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“Says who? You can’t make me do anything,” I scoff. “Unlike you, I don’t rely on our family’s money for a living.”
“This isn’t about money,” Ralph snaps. We look similar. We have the same white-blonde hair, but Ralph is more polished and rounder. He reminds me of an overgrown cherub who acts like a cunt. “This is about making things right for the family.”
“Does it hurt?” I ask him. “Having your nose buried up the Crown’s arse all the fucking time?”
“You hate being royal, but do you think companies would have let you invest in them if it wasn’t for the Montgomery name?” Ralph snickers. “You’ve made your wealth, but don’t pretend you haven’t used our family connections to get it.” His words leave a bitter taste in my mouth. He’s right, but it doesn’t take away how hard I’ve worked to be successful. “Your reputation is in tatters, and Mother plans to fix it.”
“A plan?” I snort. Mum loves scheming. At the last royal wedding, she devised a scheme to maximise our press exposure. This will be another opportunity to seize the spotlight. “I don’t care what people think of me.”
“You don’t, but this isn’t about you.” Ralph’s voice turns stern and gruff like Dad’s. We don’t see our father often. He’s a man of few words, but his strict orders and commitment to tradition terrified me as a child. “You have to do this.”
Freddie appears in the doorway and leans against the frame. He must have been listening in the entire time. “Ralph’s right.”
“Thank you.” Ralph grins in triumph, delighted to have an ally. “Whoever you are.”
“You can’t mean that.” I look pleadingly at Freddie. “There’s… a lot to do.”
“You need to make it right with your family,” Freddie says. His eyes glance in my direction, but he’s looking straight through me. His mind is elsewhere. “You don’t get a second chance with them.”
“Pack your things.” Ralph claps his hands. “Chop, chop!”
I glower at him. “I’ll pack in my own time.”
“And you should clear out this place.” His nose wrinkles. “It’s a mess, and Mother is going to cut the power any minute now.”
“Great,” I grumble. “So, what is her grand plan?”
“She has something in mind to correct your public image.” Whatever it is, it can’t be good…
CHAPTER12
CALLEN
Nothing ruins the freeing feeling of the wind rushing through your hair more than a flashing warning light.
Shit.
Thankfully, there’s a petrol station ahead. I swerve to stop, fill the tank, and head inside the shop to pay.
I saunter through the aisles. It’s been a few days since I’ve eaten a good meal. I grab a share bag of cheese and onion crisps, then pass the minimal selection of fruit. Gotta get my vitamins. I grab an apple and head to the checkout, tossing it like a tennis ball.
“Pump nine,” I say, putting the items on the counter. “And these.”
A pock-marked teenager whose greasy hair hangs around his chin like wet curtains presses a few buttons. “That’ll be twenty-two pounds and twelve pence.”
Daylight fucking robbery. I grunt as I dig my hands into my pockets. There are two crinkled ten-pound notes, and the rest is in coppers. I carefully count them, sliding the coins across to him in neatly stacked piles.
“You’re ten pence short,” the kid observes.
“Well done, wee lad,” I say. “You can do maths.” I reach into my other pocket to find more. There’s nothing. “Why don’t we call it even?”
The kid clears his throat, deciding now’s the right time to squeeze out a pubic hair. “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
“Can’t do that?” I mimic.
Do I look like a man open to being challenged by a teenager who needs a wash?
“N-n-n-no,” he stammers. His confidence wilts like his newly found testosterone. “You’ll have to p-p-put something back.”
