by Ashley Hall
It's her mother.
The Queen made this decision. The Queen made things so horrible.
“It's not my fault,” says Isabella firmly. She sits down on the couch and turns on pay-per-view. There's nothing interesting on. She watches parts of three different movies in the span of a half hour. Eventually, Isabella just gives up on the television.
She leans back, folding her arms over her chest. It's hard to turn her mind off. There's too much happening. There is always too much happening.
Isabella just wants things to go back to normal.
Except, no, that's a lie. Normal wasn't any better than this. In fact, normal might have been just as bad. One way or another, she has never had the chance to be herself. One way or another, she has always just been a slave to the crown.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
That night, Isabella dreams.
It's strange because she knows that she's asleep, but she also knows that this could be reality. Each step takes her farther into the marble hallways of her home—the palace—back in Davaria. Familiar oil paintings cling to the walls. Rich, red velvet curtains hang from the windows.
Isabella feels light. This is her home. Even though her parents have disowned her, this palace will always be her home.
She walks through the castle as though being pulled along by strings. They guide her into the nearest doorway. It's not one that Isabella recognizes. That's a strange realization, but it also makes Isabella feel a little bit giddy.
Something new!
Something new that Isabella might be able to hold onto.
Except, it's not new. There are several gouges in the wood near the bottom, like an animal tried to get inside. The door opens up into Gabe's apartment. The apartment isn't a complete wreck, but it's far from clean and far from nice. A window air-conditioning unit has been wedged into one of the windows, and pieces of wood have been duct taped up on either side to try and help keep the cold air in. Piles of dirty laundry have been sorted out next to the television stand.
Gabe's standing in the middle of the room, nude save for his leather biker jacket. The patches are there, but they aren't legible. Isabella smiles, this wavering sort of thing. She says, “I missed you.”
He doesn't answer her. He just spreads his arms out to the side, fingers splayed.
“I missed you so much,” says Isabella, running forward and catching the man in a hug. Gabe wraps his arms tight around her waist, hands splayed.
He's cold.
He's so cold that it's almost unbearable.
Isabella presses her head against Gabe's chest. She says, “I don't know what to do.”
He doesn't answer. His grip grows tight. Around her, she can feel the room wavering. There are people watching her. It's the most disconcerting feeling. Everyone is staring at her, judging her, and Isabella can't do anything but stand there.
Tears build up in her eyes, but they won't run out over her cheeks. A sob builds up in her lungs, but Isabella can't get it out.
And suddenly, it's not Gabe that's holding her, it's Sir Calbert. Isabella doesn't really know what he looks like. But here, in this moment, Sir Calbert is a large man. He's tall and obese, with rolls of fat on his stomach and massive arms. The stench of pork rinds and nicotine clings to his skin, and there's something foul and fish-like about his breath.
The sob finally breaks free. Isabella tries to stumble backwards, but Sir Calbert has her in a tight grip.
He doesn't talk.
He just stands there holding her. He just stands there looking at her. Sir Calbert has many rings on his fingers. He's balding. His eyes are beady, and his lips too large and too chapped. He is, in essence, the worst part of every man that Isabella has ever seen.
And in that moment, in that dream, she knows true fear. In that moment, in that dream, she knows that this can never come to pass.
“No,” she wails. “No, no, no! I won't do this! I won't marry you!”
Finally, Sir Calbert opens his mouth. It's not a male voice that comes out, though. It's the voice of Queen Alexandra herself. “You will. You must. We cannot have an unwed whore in office. We cannot have a slut like you going about, sleeping with every garden boy, pool boy, or scullery maid!”
Isabella screams. She slams her fists against Sir Calbert's chest. She pounds on him, kicks at him, and wails until her throat is hoarse.
When she wakes up, she's still screaming. The television is still turned on, playing a movie that Isabella doesn't recognize. Her dress is soaked with sweat, and the remnants of the nightmare still cling to her skin.
She gets up, running to the bathroom. Her legs are shaking. Her hands are unsteady when she rips off her dress and jumps in the shower. It's almost three in the morning and Isabella has never hated the thought of going home more than she does right now, more than she does right in this very moment.
The young princess turns the hot water on full blast. It makes her pale skin burn. Golden hair tangles around her neck, twists around her jaw. It clings to her skin just like Sir Calbert's hands had, and she can almost smell the pork rinds.
“I hate this,” she sobs. “I hate this so much.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Morning comes far too soon. The early light of day floods into the suite. It's a bright thing but the shadows seem too dark, and nothing feels okay. Isabella walks through her morning routine as if she's still in a dream. Each action is draining, and even the simplest of motions seem to take much more work than usual.
