Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 68691 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68691 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
“But did you try to contact him again?” demanded my brother from his corner. Karl was lifting weights and stood momentarily still as he caught his breath, panting slightly.
“No baby, I didn’t,” said my mom. “When you hit a wall like I did, a wall that seems impenetrable, you give up. I figured Georg had a wife, a son already, he wasn’t interested in us.”
And my brother just shook his head, his face grim.
“Fuck that,” he ground out before turning back to the mirror, staring at his image. “Fuck that,” he said once more, shutting us out. Because it was only too easy to google Prince Georg and his happy family, pictures of the old dude with his wife and first-born, legitimate son, Prince Kristian. We hated them, hated their guts, the lavish estates, the pictures of them going to state balls, society parties, dressed to the nines. And the worst part was the family resemblance. Because yes, we looked like Georg and Kristian, with the same black hair, blue eyes, and dominating, muscular builds. Clearly royal blood ran thick.
But what the fuck. Our half-brother was everything we weren’t, rich, educated at the best schools, with the world at his fingertips. By contrast, my twin and I were blue collar guys who worked with our hands, eking out a living on a boat. Not exactly men who had bulging 401ks or brokerage accounts to make girls salivate. But life takes twists and turns … and there was a stop at St. Venetia on the manifest.
CHRISTINA
Miss Carroll’s Finishing School for Young Ladies was every bit as bad as I’d anticipated. The name was the first thing. Really? Was there really a Miss Carroll? Or was it just a marketing ploy to lend authenticity, make it seem like there was a heart, a mind behind the institution?
Of course, my parents shouldn’t have been worried because we’re supposedly rich as all get-out, minor nobility around these parts. My dad is rumored to own the Royalton Race Track as well as a couple shopping centers in the city center, flying around in our G5 and a couple small-prop planes. But it’s actually a house of cards, a mirage because our fortune has been ebbing away, generation after generation, and the real estate we own? Well it’s held by a trust with our name at the top, but beneficiary owners are the real puppetmasters. So it’s all a sham, and my conversation with my parents about fixing our situation was painful to say the least.
“Christina,” said my mom, looking down her long, pointy nose at me. Somehow, despite the fact that I was standing and she was sitting, Mary still managed to look down her nose. “We need to talk. Please sit.”
“Mom,” this isn’t a good time, I said pointedly. I’d been meaning to go to the library, read up on Andorran history. Although I wasn’t academic per se, I still felt a responsibility to understand my country, its long and rich past.
My dad shot me a sharp look from his antique desk.
“Sit down, young lady, we have some things to go over,” he said sharply.
So I dropped into an overstuffed armchair, sighing. I guess the library could wait. I’d reached a part in the fifteen hundreds that was especially riveting, discussing the ascension of the feudal system and I wanted to map out its development. After all, my ancestors made their fortune by renting out our land for others to farm, collecting bounty in the form of crops and I wanted to learn more about this antiquated practice that was so central to our family history.
“Dad, is this about college?” I asked wearily. “I know, you’re legacy at St. Marten’s, I’ve applied there already.”
“No, this isn’t about St. Marten’s,” he replied, “And I’ve already told the Dean you’re applying this year, we’re buddies after all.”
“Then can I go?” I asked. “There’s some stuff that I want to read up on at the library.”
But my mom interjected again.
“The library! Why are you always going there? Why don’t you go shopping like normal girls?” she said sharply, eyeing my outfit. I admit, I didn’t look like some of the girls I knew, dressed to the nines at all times, but I didn’t think I was doing that badly. I smoothed my skirt down in my lap, the wool reaching to my knees, and straightened my turtleneck. I was warm and comfortable, and that’s what mattered to me.
But my mom wasn’t impressed.
“You need to fix yourself up,” she said sharply. “You’re always dressed like a spinster, every inch covered. It’s not attractive, not alluring to men. How are you going to find a husband?”
And that’s when I flushed. Because despite my fling with Karl and Kato last night, the truth was not many guys were into me. They seemed to like flashier types, stick-thin blondes in cocktail dresses, not curvy brunettes in comfy turtlenecks.