The Cinderella Arrangement

by Vanessa Waltz

  High risk of detention.

  It’s high risk. The damn website said so.

  Hostile attitudes toward Americans.

  I just had to volunteer myself, didn’t I? What better way to stand out from your classmates than to sneak into a country with no diplomatic relations with the United States, find one of the monarchs, and demand an interview? This is VICE level shit. I’ll be a fucking hero when I come back. If I come back.

  I’ve made it this far. There’s no reason I should get caught.

  You really should turn back. This time it’s my father’s voice, booming in the back of my head. I should listen to it, but I don’t. I keep walking on the cobblestone path, up the hill where I know one of the royals will be. Anglefell is fodder for journalism porn because it’s so secluded, governed entirely by an ages-old monarchy. Locals call them royals. King Jonathan has a particularly nasty reputation, and I’m sure his sons are just as bad.

  I’m about to meet one of them.

  The higher I climb, the more people cram the street heading toward the castle. Ecstatic female voices whisper in barely restrained tones, “Prince Liam!”

  Yes!

  Prince Liam, or Prince Manwhore, as he’s called in Western media. Just the man I want to meet. A colorful picture of him lounging on the Italian Riviera on his yacht with ten half-naked women burns in my mind. I remember the tabloid story: Prince Liam’s Prostitute-Filled Booze Cruise. There were many other articles in the same vein: Prince Manwhore—Brazil’s Bad Boy, PRINCE LIAM STARK NAKED, and I’ll never forget DIRTY PRINCE (Playboy Prince Cops a Feel!), which had a blown-up photo of Liam’s arm wrapped around a woman with very large and very fake breasts, one of which he was groping. His face was turned away from the camera, but there was no mistaking that handsome profile and the angular shape of his jaw. Oh yeah, I’ve read all about him. Eldest son. First in line for the throne. And yet no matter how wild his sexcapades seem to get, the fact his father is a loathsome bastard doesn’t seem to register in the lizard brains of his female fans. You should see his Twitter feed.

  Revolting.

  I find myself taken in by the charm of the village. The roads are narrow, and there are even tall, red phone booths just like the ones you see everywhere in England. How enchanting. Maybe I could swing this exposé into a more positive direction. My classmates would call me a copout, but still.

  Up the steep hill sits a marvelous castle. Among the village’s palette of green and subdued yellows, it looks like a giant gray rock, as though it’s just a natural fixture in the scenery. I walk up the hill, quietly snapping photos as I listen to strong English-sounding accents. Anglefell is not England, I remind myself. It’s an island east of the United Kingdom in the North Sea.

  I try to assess the mood. It’s a pretty calm village, and the people seem content enough at eleven in the morning. It’s not as though their faces are lined with torment, but no one is beaming ear-to-ear. It looks like I’m not going to glean much from just glancing at their faces, but that’s fine. I’ll ask the whole village for interviews if I have to.

  My lungs burn as I climb the last stretch to the town square. It reminds me of the piazzas in Florence. There’s lots of open space for the farmers market, local artists, and there’s a church whose massive stones are worn with age. The stained-glass windows look faded, but it has an old-world charm that irresistibly reminds me of Europe. I aim my camera toward it and take a picture.

  The square is covered with people. I nudge myself closer to the mass, my eyes peeled for the any sign of Prince Liam, who is rumored to be here, but the crowd is thick and I was blessed with only five feet of height. A sea of heads block my view as I lean forward on my toes, straining my neck to see a man dressed in a rich blue doublet with a gold sash running across his chest. He throws back his head, laughing at something.

  That’s got to be him.

  Damn it. I can’t see a thing. There’s no way I can miss an opportunity for a nice photo of Prince Liam. It would be a great addition to the piece I’m writing. I should get a picture of the rich bastard laughing and stick it right next to the part about Anglefell’s notorious prison labor camps.

  A woman standing a few feet in front of me turns away, her face a mask of disgust. She’s so upset she doesn’t say a word when her shoulder rams into mine.

  Wow, what’s her deal?

