Falling for My Dad's Best Friend

by Cassandra Dee

  And our dad? Well, he’s the Crown Prince of St. Venetia. Yeah, you heard me right. Our dad is Prince Georg of St. Venetia, aging playboy, wealthy philanthropist, classic car collector, and total asshole. During one of the few conversations when Violet had been willing to discuss Georg, we didn’t get much out of her.

  “So where did you meet?” I’d asked. Karl was listening just as intently, even though he was filling up a water jug with some muscle mass powder. At fifteen, we were athletically oriented, looking to build up muscle, strength, speed and agility, make ourselves into superheroes.

  “On a flight,” replied Violet. Her hair was already going grey despite being only about thirty-five, and brackets surrounded her eyes and mouth. But you could tell that Violet had once been beautiful, a real stunner.

  “A flight to where?” I pressed.

  “I think Jerusalem,” said Violet vaguely. “I was a flight attendant and your dad, well he was flying first class as you might have guessed.”

  “But where was he going? How did you guys start talking?” I pressed.

  “He was headed to some government function, maybe meeting the Prime Minister of Israel,” my mom sighed, twisting the rings around her fingers. They were silver, nothing expensive. “I offered him champagne, he asked for another, and before I knew it …” her voice trailed off.

  “You got his number right?” I said. “Or he got yours?”

  My mom sighed again.

  “Kato, it wasn’t like that,” she said. “We didn’t date or anything, it was, um, a spontaneous liaison.”

  I heard a snort from my brother in the corner, even as I looked at Violet incredulously. Yeah, Karl and I were fifteen but old enough to figure out what my mom was saying. Although she spoke in riddles, Violet was telling us that Prince Georg had taken her as part of the Mile High Club, that we’d been conceived in a plane lavatory about five miles up in the air, going five hundred miles an hour. Holy shit, it was straight out of some fucked-up Playboy fantasy.

  But I wanted to know more.

  “But why didn’t you keep in touch? Did you tell him about us?” I asked insistently, determined to get some answers. Again, I was an adolescent and every teenage boy is sensitive, especially when it comes to daddy issues. Boys are growing, listening, developing their characters at that age and Karl and I were no exception.

  Violet sighed.

  “No, we didn’t keep in touch, honey. I knew that Georg was someone important, but baby, I’d never even heard of St. Venetia before,” she said. Clearly, my mom wasn’t one for world geography or political history. “I was young and besides, it was just a one-time thing. By the time I realized that you guys were on the way, the flight was long over.”

  Okay, so it was literally wham, bam, thank you ma’am. But that didn’t answer how she’d finally figured out his identity. So I pressed for more.

  “How did you finally discover that our dad was Prince Georg?” I said slowly. “What tipped you off?”

  My mom sighed again.

  “I was flipping through a magazine, the latest issue of Ok!” she confessed, “and I saw a spread of the St. Venetian Palace, with your dad and his wife posing,” she said. “It was a shocker, sure. I’d never expected to figure out who he was, tearing out my hair at how to provide for my new babies, when suddenly the magazine opened and poof! It was like magic. Your dad is a rich man, royalty even, and I figured he’d be interested in knowing he had infant sons.”

  “But he didn’t,” I said with a definite tang of bitterness in my voice.

  “He didn’t,” my mom confirmed. “I contacted the embassy, I contacted the Palace, but all I got back were denials that Prince Georg had even been on a flight to Israel at that time. It was like I was some insane person, some crazy girl trying to make a buck off of him. So I gave up after a couple years and moved with you guys to the United States. And here we are,” she said with a wry smile, gesturing to our humble home. She’d bought the house as part of a foreclosure sale and done no repairs to the place, so it was sadly rundown, sinking on its foundation, the counters dated and dreary, our furniture from a church giveaway.

  “But did you try to contact him again?” demanded my brother from his corner. Karl was lifting weights and stood momentarily still as he caught his breath, panting slightly.

  “No baby, I didn’t,” said my mom. “When you hit a wall like I did, a wall that seems impenetrable, you give up. I figured Georg had a wife, a son already, he wasn’t interested in us.”

