Prince: A Filthy Sweet Fairy Tale Romance Read online

  How will I figure out the mystery that is Herne? I won’t without more information, so I shelve it for now.

  I look up, glancing around as I approach Gwenda's building. If I hadn’t had her after my father died, I don't know how I would have survived. She's always been there for me, the godmother my own mother chose before she died, before I was born.

  Not a weekend goes by without my visiting her. Sometimes I see her more than once a week when I'm feeling particularly down, or when I can get away more. Stepmother forbade me from seeing her after Father died, but what she doesn't know keeps me out of trouble.

  I enter the building and step into the elevator, pressing the code that will take me to Gwenda's apartment. The place isn't high-end enough to offer a doorman, but it's in a safe enough neighborhood. Coming here alone at night still isn't the best idea.

  Gwenda will definitely let me know that.

  I step out into the hall and walk past multiple doors until I reach hers. The code I pressed in the elevator is required when entering after dark. It also alerts the person whose code it is, so they know they have a visitor.

  I knock on Gwenda's door. Sure enough, it opens in less than a second.

  Something relaxes inside me just at the sight of her.

  Gwenda is in her forties, tall and curved in all the right places. Her pretty face is only now developing fine lines that make her look more interesting. Right now, her short dark hair is covered in a bejeweled turban and her generous curves are swathed in a pale pink floor-length silk robe. You can take the showgirl out of Vegas but you can't take the Vegas out of the showgirl.

  "Elle!" Gwenda cries out, dragging me into a warm hug. I inhale her familiar scent, hugging her back.

  "Hey, Gwenda."

  "Don't you 'hey, Gwenda' me!" she admonishes, pulling away to close the door. "What are you doing wandering the streets alone at night?" she demands, even as she pulls me to the kitchen and sits me down at the small island. "You know it isn't safe!"

  "I'm sorry," I say meekly as she sets down a plate of chocolate chip cookies and a glass of milk in front of me. I could say I'm not a child anymore and that I don't need cookies and milk. But her cookies are always amazing, and they've almost become a ritual, a part of coming over to her place. So I just take a bite. Chocolate bursts across my tongue.

  "Delicious, as always," I say, taking a sip of milk.

  "Of course," she says with a wink as she sits down next to me, picking up a cookie and taking a nibble as I down another. She sighs, watching me. "Ah, the metabolism of youth. Enjoy it while it lasts, kid. I remember the days when nothing used to stick to me." She closes her eyes as she takes another tiny bite. "Now. Why don't you tell me what brings you here."

  I reach into my pocket and carefully pull out the invitation. I set it down on the counter between us, letting it speak for itself.

  Her eyes open wide as she reads it. "An invitation to the cotillion!" she exclaims, grinning at me. "Congratulations! I know how much you wanted to go! This is just wonderful! Oh, how did you manage to get it?"

  She pulls me into a side hug and I lean into her, smiling at her enthusiasm. It's nice to have someone who can celebrate with me, who understands how important this is for me. Still, I don't particularly want to get into the details of how I got it.

  "From a guy," I say, not meeting her eyes. Maybe she'll just let it go.

  She immediately pulls back, an eyebrow going up. "A guy, huh?" she prods, her eyes twinkling. "What guy? And how did he come across an extra invitation to the party everyone and her mother is trying to get into?"

  I shrug. That's the same question that's been running through my mind, and I still haven't come up with a satisfactory answer.

  "I don't know," I say. "I just met him tonight."

  Both her eyebrows go up at that and she eyes the invitation. "Hmm. Sounds like he's really into you if he gave this to you after just meeting you." She gives me a steady look, lips pursed a bit.

  I shrug again. Flashes of memory light up my mind’s eye, like the flickers of a hologram-bubble. Herne kissing me. The erection he wasn't even trying to hide. The greedy fascination on his face when his hand was on me, in me.

  I know I'm blushing and I know Gwenda can see it because she's smiling at me knowingly.

  "I need a dress," I blurt out, knowing the change in subject is obvious and abrupt, but not knowing how else to get off this line of questioning. I think I might actually die if I have to talk to her about this.

