by Ashley Hall
His face is red with anger. One fist slams down onto the front counter, successfully terrorizing the poor woman working on the other side. Her hair is hanging out of her bun. The name tag on the front of her gray shirt reads Suzy.
“Father,” gasps Isabella. “What are you doing?”
Her father, Gregory, spins around. He looks livid. “Isabella? Isabella! Where have you been? No, I don't want to know! Not right now. Come here.”
Isabella pauses. Her lips draw into a thin line. “Father, quit bothering that poor woman. Why would she know anything about where I've been?”
Gregory sputters for a moment. He points one shaking finger at the hallway. “Go. Go to your room and wait there while I find your mother.”
“Father—”
“Now,” hisses Gregory.
Isabella finds that she has no choice but to listen. The hallway is empty. Her bedroom door is sitting partially open. She steps inside, eager for a few minutes to get herself together before the unavoidable meeting with her mother.
She slips out of her dress and changes into something more presentable. The cream and pale pink gown she chooses is her mother's favorite. Isabella hopes that it might help sway her mother's mood.
“Isabella,” screeches Alexandra as she floats into the room. Her hair is a mess. She's still wearing her dressing gown from the night before. “Heavens, girl! What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking that I didn't want to spend all night here,” says Isabella, firmly. Then, in a softer voice, she adds, “But I should have left a note so you didn't worry.”
“Worry? Worry? Isabella, we thought you'd been taken!”
“I went out for a drink, Mother! That's it!”
Alexandra gasps, recoiling as if she's been slapped. “Drinking? Isabella!”
“It's the truth, Mother. That's what happened,” says Isabella firmly. “I'm not a child anymore. I'm not here to just be your little dress-up doll and do whatever you and Father say. I wanted to go out, so that's what I did.”
“I've had enough of this,” says Alexandra in a low voice. “Isabella, I've had enough of your disobedience. You say that you aren't a child, but that's exactly how you act! To think that running off like that is okay, that endangering yourself is okay—that's how a child behaves!”
Isabella bites her tongue. There's so much more that she wants to say, but it's pointless. Her mother isn't listening.
Her mother never listens.
# # #
They leave first thing the next morning. Isabella is kept at her mother's side the entire trip. She is given no privacy, not even when they land on the ground and head to their next hotel. This one is a scheduled affair, the sort with a chauffeur and room service and marble floors.
Rather than enjoy the luxury of the building, Isabella finds it almost stifling. The young princess really hadn't been lying when she called Gabe's apartment quaint—it was cute, real in a way that this sort of place isn't.
When she was a child, Isabella loved trips like this. She would race through the halls like each new hotel was a fairytale castle of her own creation. There was wonder in every new crevice, in every new room.
Now, she finds it sterile.
With a sigh, she sits a little less than straight in the soft cushioned chair. Beside her, Alexandra scowls. “Don't slouch.”
“I'm not slouching.”
“Isabella, don't argue with me. You've already done enough damage by running off. So, please, try to act like a proper lady for once.”
Indignant, Isabella sits up, spine snapping straight. “Excuse me, for once?”
“For once,” repeats Alexandra. “Raising your voice, by the by, is far from proper. Keep it at room level.”
“I'm not going to whisper,” says Isabella, painted red lips twisting into a scowl. “You're being ridiculous!”
Gregory clears his throat. He holds up the key ring from his spot at the counter. There are two silver keys dangling from it, each one labeled with white numbers. As always, they're right next to each other.
Isabella stands up with a huff and smooths down the front of her skirt. “Great. Which room is mine?”
“We're sharing a room,” says Alexandra, taking one of the keys. “Your father will have a room to himself.”
Isabella spins around and stares at her mother with wide, uncomprehending eyes. “What?”
“You heard me,” says Alexandra. “I gave you my trust, Isabella, and you broke it. You not only went out on your own, in the middle of the night, but you went drinking. Do you know what could have happened to you? What could have happened to our country?”
“The country? Be honest, Mother, that's all you care about!”
“It's not all I care about,” snaps Alexandra. “But we are the rulers there. I am the queen, Isabella, and you are the princess. Our next in line! You have to set an example for the rest of country!”
“They don't care about us! We're a washed up title,” spits Isabella. The words won't quit coming once she starts to talk. “We're nothing more than a faceplate. They do whatever they want. They do whatever the rest of the world wants, too! We're nothing but a laughing stock! Oh, there they go again. There go the royal family with their high-collared gowns and their last century—”
Alexandra sighs. “Is this about the dresses, Isabella? Darling, we've been over this!”
“You've been over it,” spits Isabella. She raises a hand, about to jab a finger in her mother's direction, but Gregory clears his throat again.
