I’m so sorry, but I think both of us knew this wasn’t going to work. I’m not meant to be a prince. I’m not cut out for it.
I’m not cut out for it.For fuck’s sake, Keller, I wasn’t even born in Torskethorpe, yet I’m trying.
Enough.
Focus on this night. Focus on the beauty around me. Focus on my family.
I look at my beautiful cousin. We look so much alike, it’s like we’re sisters.
Isabella went with a classic white, bandeau neckline with rhinestones dripping off the fabric like teardrops. It’s a gorgeous dress that I truly believe only she could pull off. And of course, she’s wearing a tiara that was gifted to the monarchy by an ally country. She asked if I wanted to borrow one of their many tiaras, but I opted for a more Torskethorpian look and layered some flowers in my hair.
And of course, Marit, with her gorgeous long wavy locks, chose a midnight-blue silk trumpet dress that clings to every part of her body but flares at the bottom, giving her just enough space to walk and dance. I know this because she tested out her dancing skills while she was trying it on.
With my arm threaded with hers, Isabella takes me around the grand ballroom, introduces me to many people from all different social classes, and impresses me with her knowledge. One day, she’s going to make a beautiful queen, dignified and composed. I can only wish to be like her.
By the time we’re done making our rounds, the first song plays.
“Come dance,” Isabella says, tugging on my arm, but I wave her off.
“Not sure I’m ready for that. I think I’m going to grab a drink and observe for a while.”
“Are you sure? It’s so much fun.”
“Later on, let me get my feet wet first.”
She winks at me. “I’m holding you to that.” She heads toward the center of the room where she takes a man’s hand in hers, and he starts formally dancing her around the room. Other couples join, reminding me of the 1800s.
Uh . . . not the kind of dancing I thought she was talking about.
Is that the waltz?
Hell if I know.
But let’s just say, I probably won’t be dancing later tonight unless that jumpity waltz turns into some club-like twerking, because that’s all I know how to do.Thank you, Miami nightlife.
I move through the crowd, a few people stopping me to introduce themselves, and when I make it to the drinks, I put in an order of vodka and tonic with some lime. I might be in a better headspace than I was almost three months ago, but that doesn’t mean I’m completelymentallyready for a party like this.
“What did you order?” a deep voice asks to my right. I glance over to find a tall man with blond hair and dark-rimmed glasses staring down at me. He’s wearing what seems to be a military uniform, at least that’s what I think it is from the plethora of medals pinned to his suit. His eyes are a unique deep green, and his square jaw is cleanly shaven, not a millimeter of facial hair on his face.
“I want to tell you water, so it makes me look regal,” I answer.
“But really some vodka in disguise?” he asks, a raise to his brow.
“Possibly,” I answer as I take the drink order from the bartender and thank him.
“I wouldn’t judge you. These parties are hard.”
“Yet you seem to be here. What would propel a man to come to a party that he’s not looking forward to?”
“Parents. They think it’s my duty as the future Lord of Sotherby to be here.”
“Lord of Sotherby, well, that sounds fancy.”
“Sounds like it, but it’s just a title and presents expectations of who I’m supposed to marry.”
“Ah, I see.” I nod. “And what, pray tell, would those expectations be?”
“Someone with class. Someone with money. Someone with the personality of a dried-up crouton.”
