Am I so obsessed with a woman I’ll never find or see again that I make everything about her? Because I’d fuckingswearI know that laugh. I’d swear it’s the same as Ella’s. But how can that be?
13
MARCELLA
This entire week, there have been small sabotages. Minor things that build and are designed to ruin my day, get me in trouble, or have me fuck something up. I don’t have access to the cameras. Not anymore. After I broke into the palace system, did what I had to do in order to alter my face from the chalet and change the facial recognition, and made my background check go through without a hitch, I pulled myself out.
The last thing I wanted was for Javier to notice someone had infiltrated, which he would have. It wouldn’t have taken him long to figure it out.
So I can’t know who’s fucking with my trolley or creating a mess in the king’s study that looks like either I created or left behind. They also cut up my uniforms. All of them. I can’t exactly tattle that someone is intentionally doing these things because they’re petty fucking assholes, because it’s, quite frankly, a bad look, and snitches get stitches and all that.
Except the ones to get stitches might be these twats if they continue to fuck with me. I want to retaliate so badly,but I don’t want them to know they’re getting to me, and I don’t want it to backfire. I have too much riding on this.
The master key dangling from my waist bangs into the side of the wall as I turn into the family quarters.
Shit. I stop and make sure I didn’t leave a divot. Another thing that needs changing around here? The key system. I understand that the palace is old, perhaps even ancient, but actual keys? They’re not the small kind that fit on a regular old ring either. These are the kinds you see in horror films that take place in the nineteenth century.
I’m in a foul fucking mood today, and it’s not the kind of mood I enjoy being in.
“I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” comes a voice from down the hall that I’m positive is Esme’s. “I don’t know what to say. She’s obviously new at this and is still learning. I suppose we just have to be patient.”
“Patient?” the king echoes. “You’re telling me to be patient with the fact that my bedroom is in total disarray? How could this have even happened?”
“I’m not sure, Your Majesty. Marcella is responsible for your quarters now. I understand this would never have happened under Emily, but I’m sure there’s an explanation for this other than incompetence or oversight.”
That fucking cunt.
“Find her and tell her to get it fixed. Now!”
Heavy steps storm down the hall in the opposite direction, and I round the corner, after blood, except Esme isn’t here anymore. The hall is completely empty. I go into the king's bedroom that I already tidied this morning and gasp. The clothes from the dry-cleaning hamper are strewn everywhere, the bed is unmade, drawers are open that shouldn’t even be touched, and some of the queen’s personal items are on the floor.
Bitch is going to die. I’ve killed people less deserving of it than her.
Jesus Christ, I don’t have time for this.
Yesterday, two completely different versions of the schedule were posted to our board—the one I posted and the one someone else posted from last week. It was total chaos in the morning as I had to remove one and redirect people. I’ve had to restrict people’s posting to requiring approval now. Unfortunately, I don’t have proof that it’s the three of them other than their obvious dismay over me getting the position instead of one of them and their threat.
Dammit, I can’t fuck this up. I need this position for more than one reason.
I set to work cleaning up the mess and making sure everything is as perfect as it was this morning, the first time I did this. My mind drifts, thinking up delightful revenge schemes to get back at the three stooges, when I snag on one of the photographs on top of the king’s dresser.
The children each have one, there’s one of the king and queen from their wedding and one of the king with Rowan on what looks like a yacht, and that’s the one I get stuck on.
The king is extremely good-looking. Fiercely so. All hard lines and rough edges, whereas Rowan has a softness to him that the king lacks in the form of full lips and cheek dimples. Those stupid bastards never fail to disarm a girl when she least wants it.
Maybe that’s why the king is labeled a beast and Rowan a charmer. Maybe it’s more about appearance than demeanor because Rowan has not been charming this week. Not at all. If anything, he’s been an ass. Regardless, I can see why the queen fell for the king. Unfortunately, I already know why women all over the world are endlessly eager to spread their legs for Rowan, myself stupidly included.
I was like a blushing schoolgirl the other day by the pool,all because the man was shirtless and wet. Pathetic. I’m not one of those women. Not again. I hate the way he looks at me. I hate the way it makes me feel like a woman—a beautiful woman. Argh!
Stop thinking about him and get back to work!
I finish off the king’s room and lock the door. I’ll unlock it later this afternoon, but I want to make sure no one else fucks with it.
My personal phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out to see it’s from Signorina Batorini. Awesome. Because this day hasn’t already started off like shit.
S.B.: I’ve been informed you have a new position there that should further our agenda. Give me an update on your progress.
Fuck. Antonia was all up my ass last night, talking about how they need something concrete to work with and how they’re losing patience, etc. I had to give her something and told her about my new position.
