ONE
Vomitgate
Tessa - 6 Weeks
Iam going to vomit.
I think. Maybe not. But if I do, it will prove rather inconvenient since my father-in-law, King Winston, is hosting a state dinner to celebrate four hundred years of peace between Avonia and our surrounding nations of Belgium, The Netherlands, and the UK. Vomiting isn’t exactly considered acceptable behaviour at these things, but I’m afraid there’s a very good chance it’s going to happen anyway. Unfortunately, I’m not only seated at the center of a table for one hundred twenty-two, I’m also dressed in a Dior gown that frankly is very restrictive and therefore will definitelynotallow me to move quickly enough to get out of the dining hall.
I’m also seated next to the King of Belgium—an avid hunter, as luck would have it—who is currently regaling me with a most detailed account of how to properly clean a duckthe Belgian wayand with every word, I feel slightly more nauseous.
“...dig around in the chest cavity until you find the entrails. You do not want to leave it...”
Entrails? Oh, no. Please stop talking about entrails.
“...keep the heart and liver in a plastic bag...”
Burp. Maybe if I try that slow breathing technique, I’ll feel better. Yes, I’ll pretend to listen while I concentrate on breathing in calm, cleansing air, two, three – nope. Shit. There is absolutely no way I’ll be able to get up and scurry out of the room before—
Oh, there it is. I have vomited in my nearly empty soup bowl.
Four times.
Fuckity fuck.
I daintily dab at the corners of my mouth, then push my chair back. “If you’ll excuse me, Your Majesty,” I say to the king, who is now wiping recycled black truffle soup off his lapels. “My, that certainly splashed a lot more than I thought it would. My apologies.”
The entire room went silent sometime between my second and third heave, and now I can feel one hundred twenty-one sets of eyes on me as I hurry out of the room, burping and gagging. I wave a hand at the string quartet, who have stopped playing and are also staring at me, mouths agape.
“That was a lovely tune. Please continue.”
I give them a little nod and attempt a grin, but I’m sure with the green tint to my face, it’s coming off as creepy rather than warm. A hand on my elbow takes me by surprise. I look up to see Arthur, who truly is a prince of a husband.
“Nice aim. You almost got it all in the bowl this time.”
He gives me a small wink as he wraps one arm behind my back. We make it out into the hallway with our bodyguards, Ollie and Xavier, flanking us. As soon as the doors are closed behind us, I stop and hold out my wrists. Xavier peels off the diamond tennis bracelet and replaces it with a Sea-band, checking to make sure it’s applied directly to the proper pressure point before he does my other wrist. Xavier swears by Sea-bands based on his days in the Navy, but I’m not convinced.
“There you go, Your Highness,” he says. “In a few minutes, you’ll be right as rain.”
“Thank you, Xavier.” I take off my tiara and necklace, then hand them to him. “Can you please return these to the vault?”
“Certainly. Let’s just get you to your room first.”
Arthur gives him a nod. “I’ve got her. You take care of the jewels.” His tone is a little sharp, which I’ve noticed is happening more since we found out about the baby.
Xavier, who doesn’t seem fazed, smiles and nods before turning toward the vault room. Ollie, who it turns out has a very weak stomach for a man of his size and profession, follows us at a safe distance. Yesterday, he dry heaved repeatedly when I got sick in the limo.
Feeling a wave of dizziness, I close my eyes for a second. “Why did I think I could manage this dinner? I’m such an idiot.”
“Nonsense. You’re an optimist. I love that about you.” Arthur gives me a peck on the forehead. “Besides, it would have been a huge scandal had you not shown up. The press would have had us on the verge of divorce before the desserts were brought out.”
“I suppose, but I’m sure they’ll find a way to turn my most recent undignified incident into something sinister, so either way, I’m really no closer to becoming a proper princess, am I?”
“Nonsense, you’re every bit the perfect princess.”
“Ha! I just yakked on the King of Belgium. I’m neither perfect nor proper.”
“Proper’s dull as all hell. Now, can you make it to our apartment, or do we need to make a stop at the ladies’ room?”
