitters is not gold.
There are many domestic violence charities in the U.K., but there’s one I’ve found especially helpful: https://www.womensaid.org.uk
If you or anyone you know is experiencing or has experienced domestic violence, or intimate partner violence, remember Women’s Aid. They have a free, 24 hour helpline, too: 0808 2000 247.
Stay safe.
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Bad for the Boss
SNEAK PEEK
If you enjoyed this story, you’ll love book 1 in the Just for Him series: Bad for the Boss.
What a way to fall from grace…
Theodore Chamberlain is notorious for his razor-sharp focus, his terrifying temper, and his anti-social tendencies. What most people don't know is that the powerful businessman is just as demanding in the bedroom as he is at the office.
So when model employee Jennifer Johnson stumbles into his life, Theo turns his infamous intensity towards a masterful seduction. The plus-sized knockout may be the office's angel, but only Theo sees the flames simmering beneath.
Jen knows better than to risk the job she desperately needs for a relationship that can't last. But when a threat from her dark past surfaces, Theo overturns her protests to protect her from the danger.
Can he save Jennifer from the evil that stalks her, or is time running out for this happily ever after?
Will Jen remain a good girl with a rebel's heart... Or will she give in to her desire and be bad for the boss?
Read on for a sneak peek!
Chapter One
I need this job. I need this job. I need this job.
Jen tapped her pen against her desk. Tap. Tap. Tap. Maybe the movement, combined with her internal chant, would subdue her urge to physically attack a colleague.
She looked up at the colleague in question: Oliver Hatton, AKA Ollie, AKA a pain in her damned backside. He gave her pen a significant look, then arched one blonde brow.
“You know what they say about that sort of thing,” he drawled.
She stared back dully, her mouth clamped stubbornly shut. Unfortunately, he didn’t require any encouragement.
“It’s a sign of frustration,” he continued, bending over her desk.
Yep.
“Of a… Certain kind.” He murmured. She had the distinct impression that he thought he was being seductive. “You know what I mean?”
“Certainly not,” Jen said. His face fell—but only for a moment. As usual, he recovered quickly. Ollie possessed a level of self-confidence that would be admirable in anyone other than the office sleaze. As he mounted his next line of attack, Jen gave up on the notes she’d been writing and turned to her computer.
“What are you up to after work?” Ollie asked.
“Not a lot.”
“I’m going out for a drink with the lads.” He winked. She had no idea why. “Of course, there’s always room for a female or two…”
“Mmmm.” She pinned a vague smile on her face as she pulled up her emails and hit ‘Compose’.
Re: UGH!
Pri,
Copy is going well but I’m being slimed all over by wannabe Johnny Bravo. Again. Currently plotting ways to make my feelings clearer. I may come in tomorrow with NOT INTERESTED written on my forehead. Or possibly FUCK YOU.
I’m thinking red sharpie, to make an impact. Do you think that’s too much?
Let me know,
Jen
“You should come,” Ollie was saying.
“Oh, no thanks.” She’d forgotten to add a recipient. Of course. Only half-listening to Ollie’s wheedling, she began scrolling through the company list.
“You never join us for drinks. Come on, Jenny, live a little.“
“Don’t call me that,” she said automatically. C for Chaudry. There we go. She hit Send.
“Why not?” Ollie leaned closer and—oh, sweet baby Jesus in a manger. The slimy pink curl of his tongue flicked out from between his paper-cut lips, like a worm after a spring shower. Jen watched in horror as he slid his gaze from her face to her cleavage, then back again. “You know, Jen—“
But, happily, he never managed to finish that sentence. Priyanka appeared in the doorway of her office and bellowed “Oliver!”
Priyanka did not have an inside voice.
“Priyanka!” Ollie straightened, putting a blessed few feet of distance between his mouth and Jen’s face. Thank God. His breath was almost as offensive as his personality.
“Get me the numbers on that latest account, will you?” Pri was tiny—she couldn’t be more than five feet tall—but her authority was as mighty as her foghorn voice. Ollie cleared his throat and adjusted his suit cuffs.
“Of course, Priyanka. Right away.”
“Off you go, then.”
He cast one last, lingering look at Jen before hurrying off across the room to his own, smaller office, skirting desks as he went. How a man like Ollie Hatton had ended up a junior exec with his own office, while Jen toiled away with nothing but a desk to call her own, she had no idea.
Wait—yes she did. Life wasn’t fair.
What else was new?
Priyanka rolled her eyes at Ollie’s retreating back before scurrying over to Jen’s desk, hefting a pile of paperwork in her arms.
“Thanks, Pri.”
“No problem, darling.”
“Seriously, five more minutes and I might have lost it. Thank God you got my email.”
Priyanka laughed, flicking her long, greying ponytail over one cardigan-clad shoulder. “No you wouldn’t; you’re a good girl. But I don’t have any emails from you, Jennifer. I just came to dump this on you.” She smirked and slammed the stack of files down on Jen’s desk. “You’re welcome.”
“Oh.” Jen grimaced. “Is it too late to take back my thanks?”
“Far too late,” Pri replied, already heading back to the comfort of her corner office. “I will take my credit, Jen. You know that.”
Jennifer heaved out a sigh as she eyed the mountain of work. She even grumbled under her breath a little bit, but her heart wasn’t in it. Becoming friends with one’s manager made it difficult to stay resentful.
Not to mention the fact that, when it came down to it, she was beyond grateful to have this job at all—sleazy junior execs aside.
Resigned to an afternoon of dreary admin, Jen picked up her pen and slouched down in her chair. There was a big old potted plant right by her desk, and if she kept her head down, she’d be almost invisible from certain angles. Maybe, if Ollie ventured out again, he’d think she’d gone to lunch.
But as she opened the first file, something nagged at her mind. A vague sense of worry, one she couldn’t quite catch. It nudged her back to her computer screen. She tapped her mouse, brought the monitor to life, and saw a new message in her inbox.
From: Chamberlain, J. T.
Re: UGH!
Wait. What?
Dread settling in her stomach, Jen clicked over to her ‘Sent’ box and scanned the em
ails anxiously. No. No, no, no, no, no.
There was no way she’d just sent that email to Chamberlain instead of Chaudry. No way. Because, while Chamberlain and Chaudry may both begin with ‘Ch’, there were several key differences between them.
For example, Chaudry was the name of her friend and manager. Chamberlain was not.
Chaudry was the name of a woman who understood exactly how annoying men in the workplace could be, and was therefore a safe haven for anti-Ollie rants. Chamberlain was not.
But most importantly—Jennifer stuck her pen between her lips and chewed, good intentions be damned—most importantly…
Chaudry was not the name of a partner at the advertising firm where she worked.
And Chamberlain was.
Jen’s biro burst between her teeth, leaking bitter ink. With a stifled cry, she spat it out and swiped clumsily at her mouth like a child. Jesus Christ. Grabbing her water, she sucked up a mouthful, swilled, and spat it back into the bottle. Then she looked furtively around to see if that utterly tragic display had been witnessed.
Paige, two desks down, was staring at her in open astonishment.
Crap.
Jennifer cleared her throat, straightened up in her seat, and turned pointedly back to her computer. Mentally, she steeled herself. Then, her heart in her throat, she opened the Email of Doom.
BAD FOR THE BOSS: OUT NOW
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About the Author
Talia Hibbert is a writer and educator from England, U.K., by way of both the West Indies and West Africa. She wrote her first romance aged 12, and was promptly scolded by her teacher because her story of love in the jungle wasn't 'proper'.
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