“Ladies,” says the King. “I feel this is best a conversation that we continue in private.”
“I feel,” says Alexandra firmly, “this is best a conversation that we don't continue at all.”
Chapter Eight
They don't continue the conversation, and Isabella doesn't get her own room. Not at that hotel or the next one or any of the others. She is kept under an invisible lock and key. The chain around her neck has finally been pulled taut, until there's barely room to breathe.
Isabella blames her constant nausea on the stress of suddenly being watched twenty-four/seven. The clock hands move too slowly. The trip through the States seems to stretch on forever.
Each day that passes is worse than the last. Isabella's bones feel like they don't fit inside of her body. She scrubs at her face, constantly trying to reapply concealer so the shadows under her eyes don't show.
“Hurry up,” urges her mother. “We have to be there in ten minutes.”
“I'm almost done,” assures Isabella. “Just give me another moment.”
“Isabella,” says Alexandra. “Let's go. We cannot afford to be late again.”
Isabella snorts. “You say that like I'm the reason we were late last time. That was Father's fault.”
“Yes,” Gregory says amiably. “But it's going to be your fault this time if you don't hurry. And you know how much your mother detests being late.”
With a frustrated sigh, Isabella drops the makeup into the sink. She pats her pulled-up curls one last time, turns around, and nearly falls over when a wave of dizziness hits her. Isabella stumbles sideways, grabbing onto the sink in an effort to stop herself from falling.
It works but only just barely.
Alexandra finally pulls open the bathroom door. Ignoring her daughter's indignant squawk, she says, “We're leaving now.”
“Fine,” snaps Isabella. “Let's just go get this over with.”
Gregory takes his daughter by the arm and tells her, “Just remember to smile, darling. Things will be over before you know it, and then we'll all be right back at home.”
Isabella doubts it, but she doesn't argue. Instead, she settles in for a night of miserable conversations with other dignitaries, governors, and military officers.
What a fun way to spend her early twenties. Isabella wishes she could be like other women her age. It sounds stupid even in her own mind because she only knows other dignitaries, like herself. The only thing she knows of normal girls
are the hijinks shown in the media. Obviously, neither one is a good example of how a twenty-year-old leads her life.
But Gabe—she cannot get him out of her mind. The man had been free, simply put. He had been free to make his own choices, no matter how rash or ignorant they might have seemed. He had been free, and she isn't, and it's horrible.
# # #
The bitter thoughts last long into the night, right up until she's introduced to Senator Kelly's wife, Barbara Anne. The woman is practically glowing, and she looks to be almost five months into her pregnancy.
Barbara Anne holds out one gloved hand. “It's a true pleasure to meet you. My, in the presence of a true princess!”
Isabella gives the woman a small smile. Her gaze keeps going back to the bulge of Barbara Anne's stomach.
The woman follows her gaze and her smile becomes that much wider. “I'm hoping she grows up to be just like you.”
“She?”
“I couldn't wait,” says Barbara Anne with a tittering laugh. “We had the doctors tell us, soon as they could. No, this little bugger is going to be a princess, just like you.”
A princess.
The word sinks claws into Isabella's mind. She closes her eyes, draws in a deep breath, and tries not to be sick.
Just like you.
It's impossible to get a moment to sneak away. In the end, Isabella ends up paying the teenage daughter of one of the other party attendees to run out to a nearby store and pick up a package of pregnancy testers.
As soon as the girl comes back, Isabella excuses herself to the bathroom with as much decorum as she can muster. It's hard because she feels a little bit like she's about to fall apart.
It's already been a week and a half since she last saw Gabe, and there has been no one before him, and there has been no one since him.
The little pink line just confirms her fears.
She's pregnant with the child of a Georgia biker. The world spins around her. Isabella slumps down onto the toilet, her gown falling around her legs like some sort of broken shield.
Broken—that's a good word to describe her right now. Isabella feels like she's shattered, like a porcelain doll that's been pushed off a high shelf, too broken apart to actually be fixed. Each breath is harder than the last, until she's hyperventilating into her own hands, and the tears won't stop falling.
Music from the main room filters into the bathroom.
The sad lyrics make Isabella's heart twist up that much more, until the tears blur her vision and her hands smear her makeup. She is not sure how long she spends in there, curled up on herself, still clutching the positive pregnancy strip.
Eventually, Isabella pushes herself up. She steels herself, but there's no one else in the bathroom. The young princess goes over to the mirror and stares at herself.
It's strange, seeing that ruddy-faced girl staring back at her. Isabella feels like she's lost, like she has nowhere to go and no one to turn to.