  Gwenda lets it go. As I get older, she’s less like a substitute parent and more like a friend.

  "Weren't you working on one?" she asks with a frown. "I know how much time you were putting into it."

  I nod. There's no way around telling her.

  "Stepmother found it," I say, and again I hear the fabric ripping, the clinks of the buttons landing in the far corners of my room. Anger heats up my body again as I remember the pile of rags that was my ball gown.

  "What happened?" Gwenda asks and lays a soft hand on my back. She knows what Stepmother is like.

  I swallow past the lump in my throat. "She tore it up," I say, my voice wobbling a little

  Gwenda sucks in a startled breath at that revelation.

  "That bitch," she hisses, covering my hand with hers. "I still can't fathom what your father was thinking when he married that dried-up viper. She's as different from your mother as someone could possibly be." She sighs. "Maybe that was the point." She squeezes my hand warmly. "I'm so sorry, Elle. I know how hard you worked on it."

  I shrug, not wanting to cry again. I take a deep breath. Here, with Gwenda, I find I don’t need to cry about it. Maybe that’s because I know that if I do have to, I can.

  I try not to tell Gwenda about everything that goes on at home because it only makes her angry and she can't do anything about any of it. That doesn't mean she hasn't gleaned what kind of people my stepfamily are.

  After Father's death, Gwenda wanted me to come live with her. But Stepmother was still my legal guardian and she wouldn’t allow it. To spite Gwenda or me, I don't know. Maybe both of us. God knows she doesn't like Gwenda any more than she likes me.

  "It doesn't matter now. What matters is that I need to make the perfect dress in just a few days and I don't even have any material to work with." I cover my face with my hands, shaking my head as the enormity of the situation hits me. I'd been working on the other dress for months. Now I only have a few days to come up with something new. "What am I going to do? I'll never get another opportunity like this again."

  "That is a conundrum," Gwenda muses. We sit there in silence. I take a sip of milk.

  "I think I may have something you can work with," she says.

  "Really?"

  "Maybe," she says as she slides off the stool and hurries into her bedroom. "Though I have to warn you, it doesn't have a lot of charge left on it!" she calls out from inside. "And it's pretty dated, but with your skill, I have no doubt you can come up with something amazing..."

  I stand up as she comes in with some fabric draped over her arm.

  "Where is that switch…ah, here we go." She activates the holographic feature of the dress and holds it up.

  I immediately see the possibilities, my mind cataloging the details and adjusting them on the fly.

  "Oh!" I breathe drawing closer. "I'll have to adjust the color, the shape, maybe bring it in here, re-shape the bust..." I rattle off everything I would do to it, circling around it as I think. It would be stunning with those changes. I might have a shot at my dream yet.

  "Will it do?" Gwenda asks, her face worried.

  I look at her, grinning. "Yes. I can so work with this." I laugh, touching the fabric. "It's perfect."

  "Yes!" she exclaims, thrusting a fist up in the air. "Godmother for the win! Don't forget me when you're a rich and famous designer, kid. Someone has to keep me in turbans in my old age." She winks at me as I laugh, but then turns serious again. "But I have to warn you, I think there's only
a few hours of charge left on the thing. It's pretty old."

  I give Gwenda a bear hug and a kiss, feeling hope bubbling up inside me once again. I can do this.

  "First of all, I could never forget you," I say. "And a few hours is all I need." I take the dress. "Let me get started on it now..."

  Gwenda brings me a small tool set and I start working on the holographic portion of the dress first. I'll need my own kit for the actual physical parts, which I can bring by tomorrow. Because no way am I taking this dress back home with me. I can't risk Stepmother finding it.

  It makes things harder, but I make it happen. There's no other option. I work on it every moment I have for the next few days. I sneak out at night, during the day, every second I can spare I devote to that dress. My fingers are cramping, my eyes straining as I work long hours. But it pays off.

  The day of the cotillion, I nervously slide into it at Gwenda's, hoping I haven't overlooked anything.

