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“She's right. The optics aren't ideal,” Sofia agrees.
“Optics?” Amelia asks. “Who's watching us? Everyone's here to meet the new American princess. We're a sideshow.”
“Alex is never a sideshow, Ami. He's the darling of the press,” Sofia says with a familiar note to her voice.
It's true that I get a lot more media attention than her. She's always been so much more sensible than me. Typical first born. She’d never be caught dead playing poker in Las Vegas, surrounded by what Amelia referred to as my “bevy of beauties”. She couldn't even point to where Las Vegas is on a map. Or even Monte Carlo, for that matter, which is a mere hop, skip, and a jump away.
Although those partying days are behind me now, my reputation still lingers, and there are a few devoted journalists out there who love nothing better than to create a story about me and some new woman completely out of thin air.
Last week, I had torrid affairs with at least two American heiresses, seduced a senator’s daughter, and partied all night with a rap star. Allegedly.
Sofia, on the other hand, has dated a total of two men in her life, one of whom was way back in high school and lasted for about six weeks. And the other? He's the one who broke her heart. Not much of a fun story for the media to get their grubby mitts on. It was a headline for about a week, after which she's been regarded as the Pitiful Princess ever since.
Party Princes get a lot more coverage than Pitiful Princesses, I’m afraid, even when they’ve hung up their dance shoes.
“Quick, you two. Get rid of your peculiar-colored drinks before anyone notices,” Mother demands.
“If I must.” I drain my glass.
All three members of my family regard me with wide eyes.
“What? I did what you said.”
Mummy pulls her lips into a line. “Hmm.”
“You're so literal, Alex,” Sofia complains, but really, I did what I was asked so there should be no problem.
Amelia is still clutching onto her glass.
“Go on then. Down in one,” I instruct her with a grin.
Amelia lifts the glass to her lips but Mummy puts her hand over the top of it before she has the chance, and whisks the glass away, depositing it on a passing waiter’s tray.
“Mummy! I was going to drink that,” she complains.
“We don't need a drunk princess,” Sofia replies.
“As if one glass will do that,” Amelia mumbles under her breath.
“What did you say?” Sofia asks.
“I said you are very wise, dear sister,” she replies and I huff a laugh.
A man in Malveauxian royal uniform arrives at our group and bows his head. “Your Majesty, Your Royal highnesses. The Princess Madeline will be arriving shortly and we require your Majesty for the formal presentation, if you please.”
“What about us?” Sofia asks. “Are we required, too?”
“Not at this present moment, ma’am,” he replies.
Sofia bristles. She lives for this kind of pomp and ceremony.
“The three of you behave while I'm away,” Mummy instructs.
“Of course we will,” Sofia replies.
“It's not you I'm concerned about, my dear.” Mummy throws a meaningful look at both Amelia and me.
“We'll behave,” I promise her.