The feeling isn't unusual. Isabella never has anyone to turn to. It's obvious, to her at least, that this is a problem she's going to have to face on her own. It's obvious that there will be no fixing this with other people's help.
“It's okay,” says Isabella to her reflection. “You can take care of yourself. You can take care of this.”
Isabella doesn't know how, but in that moment, the only thing that really matters is getting herself presentable once more. She washes her face and uses the remover in her purse to get rid of the mascara smeared under her eyes. After that, it's almost easy. There's makeup in her purse, always, and Isabella can make herself look beautiful no matter what.
She resolves, in that moment, that no one will know.
No one will ever know.
Chapter Nine
At first, it's easy to hide. The dizzy spells start to fade away until only her upset stomach remains. And that has been a constant these last months.
“It's just stress,” she assures her father whenever he asks about her strange food cravings or her lack of appetite. “I'm sure that things will be fine once we return home.”
“I'm sure you're right,” he says. “I'm just sorry to see my little princess feel so blue.”
“Sorry enough to give me my own room?”
“That's not my say. I'm sorry, Isabella, but what you did simply wasn't acceptable. To have you run off like that…anything could have happened! What if someone recognized you?”
“They didn't,” assures Isabella. “I'm certain.”
“But they could have,” says Gregory. “And there's just no way that your mother is going to trust you. I'm sorry. We just have to ease on like we have been until we get home.”
They're standing in the hall, ready to turn in after a night of speeches and well-wishes. Isabella's dress has a lace back. It makes her skin itch in all of the worst ways. “I cannot stay in the same room as her any longer, Father. I cannot!”
“One more week,” promises Gregory. “Just one more week, and I'll try talking to her.”
# # #
Unfortunately, that last week proves to be the worst thing that could happen to Isabella. During that week, the morning sickness kicks in. On Tuesday morning, she lurches up onto her feet and races towards the bathroom.
Startled, Alexandra sits up. “Darling, what's wrong?”
Isabella cannot answer. Bile burns at her throat. She hits the floor of the bathroom. Her knees sting from the impact. Her throat becomes raw when she curls over the so-called porcelain throne and dry-heaves.
“Isabella?” Alexandra gets up, padding into the bathroom after her. “Are you alright?”
Isabella vomits again. She didn't have anything to eat the night before, in an effort to curb this. It's the third time this week that Alexandra's caught her throwing up.
And the Queen, while being older and a little self-involved, is still a mother. She stands there in the doorway of the bathroom and watches her daughter vomit, sweat making her nightgown cling to the small of her back and her hair lay flat and errant, and she knows.
“How could you?” breathes the Queen. “How could you?”
“It's not what you think,” tries Isabella when she's finally able to talk through the retching and gagging. Saliva clings to her lips. “Mother, it's not what you think.”
“You're pregnant.”
“You don't know that!”
“Isabella, I have been with child before. I know what I'm looking at. Stand up. Now.”
Isabella listens to her mother’s demands. Her legs are trembling. She still feels like she's going to start puking at any moment. “Mother, I know what you're going to say—”
“No,” says Alexandra softly, “you don't. And that's alright. You've never been a mother. You've never been a ruler. Perhaps, even, this is my own fault. I've spoiled you. I let you have whatever you wanted as a child. Now, look at you.”
“I'm fine, Mother. We're in a new century! Having a child out of wedlock—”
“Is not acceptable when you're royalty,” says Alexandra. “No, we cannot let anyone know. Is that understood?”
“I haven't told anyone.”
“Is that understood?”
Isabella sighs. “Yes, Mother, that's understood. So... what now, then? Am I to give up the child?”
“No,” says Alexandra. “You are simply going to find a husband. We will announce it tomorrow, as soon as I speak with your father.”
Isabella takes step forward, too quickly. She nearly falls over. “No! I won't do it! I've already told you—”
“Perhaps you shouldn't have been so quick to spread your legs for any man,” says Alexandra bitterly. “Self-control would have kept you from this mess. No, I simply won't have a husband-less whore for a daughter.”
The words sting worse than anything else Isabella has ever felt.
Chapter Ten
He's at the bar again. It's turned into a regular hangout for Gabe—a place to go when he needs to escape the world around him.
It's raining outside. The sound bounces off the tin roof. It only adds to the music blaring out of the beat-up jukebox that sits in the corner of the room. Some drunk teenagers came in a few minutes ago and set it to blare out a bunch of old music.
One song in particular sets Gabe’s nerves on edge. It's one of those songs that's meant to be laughed at, but it's also been played three times tonight. Gabe waves Bethy over again. “I'll give you twenty dollars, right here, right now, if you let me go unplug that.”