  "Come on, I want to see the whole thing," Gwenda urges from the kitchen, her face eager. She's been watching me work for the last couple of hours.

  I bite my lip. I have to see it. Here it goes. If something needs to be adjusted, I'll adjust it.

  The time will be more than tight, but…

  I activate the holographic portions.

  "Oh!" Gwenda sighs, her eyes shining as she clasps her hands in front of her chest. "It's gorgeous! I wish your mother could see you in it. You look just like her."

  I smile at her, twirling in the dress. "You think so?" I ask, feeling a little misty eyed.

  "I know so," she says firmly, turning me to the full-length mirror leaning against the wall of the living room. "You've really outdone yourself this time Elle. This dress...it's nothing short of a work of art."

  I look in the mirror, really seeing it. It's exactly what I wanted.

  I made the skirt fuller, brought in the waist so it's a classic ball gown shape. I reshaped the bust, cut the neckline to give it a soft sweetheart shape, and I took off the sleeves. I adjusted the color so it's now a simple white gossamer, glittering lights cascading through the skirt, along the edges of the bodice, and at the hem.

  The little star-like lights don't stop there. They also float at various depths away from the skirt, moving and swaying with my own movement, casting an ethereal aura around the dress. It's perfect. It's even better than the dress I'd been working on!

  "Beautiful," Gwenda sighs again. "You've hit it right out of the park, kid. Now, all we need is to take care of your makeup and hair. Oh, and shoes! Did you bring shoes?"

  My stomach drops. "I didn't think of shoes," I say, panic rising up. "Oh no! What do I do?"

  "Don't freak," she says firmly. "I have the pair that originally went with this dress, hold on..."

  She rushes inside as I try not to have a full-blown anxiety attack. How could I forget about the shoes?

  "Here they are!"

  I look over to see Gwenda carrying in a shoebox. She sets it down next to me, opens it, and starts unwrapping.

  "These were always my favorite pair for the shows I used to do in Vegas, you know. Pretty and surprisingly comfortable. Well, as comfortable as heels can be. And they're made of crystal. The sparkle is perfect for this dress."

  She holds up the shoe triumphantly.

  "Oh! It's gorgeous," I breathe, taking the sparkling heel from her. Shaped in a classic pump style but cut so that it shimmers when the light hits it.

  "Here, try them on." She sets the other shoe down in front of me.

  I lift my skirt and slide my feet into the heels.

  They fit.

  I shake out my skirt and look in the mirror again. Even the height of the heels is perfect for the length of the dress.

  "Thank you Gwenda," I say, turning to meet her eyes. "I don't know what I would have done without you."

  She smiles, sliding her arm around my waist as we look at the dress in the mirror together.

  "The feeling's mutual. You know that. And I hope you know exactly how proud I am of you for working hard, reaching for what you want in life." She laughs a little, her eyes a little teary. "Look at me, getting all misty eyed."

  I blink back my own tears, leaning against her strong body.

  "I'm really glad you're my godmother," I say. "I love you."

  "Right back at you, kid," she says gruffly. "Right back at you." We stand there for only a moment more before Gwenda firmly turns me away from my reflection, rubbing at her eyes. "Now, enough of that. We don't have a lot of time. Let's get to work on the rest of you," she says briskly. "I have a few tricks up my sleeve yet."

  She sweeps me into the bathroom to start on my hair and makeup.

  I feel the jitters of excitement and nerves flowing through me as I sit at the well-lit vanity. Rows of meticulously organized makeup greet me. Physical makeup on one side and VR on the other. Eyeshadow palettes, foundations, mascaras, lipsticks. And then the illusion tech—wrinkle smoothers, eye color changers, lip plumpers.

  I could come out of here with a totally different face.

  "Nothing too crazy," I say, a little worried now that I'm faced with all of this.

  Gwenda scoffs as she pulls my hair back with a headband. "I'm not an amateur," she reassures me, her hands already moving to pull what she wants to use from the array in front of us. I stare as she lays out more makeup than I've ever seen. "Why would I try to cover up this masterpiece? No, we just need to bring out your eyes, keep things simple. Your dress is already doing the heavy lifting."