  And my brother just shook his head, his face grim.

  “Fuck that,” he ground out before turning back to the mirror, staring at his image. “Fuck that,” he said once more, shutting us out. Because it was only too easy to google Prince Georg and his happy family, pictures of the old dude with his wife and first-born, legitimate son, Prince Kristian. We hated them, hated their guts, the lavish estates, the pictures of them going to state balls, society parties, dressed to the nines. And the worst part was the family resemblance. Because yes, we looked like Georg and Kristian, with the same black hair, blue eyes, and dominating, muscular builds. Clearly royal blood ran thick.

  But what the fuck. Our half-brother was everything we weren’t, rich, educated at the best schools, with the world at his fingertips. By contrast, my twin and I were blue collar guys who worked with our hands, eking out a living on a boat. Not exactly men who had bulging 401ks or brokerage accounts to make girls salivate. But life takes twists and turns … and there was a stop at St. Venetia on the manifest.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Christina

  Miss Carroll’s Finishing School for Young Ladies was every bit as bad as I’d anticipated. The name was the first thing. Really? Was there really a Miss Carroll? Or was it just a marketing ploy to lend authenticity, make it seem like there was a heart, a mind behind the institution?

  Of course, my parents shouldn’t have been worried because we’re supposedly rich as all get-out, minor nobility around these parts. My dad is rumored to own the Royalton Race Track as well as a couple shopping centers in the city center, flying around in our G5 and a couple small-prop planes. But it’s actually a house of cards, a mirage because our fortune has been ebbing away, generation after generation, and the real estate we own? Well it’s held by a trust with our name at the top, but beneficiary owners are the real puppetmasters. So it’s all a sham, and my conversation with my parents about fixing our situation was painful to say the least.

  “Christina,” said my mom, looking down her long, pointy nose at me. Somehow, despite the fact that I was standing and she was sitting, Mary still managed to look down her nose. “We need to talk. Please sit.”

  “Mom,” this isn’t a good time, I said pointedly. I’d been meaning to go to the library, read up on Andorran history. Although I wasn’t academic per se, I still felt a responsibility to understand my country, its long and rich past.

  My dad shot me a sharp look from his antique desk.

  “Sit down, young lady, we have some things to go over,” he said sharply.

  So I dropped into an overstuffed armchair, sighing. I guess the library could wait. I’d reached a part in the fifteen hundreds that was especially riveting, discussing the ascension of the feudal system and I wanted to map out its development. After all, my ancestors made their fortune by renting out our land for others to farm, collecting bounty in the form of crops and I wanted to learn more about this antiquated practice that was so central to our family history.

  “Dad, is this about college?” I asked wearily. “I know, you’re legacy at St. Marten’s, I’ve applied there already.”

  “No, this isn’t about St. Marten’s,” he replied, “And I’ve already told the Dean you’re applying this year, we’re buddies after all.”

  “Then can I go?” I asked. “There’s some stuff that I want to read up on at the library.”

  But my mom interjected again.

  “The library! Why are you always going there? Why don’t you go shopp
ing like normal girls?” she said sharply, eyeing my outfit. I admit, I didn’t look like some of the girls I knew, dressed to the nines at all times, but I didn’t think I was doing that badly. I smoothed my skirt down in my lap, the wool reaching to my knees, and straightened my turtleneck. I was warm and comfortable, and that’s what mattered to me.

  But my mom wasn’t impressed.

  “You need to fix yourself up,” she said sharply. “You’re always dressed like a spinster, every inch covered. It’s not attractive, not alluring to men. How are you going to find a husband?”

  And that’s when I flushed. Because despite my fling with Karl and Kato last night, the truth was not many guys were into me. They seemed to like flashier types, stick-thin blondes in cocktail dresses, not curvy brunettes in comfy turtlenecks.

  But we’d had this conversation many times before, so I just ignored her, turning to my dad.

  “Listen Dad, I really need to get to the library, it closes at five,” I said, sneaking a peek at my watch. “There’s a rare book that I really want to check out and someone just returned it. It’s my chance,” I said.