Finally, Isabella stands in front of the bathroom mirror. There are dark marks under her eyes. The note from her mother has been taped onto the counter, so Isabella can look it over one last time and steel herself for the dreadful future.
Due to previously discussed circumstances…
“Okay,” says Isabella with a deep and haggard sounding breath. She runs her hands through her golden hair, trying to get some of the tangles out. “Alright. I can do this. Everyone already thinks that I've completely lost my mind, and my parents already hate me. This is…this is something that I can do with no problems.”
She picks up the hair tie off the back of the counter. Isabella usually only uses it during her regulated yoga workouts. During the day, her hair must be primped and styled, just like the rest of her.
Appearances are everything, after all, according to the King and Queen of Davaria. Appearances are everything.
Isabella tugs her hair back, pulling it into a loose fist-full. She wraps the tie around her ponytail. “Appearances are everything when you're a respectable princess. But then, no one thinks I'm respectable anymore, do they?”
She pulls the note off the mirror. Isabella takes a deep breath and reads it one last time.
“Ridiculous,” she mutters darkly. “This entire thing is ridiculous! I love Gabe. He's the person that I want to be with! And my child…” She wraps an arm around her waist, clutching the small baby bump that's pressing against the folds of her pale green gown. “I love my child, too.”
This is her mother's least favorite dress. There are dark green strips of velvet hanging vertically down the front of the skirt. A strip of lace rises up, wrapping around Isabella's throat. The sleeves are cut off at the shoulder, these neat little things that are perfect for autumn because they are neither too long nor too short.
“If they want to write me off, then I see no reasons to hold myself to such high standards. If they want me to leave,” says Isabella, face twisting into a scowl, “then I will leave, and it will be on my terms.”
With that, Isabella crumples up the note and throws it in the trash can. She spins around on her heels, snagging up her luggage. It's only six in the morning. She is exhausted on many levels, but the limo will be here in less than an hour.
She opens up the door, sits her bags in the hallway, and leaves them there. Isabella walks over to her parents’ room and raps on the door. She waits for a few moments, and then she knocks again.
There's still no answer.
He hands Isabella an envelope. She says, “Thank you.”
As soon as the man has vanished into the next room, Isabella uses one long nail to open up the envelope. She pulls out another handwritten note, clearly from her mother.
Your father and I have gone to get breakfast. Our luggage will be taken care of. Simply put yours in the limo when it arrives. The driver will take you to the airport.
I have contacted Sir Calbert. He is very excited to meet you. The plane will leave at exactly nine o'clock today. Don't be late. It will arrive in Davaria early tomorrow morning. Sir Calbert has requested that he be allowed to meet you there. I said that was fine. There is no need to go walking. He will be waiting for you and will be able to locate you just fine.
Try to dress nicely. Just because he's alright wedding a whore doesn't mean you must flaunt it at every turn. I expect to hear good things from your first meeting. A discussion has already started up about your wedding. It will be a small affair. We do not want the paparazzi taking more pictures of you than need be. The papers are already bad enough.
Try to behave. Try to be on time. Try not to get sidetracked by the young man working in the front lobby.
Alexandra
Isabella's cheeks burn. She's both upset and angry, with a heavy tracing of embarrassment. Right then and there, standing in the hallway, Isabella rips up the letter and throws it on the floor. She's angry and huffy and even takes a moment to grind her heels into the loose paper.
“I'll show her,” she snarls. “I'll show her!”
Chapter Thirty
As if it's not bad enough that Isabella must leave behind the man of her dreams and throw out her happy ending, Queen Alexandra is trying to make every aspect of it miserable. And as a princess in a foreign land, there truly isn't much that Isabella can do in response.
But there are a few things.
Isabella rips open her luggage right there, while she's standing in the hallway. She pulls out one of her nightgowns, the sort that no one wants to admit she owns. It was bought for Isabella on the eve of her sixteenth birthday, in preparation for her eventual husband. Even at such an early stage in her life, Queen Alexandra had been determined to find the perfect husband for Isabella.
And now, that planning is going to be the Queen's undoing.
It's childish, Isabella knows. She's also aware of the fact that she will later regret doing this.
But in that moment, Isabella can only think about the note that the Queen had left for her.
Try to dress nicely. Just because he's alright wedding a whore doesn't mean you must flaunt it at every turn.
She pulls off her green gown. Isabella throws off her bra. She leaves both of them laying on the hotel floor. She pulls on the nightgown. It's a skimpy thing, with a deep neckline and a lot of cleavage showing. Gauzy, blue fabric clings to Isabella's full breasts, and it stops at the middle of her thighs. Three thin ribbon straps hold it up over her shoulder.