  She throws a hairdresser's cape over me to protect the dress. She starts to work on my face, her fingers light and fast as she applies everything she lays out with a deft hand. It takes more time than I would have thought. Then again, all I usually wear is mascara and lip balm.

  "Now the hair," she murmurs. "We'll keep that simple too. Just a smooth up-do, maybe something to frame your face..."

  I close my eyes and let her work her magic. I trust her. The heat of a blow dryer, the tugging of a curling iron. Gwenda's muttering to herself as she works. The hair doesn't take as long as the makeup did.

  And then Gwenda's stepping back, looking at me with a critical eye.

  "Do I look okay?" I ask.

  "No," she says with a smile. "You look amazing!"

  I smile, trying to look at the mirror over my shoulder. At some point, she turned me around so I wouldn't be able to see.

  "Wait!" she cries out, turning the chair back towards her so I can't see. "Let me take the cape off so you can see it with the dress to get the full effect."

  I wait obediently as she whisks it off and adjusts my hair just so.

  "Ready?" I ask, forcing myself not to turn around.

  "Yes," she says, beaming as she turns the chair around herself.

  I stare.

  "Oh, Gwenda," I say, leaning in to get a better look at my makeup.

  It's applied flawlessly. And the hair...it's perfect. Simple yet sophisticated.

  "Yes, I know," Gwenda says confidently. "I still have the touch. Not that it was difficult with someone like you, my dear."

  As I stare at the vision Gwenda helped me create, I feel determination rising up inside me. This is it. I'm going to have the chance to show off my work. To find a sponsor. To have what I've always wanted.

  "I think I might faint," I blurt out.

  "Take a deep breath," Gwenda murmurs. "Now is not the time to have a panic attack."

  She's right.

  I take a deep breath.

  I can do this.

  I will do this.

  And, though it might be stupid to even think about...I wonder if Herne will be there.

  And if he'll like how I look.

  Chapter 8

  Herne

  I walk into the ballroom, adjusting my cuff links. The room is already crowded even though the cotillion started only minutes earlier. I take in the scene with a slightly jaded eye. This event is bigger than any I've ever thrown before, but it has a lot of the famili
ar trappings, the expected touches.

  And the people are all the same, all dressed to impress.

  The light from the numerous chandeliers sparkles off the jewelry the women are wearing. Necklaces, bracelets, earrings, rings, even some tiaras and other less-conventional jewelry. Some of it all on a single person, complete with bodyguards to ensure safety.

  I take in the teeth bared in political smiles, hair hologrammed to look longer and shinier than it actually is. The dresses are custom made, the shoes worth more than many people make in a year.

  It is the epitome of excess.

  I don't draw much enjoyment from that. No, my intention was always simply to meet expectations, to create an event that would draw the type of women I'd be interested in.

  Though that goal doesn't feel all that exciting now that I'm faced with it.

  I shake that thought off. It isn't particularly productive right now. So I put my lack of interest aside and focus on the details of the stage I've set, wanting to ensure everything is up to standard. I made sure everything for tonight would be the best that can be found. After all, I have to keep up the appearance of the Singarti playboy who doesn't have a complex thought in his mind. I smile thinly to myself as I survey what I've put together.

  From the drinks, to the food, to the entertainment, everything is the height of luxury.

  An award-winning orchestra plays in the area specially designed for them, the music elegant and just loud enough to be heard without overpowering conversation. A gentle hologram light show plays up near the ceiling of the spacious room, near the balconies that can be accessed by those who wish, the images twisting and turning with the melodies. The sound and the visual pleasing, intended to add to the overall picture, but not to draw undue attention.

  The floor shimmers with pale colors, adjusting with the music as well, as waiters circulate with trays of finger foods, their clothing pressed and their shoes polished. I could have gone with bots, but the human touch gives it more allure, more glamour.

  People already fill the dance floor, though I see many eyes wandering away from partners in an attempt to take everything in. To see if there are others they'd rather be dancing with, perhaps. But that could simply be my cynical side peeking out.