Page 1 of My Dark Prince
Prologue
Briar
I am not the heroine of my story.
I’m not the villain, either.
I am the side character – inotherpeople’s books.
The unwanted child whose own parents found to be unlovable.
I used to live in the shadows, pressed between the crowded pages of somebody else’s tale like a wilting rose. Untilhepulled me out of the suffocating paper, showering me with light until I blossomed into the person he knew I could be.
Oliver von Bismarck.
My best friend. My secret crush. My first love …
And these days? My bitter sworn enemy.
Ollie might have forgotten me, but I remember the scars he left behind.
They say the best revenge is to not be like your enemy.
I grew up to be kind, reliable, and responsible. All the things he lacked.
Thanks to him, I’m no longer a rose.
I’m a thorn.
Chapter One
Briar Rose
Age fourteen.
He is not here. Stop looking for him.
I turned my head from the party and forced myself to focus on the waves as they wrestled beneath the ominous moon. A blanket of stars draped across the sky, accompanying me as I perched on a cobbled terrace at the Château de Chillon.
All around me, people buzzed – dancing, flirting, laughing,living. Yet, I’d never felt more alone.
Every summer, the von Bismarcks hosted a grand ball to mark their arrival in Switzerland. Hundreds of Europe’s pedigreed aristocrats and tycoons flocked to the lush medieval castle kissing Lake Geneva for a chance to flaunt their connections to one of the world’s oldest royal lineages – two of them my stuck-up parents.
Oliver should have been here by now, roaming the halls or planning an elaborate prank. He’d make his grand entrance when he was ready and not a moment sooner.
Don’t search for him. Have some self-control.
Too late. My traitorous body acted of its own accord, whipping my head back to the party to hunt for those pale golden curls and mischievous eyes.
Dancers filled the outdoor ballroom to the brim, sabotaging any chance I had at spotting him. Pastel ballgowns swished across the flagstone pavers like clouds of cotton candy, swirling with practiced ease. From the tiered stage, a baroqueorchestra blessed us with the rich strings of Aram Khachaturian’sMasquerade Suite I. One of my favorite waltzes.
I smoothed the skirt of my taffy-pink gown, knowing my parents wouldn’t chide me for sullying my dress on the exposed terrace bricks. For them to remark about the blatant disrespect to the satin frock, they’d first have to notice I was alive. An inconvenient fact they tried their hardest to forget.
I glanced beneath the veranda. If I were to fall, I’d hit the roof before rolling straight into gravel. It was ten, maybe twelve, floors high. Enough to kill me. I turned to my parents, who stood next to their friends a few feet from me.
They did not notice I was sitting on the edge.
They did not notice me at all.
