Total pages in book: 15
Estimated words: 13408 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 67(@200wpm)___ 54(@250wpm)___ 45(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 13408 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 67(@200wpm)___ 54(@250wpm)___ 45(@300wpm)
“I’m sorry. I had no idea. What did you get a degree in?”
“Communications and business administration.”
“There’s more to you than meets the eye, isn’t there, Princess?”
“Isn’t that true of most people?”
“One hopes.”
“I know how the press portrays me, Christopher.”
“And how is that, Princess?”
“Do you really not know?” How is that possible? He just shrugs. I roll my eyes. He just wants me to humiliate myself.
“The Toxic Princess. Awful Anya. Party Princess. Yesterday’s Dress Anya. The list goes on and on. None of which is true.”
“Fuck them, Princess,” he growls. He’s standing close to me now.
“My name is Anya,” I remind him breathlessly.
“I know.”
There’s an electrically charged moment between us, and just when I think he’s going to kiss me, he turns away from me. It’s like he remembered who he was and who I was.
Oddly disappointed, I begin to dry the dishes while he wipes down the kitchen table.
I watch as he takes the wine glasses and bottle in his hands and walks into the living room toward the couch. With the fire going, it’s so romantic, like something from a romance novel.
I can do nothing but follow him.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
CHRISTOPHER
The dishes have been washed, and everything put away. She has been sitting in front of the fireplace with her eyes closed and looks absolutely ethereal. I grab the two glasses of wine off the counter, and even though she is not yet old enough to drink since she is inside, it feels okay. “Here. I wasn’t sure if you wanted a glass or not,” I say, handing her the glass. She looks at me surprised, before smelling it. I am unsure if she will take a sip until she does and immediately spits it back out.
“Yeah, no. I’m good,” she says gagging and placing the glass down on the table. Chuckling, I nod my head and sit beside her on the floor. The silence with someone is new for me and I have to admit I like it. Normally, I am in silence with myself. “So, are you going to tell me why you hate me?” And here we go.
“I don’t hate you per say. It's your family and your kind I have a problem with.” She looks at me quizzically.
“My family?” I nod my head and take a sip, getting myself ready for this conversation because, having just met her, I already know she is not one to let anything go. “Well, surely you know you are not going to leave it like that. I think I have a right to know why, don’t I?” She’s right.
“I grew up as an orphan in the Evergreen Orphanage from the time I was three years old. In the beginning, it was nice. We had toys, food, and a warm place to live. The nuns would come and teach us, read to us, and give us something to believe in. Then, one day, it all stopped. The nuns stopped coming, and all hope left. There weren’t many of us kids there, but there were enough that everything became scarce.” I take a break, and I take another sip. I sneak a glance at her and see the sadness on her face. “I could handle the nuns not coming anymore, but when we stopped having heat and food and being provided clean clothes, that is what I couldn't understand.”
“Oh my gosh. That’s awful. But then, why is my family the source of your anger?” I look at her, trying to see if she is serious about that question, but when I see no hint of acknowledgment, I realize she really doesn’t know.
“One day, when I was a bit older and could write, about age seven or so, I asked the housemaster why we didn’t have heat in the winter and new clothes that fit; he said it was because the royal family stopped funding the orphanage.” I hear her gasp beside me, but I refuse to look at her now. She wanted to know, so I am going to tell her. “I didn’t believe him at first; why would I? We have always been taught how great the royal family is and how much they care for us, so surely this is untrue.
I went to the library and looked up the laws and roles of the Royal Family in our country. Part of what I found included a list of all the ways they help; one was to fund the orphanage. So you see, it was true. Your family forgot about us.” She sniffles and I begin to feel a small churning of guilt. Fuck that. She asked.
“I am so sorry, Christopher. I can’t imagine what that must have been like, but I assure you my family would never abandon the Orphanage or any of our responsibilities. There has to be a reasonable explanation for this. There has to be.” That last part, she whispers to herself.