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Princess Madeline looked nice in her blue dress.
#StopTheRudolphReferences
#StillCrazyHot
Yours in the very deepest of concerns,
Fabiana Fontaine xx
“Ugh!” I slap the paper down on the table in disgust.
You heard me right. A paper. As in a newspaper, something I think Dad got once in my adult life when Houston won the World Series, insisting it was for posterity.
How can anybody write such sycophantically ridiculous drivel about that horrible man? It's clear they can't see past the fact that he's a handsome prince—in itself such a cliché. Like either of those things means anything at all.
They don’t.
He's rude, he's mean, he’s full of himself, and he's flirtatious in an absolutely inappropriate and revolting way. I’m glad it was me who punched him, not some jealous man. Although the idea of Alexander flirting with someone’s wife rings a hundred and fifty percent true. I know. I'm the one who punched him and still he found it within himself to flirt with me. Even though he denied he did because he so did.
Un-freaking-believable.
What annoys me the most, however, is the fact that I let his words get to me. Suggesting that I'm jumping at this opportunity to become a princess so that I can cash in is deeply insulting and so unbelievably inaccurate. Doesn't he know that I'm wrestling with this whole thing? That I've got one foot in and one foot out, hoping that at any moment I'll get a clear sign to help me decide which life I should choose?
Of course he doesn’t because he's an arrogant, self-satisfied man who thinks so much of himself he doesn't even bother to ask me how I'm feeling about becoming a princess. He just jumped to a deeply insulting conclusion.
I huff out a breath.
And what’s more—if there even needs to be any more—he called me a backup princess, heir to the throne only if my Uncle Nicolas, who is apparently sailing around the Mediterranean, decides to follow through with his threat of abdication. The cheek of the man! I’m no one’s backup, thank you very much, and everyone says Nicolas will officially abdicate anyway, so…so…argh!
I hate him. Hate him!
I hope I never have to lay eyes on him ever again, as long as I live. And if I do have to see him, I refuse to speak with him or have anything to do with him at all.
There. Decided.
I feel better already.
My phone vibrates with a message and I pick it up to see it's from Chloe.
Hey, Princess! I cannot get used to saying that. What’s the haps? I bet you're doing amazing princess things while I'm stuck here in the office with Denise breathing down my neck and Eric looking like his favorite toy’s been taken away.
My breath catches in my throat. Eric is missing me? I type a message.
Say more things about Eric.
That's what you got from that? What about the fact I'm your bestie and I have to read about your life online now that you’re on the other side of the Atlantic leading a crazy new life while I’m stuck here at Fontana?
Sorry ?? But to be fair to me, the fact that Eric misses me makes my LIFE.
Why are you even bothering to think about Eric when you have McHottie himself? ??
I don’t have Prince McHottie, as you put it, and I wouldn't want him either. He’s a completely horrible human being who thinks so much of himself he could strut sitting down.
My phone rings in my hand and I barely have the chance to say hello when Chloe launches into a tirade.
“Are you drunk? Who wouldn't want Prince Alexander? He's gorgeous. He looks great in a tux. He's a prince. If you can't see what the entire world sees, I can’t help you.”
“Those are all super excellent reasons to want to be with someone, Chlo.” My voice may be dripping in gooey sarcasm.