  I ignore the burst of pain, walking forward to fill in the gap she left behind, the gap that finally allows me to see what’s going on.

  The man wearing the doublet stands in front of seven women wearing nearly identical looks of desperate longing. The crowd, which seems like it’s made up of mostly twentysomething-year-old women, cry out for the man in the center. Dozens of female voices scream for Prince Liam, who seems unaffected by the commotion. I’m elbowed sharply in the ribs as a girl claws her way to the circle and pries open her blouse, her breasts spilling out.

  “Take me, my prince!”

  My jaw drops as guards push back the teeming mass of frenzied estrogen. Her scream is immediately drowned out by the noise, which is earsplitting. My teeth grind as another girl shrieks right into my ear.

  Jesus.

  The jostling gets worse when the prince pivots on his heel. The women standing next to me go batshit, and I actually go deaf for a few seconds. My eardrums are pretty much fucked at this point.

  Dark hair is slicked back over Prince Liam’s head as he offers a smirk to the women heaving against the guards, their hands clenching over air. Amusement twinkles in his gaze, which rakes over the mostly female crowd. It’s tragic that a man that hot is such a complete asshole. Heat pricks over my skin when his hazel eyes slide over me. And stop.

  The women beside me go mental. This is what I imagine a Justin Bieber concert must be like. Scowling, I turn to one of them.

  “Get a fucking grip, lady!”

  Prince Liam holds up a hand for silence, and even from this distance I can tell it’s a well-manicured hand free of calluses. He’s probably never done anything arduous in his life. At once, the crowd falls silent as though struck dumb, except for one voice ringing out somewhere behind me.

  “Marry me, Liam!”

  It’s the same woman who exposed her breasts to the prince. She’s fighting to rejoin the center of the circle, and the prince’s gaze leaves mine for a moment to lock on her as her tits bounce from her shirt. He inclines his head in a princely gesture of benign amusement.

  “Thank you.”

  The woman sags in the arms of the guards trying to drag her away, apparently overcome with being directly addressed by a member of the royal family. I burst out laughing as ecstasy blooms over her face. Smiling, I turn back to the prince, who is back to staring at me.

  Oh shit.

  “You. Come here.”

  Who—me?

  Even though his finger points at me, there’s a moment of confusion as the girls on either side of me fight each other.

  “He meant me, you twit!”

  “Did not!”

  Prince Liam settles the matter by taking a step forward, making it no question that it is me.

  “You. Come.”

  Shit, shit, shit.

  There’s no way I can slink backward into the crowd to escape. Someone pushes the small of my back, and I stumble forward. I try not to stare at the dozens of hostile eyes stabbing at me. Jealousy burns the back of my neck.

  “Join the girls in line.”

  The way he says girls—gulls—sends an involuntary shiver down my spine. It’s hard not to feel the tendrils of attraction slowly wrapping around my limbs as he gently takes my shoulders and directs me to the lined-up women. I’m surprised by the strength in his arms as he effortlessly guides me. He’s a prince. It’s hard not to be little bit breathless, even though it makes me feel like the rest of the fools around me.

  I stand in line next to a shorter brunette, having no idea what the hell this is about or why there are so many bitter faces glaring at me. The prince’s tou
ch disappears.

  Then he turns, his hands clasped behind his back as he takes a few steps, stops, and stares at one of the girls. She’s a waifish little thing with string beans for legs and a mass of orange curls hanging down either side of her face. It’s hard watching her try to keep it together.

  “Too skinny.”

  She bows her head, her cheeks burning.

  His shoe scrapes the cement as he stops in front of the second girl, who beams at him.

  “Too happy.”

  My jaw drops as he abruptly dismisses her and moves on to the third girl as I wonder what the hell I’m seeing. Is this some sort of bizarre dating ritual?

  “Nope,” he says, hardly looking at the third. At the fourth, his lips twitch. “Not bad, but I’m a tits man and you’re a bit lacking in that department. Sorry, love.”

  I watch as devastation destroys the hope lingering in her over-bright eyes, which rapidly fill with tears. She bows her head and crosses her arms over her small chest, now positively sobbing. Ever the gentleman, Prince Liam reaches out to give her a few conciliatory pats on her head.