  Usually my dad backs me, he’s proud of my interest in literature and history even if my mom saw it as a waste of time. But this time, he agreed with my mom.

  “Maybe you should listen to Mary,” he said slowly. “Maybe go shopping a little more often, buy something, ah, a little more flattering?” he suggested, eyeing my outfit hesitantly.

  And I was so hurt that I didn’t even reply at first, my cheeks coloring, eyes shocked. Usually my dad and I are tight, he would never criticize my clothing choices. But before I could say anything, Mom cut in again.

  “Tina,” she said sternly, “you know the Sterlings have been in Andorra for hundreds, if not thousands, of years, don’t you?” she said with a frown.

  I nodded, confused. What did this have to do with my outfit?

  “Sure, our lineage is noble, I need to behave like a lady, uphold our honor, all that stuff,” I agreed, still looking at my dad for clarification, my eyes quizzical. But his eyes just pleaded with me to understand, to listen to the coming lecture.

  “The Sterlings have been an aristocratic family in Europe for generations now,” my mom droned on. “Our power and privilege comes from the land itself, which your ancestors rented to tenant farmers, taking a portion of their crops as rent. All of our land and assorted real estate holdings are held in trust, with personal accounts for family members.”

  I nodded. This was old family history, and of course, I’d been reading up on this stuff exactly. Nothing new here, move on folks.

  This was when my dad cleared his throat.

  “Well your trust fund is ah, how do I say this,” he said delicately, “is at a minimal level,” he managed, clearing his throat.

  A minimal level? What did that mean? I shot them a quizzical look, confused.

  My mom was more blunt.

  “Your trust fund is depleted,” she said harshly, “as are mine and your father’s.”

  My mouth gaped open. Holy cow, could that even happen? It was true I’d never bothered to monitor our money, always believing that the family firm had everything in hand. But now, it seemed that we were in dire financial straits.

  “Can we replace the money? Where did it all go?” I asked incredulously. “I thought there was a ton stashed away in a bunch of different accounts, how can we have nothing left?”

  But as you can tell from my questions, I had no idea how much money we had, where it was invested, or in what shape, matter or form it existed. I was just so clueless at seventeen, so self-absorbed, walking among clouds while spending money like water, believing there was an unlimited supply. Well, reality had come crashing down and it wasn’t pretty.

  “What do we do?” I asked, panicked, bolting upright. “Are we going to have to move? Am I going to have to sell Dolly?” Dolly was my dog, a mutt I’d picked up at a shelter years ago on a whim. And it sounds lame, but my little dog was one of the most important things to me, one of the first things to come to mind when my world seemed in jeopardy. Dolly was my security blanket, my anchor in rough seas when times were bad.

  “No honey, we have enough money to last a couple more years,” said my dad shame-facedly, “but we need you to pitch in with the family finances.”

  I looked at him confusedly.

  “You mean, find a job?” I said, looking at him askance. Sure, I could work at the mall or something, I didn’t mind doing that, but I was a teen. What could I possibly do to replenish our family bank account? We needed a lot more than a minimum wage take.

  It was here that my mom cut in again with brutal reality.

  “We need you to marry rich,” she said flatly. “We need you to find a husband with a fortune who doesn’t mind investing it in the Sterling estate, and that means improving your looks so that you can snag a wealthy man.”

  And here, my eyes practically bugged out. It was like I was living in a modern version of Downton Abbey, the British-American mini-series. In the show, the fictional Earl of Grantham marries Cora Leventhal, an American heiress, to support his family’s flagging fortunes, and evidently now I was being asked to do the same. I had to find some rich dude who could provide an infusion of badly needed cash, who could bring some much-needed liquidity to a noble, but impoverished family.

  “Are you serious?” I asked slowly, “Is that really our best option?”

  And my dad waved his hands around helplessly.

  “I’ve tried the stock market, buying futures, investing in a New Zealand sheep farm, you know China doesn’t have a secure food supply, they’re interested in clean, fresh food from New Zealand and Australia, I thought the sheep farm was going to be just the thing,” he rambled.