It's not comfortable. Even thinking about stepping outside wearing this makes Isabella blush. The newspapers will have a field day over it. But then, they will continue to extort this no matter what Isabella wears or how she behaves.
And so, the young princess thinks that, if she's going to have to deal with this, if she must really accept her fate, then it's only fair to give her mother a reason to put the plan in action.
Isabella leaves her luggage in the hallway. She walks into the elevator with her head held up high. The music is low and steady. It helps ease her pounding heart.
Thankfully, the lobby is mostly empty. The resort is only for influential, high-end guests. And with the King and Queen in town, the entire second floor had been declared off-limits to others.
There is a young man standing behind the counter. He's tall and lanky, nothing like Gabe at all. She's slightly disappointed, Isabella admits to herself. As a young teenager, there were countless nights spent watching cheesy romance movies and reading sordid novels about true love's first kiss. The thought that Gabe would show up here, while unlikely, was also one that she couldn't quite avoid.
After all, he has no idea that they're exit out of the country has been rescheduled for today. He has no idea that they will never be able to see each other again, to touch each other again, or to kiss each other again.
She walks up to the front counter, determined, and slams her palms down on the desk. “I was wondering about the breakfast you offer?”
The man blinks. He stares blatantly at Isabella's breasts. “Yes?”
“Well,” says Isabella, trying hard not to feel too self-aware. “Can you tell me about it?”
“Oh, right. Okay, so we have a breakfast buffet you can hit up. It's just down the hallway, and you've already paid for the room so you can basically get whatever you want from it. The only rule is that you can't take it outside the dining area.”
“Do you know what they have there?”
“Eggs,” says the young man. He can't quit staring at Isabella's breasts. “I know there are, like, five types of eggs. And probably some meats. Sausage and bacon and stuff like that.”
The eggs are acceptable, but her mother has always been very insistent that there should be no bacon in Isabella's diet, ever.
She smiles at the nameless young man, thanks him, and flounces off into the dining hall.
# # #
The dining hall is quiet enough. Isabella piles her plate up with greasy strips of bacon, cheese covered eggs, and sausage soaked hash browns. Rather than water or tea, she gets a cup of orange juice to go with her meal.
Several tables are set up, and Isabella sits in the one closest to the window so she can make sure that there's no chance of missing her limo. People stare at her, open-mouthed and gawking. It's strange.
“This is worth it,” mutters Isabella under her breath. She pops another piece of bacon in her mouth. It's so salty that it makes her smile. The grease leaves smears on her fingers. “This will be completely worth the look on her face. Mother will never be able to live this down!”
For nearly an hour, Isabella sits in the dining hall, snacking on bacon and self-consciously tugging at the ribbon-made straps of her nightgown. It's so strange walking around with so much skin showing and briefly, she wonders if Gabe would disapprove of so many other people seeing so much of her cleavage and bare skin.
The thought only enhances Isabella's sour mood. In the end, it doesn't matter what Gabe thinks. No matter how much Isabella loves him—no matter how much she longs for him—there will simply never be a chance for them to be together. It is nothing but a fraud, those stories where true love triumphs all else. It doesn't happen in the real world.
And so, when the limo pulls up in front of the hotel, Isabella wipes her hands off neatly on the napkin, stands up, nods at the man behind the counter, and steps outside. It's cool. The crisp autumn air leaves goosebumps on her skin, an awful sort of chill that she just isn't used to. Princesses aren't meant to dress like this, and they aren't meant to walk around like this.
Still, she nods when the driver gets out. He's a tall, lanky man with coke-bottle glasses and high cheekbones. The top three buttons of his white button-up shirt are undone, and his jacket isn't hooked up in the front. Still, he nods at Isabella and walks around to meet her.
“Princess Isabella,” he says, his voice sickly sweet. There's a distinctly familiar accent to his words, but Isabella can't think of where he might be from. “It's a wonder to meet you. I'm so glad to have been given the privilege of driving you to the airport.”
“It's very nice to meet you, as well.” Isabella smiles at the man. His eyes stare firmly at her face, rather than drifting to her breasts or the bare flesh of her thighs. “Thank you for picking me up.”
“Do you have luggage?�
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“No, I don't.”
“Alright,” says the man. “Well, my name is Winston, and I'm going to be your driver for the day. Are you ready to leave now, or do you need a few more moments?”
“No,” says Isabella. “We can go now. I must not miss my flight. It would make things rather difficult as far as getting home is concerned.”
Winston smiles at her, but there's something distinctly poisonous about the look. “Of course. I'm simply doing my job, Princess Isabella. But don't worry, the traffic is very light today. We should make good time.”