  “There, there.”

  Seriously?

  I don’t think my mouth can widen any farther. I expect her to slap him, but she doesn’t say a word. Why the hell are they taking his bullshit? I don’t give a damn if he’s a prince. I’m taking a picture and I’m writing about this.

  Click.

  The mechanical sound cuts through the grim silence in the town square, catching the prince’s attention. He makes an abrupt about-face and walks toward me until I can smell his freshly shaven skin. Up close, it’s hard not to be a little taken with how ridiculously handsome he is. It should be a crime to look that beautiful when you’re scowling. My heart slams against my chest as I take in his appearance, the odd juxtaposition of an extremely fit body wearing a midnight-blue doublet with gold-studded buttons. There’s a slim, black belt tied around his waist, and black leather boots gliding up his calves. The doublet splits into two wings, and I admire the snugness of his breeches for a moment before realizing I can see the bulge between his legs.

  His penis.

  “Eyes up, darling.”

  The crowd titters as a violent blush creeps up my neck.

  I just got caught staring at Prince Liam’s cock.

  “I wasn’t—I’m not—”

  He gives me a carnal smile. “Staring at my cock? Your prince forgives you.”

  “You’re not my prince,” I say automatically.

  His eyes narrow as he fingers the camera around my neck. “Are you referring to the fact you’re a tourist?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well that’s a blooming shame. You’re absolutely right. There are laws stopping me from doing whatever I want to you.” He squints in a feigned expression of confusion. “Right?”

  Fuck.

  A smile staggers over his handsome face as I stand there clam-like. “What’s your name?”

  “Daisy.”

  He leans forward suddenly, and his wicked voice whispers in my ear. “Pretty name for such a dirty girl.”

  “I’m not dirty.”

  “Says the girl who was checking me out.”

  “I was looking at your outfit.” My face burns as I become aware at how lame I sound.

  Blood roars in my ears as Prince Liam laughs softly. When he speaks again, it’s in a vastly matured voice. “I would like you to come to the castle with me.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.”

  Wow.

  I’m speechless. My first day in the country and I’m being invited into Harronvale Palace by the prince? My irritation with him vanishes as I think of the insider piece I could write.

  “Sure. I mean, I’d love to.”

  “Excellent,” he says in a warm voice as he gently takes my arm and leads me away from the line of women.

  “Can I ask what for?”

  He gives me an incredulous look. “I’m asking you to the castle for a dirty romp in the sheets, love.”

  I stop in my tracks, ripping my arm out of his grasp. “Are you serious?”

  He doesn’t lose the shocked expression. “What do you think I wanted to do with you? Have tea and biscuits?” He laughs at the very idea.

  “You’re disgusting.”

  “I’m just a man with very particular tastes.”

  “The fact you think I want to touch you after you insulted those girls is really rich.”

  But suddenly I think about those hazel eyes locked on mine, as I imagine him grabbing a handful of my breasts just like he did with the girl in the tabloid.

  Jesus, Daisy!

  “I don’t think, I know you want me. You were ogling my cock just a few seconds ago.”

  Christ. I practically hear my skin burning. “I wasn’t ogling.”

  “Whatever you say, love.”

  Goddamn it. The way he says luv sets my nerves ablaze.

  Don’t tell him to shut up.

  I glare at him. “I’m not interested.”

  His voice drops down to a whisper. “You know, I love this playing-hard-to-get act. You’ve no idea how refreshing it is after having tits thrown in my face my whole life.”

  “It’s not an act. You disgust me.”

  “No I don’t.”

  “Yes you do.”

  “Every woman wants to fuck a prince,” he says, grazing his fingertips over the pulse pounding in my neck. “You want me to dress you up in jewelry. I can just imagine a beautiful string of sapphires around your neck, bouncing on your tits as I bury my cock inside you. Maybe a pearl necklace to go with the sapphires.”

  Slap!