  But my mom cut in again with brutal efficiency.

  “Your father,” she said with an icy glare directed his way, “has squandered what little we have left with his hair-brained get-rich-quick schemes. Unfortunately, Lord Sterling is nothing like his forebears, has no business sense, and has in fact lost whatever we had left,” she said bitterly. “So yes, we need you to marry rich, preferably to a multi-millionaire, preferably a billionaire.”

  I sat back. Man, things really were dire, weren’t they?

  “I didn’t know we were in so much trouble,” I said softly, looking down at my hands. “It sounds like we need a lot, a huge amount.” And Lady Sterling nodded sharply.

  “That’s why we’re sending you away,” she said, her voice clipped. “To a finishing school in St. Venetia where you’ll go to all the right events, meet all the right people.”

  “You mean, all the right men, right?” I asked, unable to keep the sarcasm from my voice. “I’ll be trotted out at parties, balls, society events so that I can be auctioned off to the highest bidder.”

  And instead of sounding shocked or horrified, my mom smiled for the first time during the conversation, a self-satisfied, Cheshire cat grin that made me think she’d planned this all along.

  “Exactly,” she said. “That’s it exactly.”

  And so it was settled. Instead of going to college, instead of pursuing History or English as an undergrad, instead I was being shipped off to some finishing school-cum-wedding factory, where hopefully I’d find Mr. Right – provided that he had the right-size wallet.

  And here I was today, standing at Miss Carroll’s as a wizened old lady studied me. It was downright embarrassing, I was wearing nothing but my bra and panties as she looked me over, poking and prodding with a wooden stick.

  “Good bust, ample figure, tight waist, smart buttocks,” she mumbled to herself like I was a prized heifer. “Yes, you’ll do fine,” she cackled.

  I was mortified at the inspection and could barely speak, fighting the urge to cross my arms over my breasts and bolt.

  “Can I go now?” I asked, my voice tiny, barely able to look up from the floor.

  “No, not yet,” she said, glaring at me over her rimless glasses. “All of our youn
g ladies undergo beauty treatments to prepare for their assignations.”

  Assignations? That’s what we were calling the roster of social events to attend, the multitude of polo games, yacht club parties, and other fancy-dress soirees? My shoulders slumped, thinking of the torture ahead.

  But the old lady, Crikers I think her name was, summarily smacked me across the butt with the wooden stick.

  “Ow!” I shrieked, grabbing my ass in pain. “Why’d you do that?”

  “Young ladies stand up straight,” she sniffed, not at all disturbed. “You will stand up straight while you’re with us at Miss Carroll’s.”

  And the searing, lancing sting on my behind made me stiffen immediately through my grimaces, the tears in my eyes.

  “Fine, fine!” I groaned, wincing and rubbing my rump woefully. “Fine, whatever you say.” I just wanted to get out of there at this point, put on some clothes and nurse my wounds, mope about my lot in life.

  But Crikers wasn’t satisfied yet. “Go and see the hairdresser first,” she said, “and then the manicurist, then the aesthetician, and then the …”

  Because that’s how I spent the next few days. In the beauty salon, being waxed, buffed, and trimmed until I was a whole new version of me. And whoever says that beauty doesn’t hurt is lying. The ladies waxed every single part of me, hot liquid poured straight onto my private parts and then ripped off with a screech. Tears sprung to my eyes, I was sure this was a form of torture found only in the dungeons of Abu Ghraib, but I guess not. Evidently fashionable women all the way from New York to Canberra indulged in Brazilian waxes, getting their pink parts bare and nubile, completely hairless, soft, plush and puffy.

  But not everything was so horrible. I admit, I love spa services as much as the next girl and luxuriated in the facials, the clay mask, the body wrap, the manicure. The pedicure, I have to say, was a bit weird. They have this new thing where you stick your feet into a basin with live fish in it, who then eat the dead skin off your soles. Isn’t that so gross? But I came out of that with feet like baby’s skin, my toes had never been so pampered.