  Prince Liam staggers back as a burn stings my hand. It’s not until I hear the shocked gasps of the crowd and see the bright red mark on his face that I realize I just slapped the motherfucking Prince of Anglefell.

  I open my mouth to apologize to him—to say something—

  Liam turns toward his guards. “Seize her.”

  The crowd goes fucking nuts. I’m handcuffed and marched through them. They call me every filthy name for a woman you’ve ever heard, and when they’ve hurled every insult at me that they can think of, they scream for my death.

  “Whore!”

  “Off with her head!”

  “Choke on his cock, bitch!” Wow.

  I wheel around to look at a girl my age whose face is almost as red as her hair. Savage hands lunge for me, and the guards quickly knock them back.

  What the hell have I done?

  Prince Liam holds out a placating hand to his sheeple, urging them to calm down, that the matter will be dealt with “with swift justice.”

  Not placated in the least, the angry mob follows Prince Liam and his train of guards, beefy men wearing business suits. They try like hell to get their hands on me. A long arm shoots through a tangle of limbs and grabs a fistful of my hair.

  The guard seizes its owner, yanking her back and pulling several hairs out by the roots in the process. Tears spring to my eyes as the pain rips through my head.

  “Ow!”

  “Fucking bitch!”

  “Get back!”

  Prince Liam turns around at the sound of the commotion, and he glances at me, a faint frown knitting his forehead. “Do not allow her to be harmed, for God’s sake.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Heat rises in my cheeks as pissed-off women intent on ripping me to pieces press in from all sides, held at bay by the guards.

  Way to keep a low profile, Daisy. Job well done.

  My compounding sense of horror is punctuated by a brief spell of awe as we walk up the hill toward the castle, which looks like something straight out of Cinderella. Huge, cylinder towers with embattled stone walls and arrowslits. Midnight-blue-and-gold flags whip proudly on the battlements. We stop in front of the gatehouse, which is guarded by a lattice grill of metal and wood. The portcullis shudders and groans before rising out of the ground. Guards keep the mob at bay as the prince lea
ds the procession inside. The gate grinds into the earth the moment I’m through, and then the mob of irate Anglefell women wrap their hands around the bars and scream at me.

  My heart pounds as I take in my surroundings. A large courtyard fills the open space inside the castle walls. A road follows the circular interior, and within that circle is a simple green lawn with a fountain. White flowers are arranged in patches bordering the edge of the grass. Across it are what I’m guessing are the other structures of the castle: the bakery, the stables, and the keep. The keep will be the biggest tower at the center of all the fortifications. It’s where the king lives, no doubt.

  The prince watches me take in his home with a bemused smile. “Take her to one of the dungeons.”

  “A dungeon? Are you serious?”

  It’s as though a vacuum stole my insides. I want to crumple forward, collapse over myself.

  Every woman wants to fuck a prince.

  A cell? Just for giving the bastard a well-deserved slap?

  Shaken, I follow the guards’ pressure on my arms as we head immediately to the right and down a set of uneven stairs to a heavy wooden door. The guard raises his fist and rams it against it. The door opens, and suddenly I’m led down a corridor with rows of modernized cells. The structure is still archaic, but it looks like every cell has plumbing and electricity and oh my God, who the fuck cares?

  There are no diplomatic relations between the United States and Anglefell.

  Americans who do not enter Anglefell with a valid visa, a predetermined schedule, and an escort accompanying them at all times will be detained and questioned.

  “Open!”

  The bars of the cell electronically slide against the wall, and I walk inside the five-by-nine space in numb disbelief that within less than twenty-four hours in this country I’ve managed to get myself arrested. I need to call someone—I have no idea what kind of trouble I’m in. Shit! I can’t just pick up the phone and dial the State Department.

  The loud clang of the cell door slamming shut rattles through my soul. I pace the length of the room as a tight feeling wraps around my chest, forcing myself to breathe. I’m here on a Canadian passport, but I’m an American citizen. I could’ve used my American passport to enter the country, but then I would’ve had to be accompanied by an escort at all times. The authorities would have gone through the film on my camera and deleted photos they didn’t like. It would have ruined everything.