Page 2 of Princessa
Chapter 2
“Will that be all this morning, Ms. Royale? Just the poached egg, avocado toast, and hot tea?” Camille slid a gold-trimmed platter, topped with a colorful plate of the meal I’d ordered, alongside a teacup and its identical teapot, onto my table overlooking the harbor and its serene beauty. “If you’d like, I can have Dovie bring up hot-off-the-griddle pancakes with that fresh blueberry syrup you love,” she said, her tone more soothing than the Savannah breeze that skipped across my face. “You really should eat more, Princessa. After all, breakfast is the most important feast of the day, and seeing how you’re as skinny as a poor man’s wallet, something more hearty than one measly egg atop a slice of toast, could quite possibly do your ass and tits some good.”
I tittered at her usual candor-mouthed bite, a sampling of the glorious attributes that made Camille Cotter, my bodyguard, the no-holds-barred badass she was.
“I do believe you mean breakfast is the most importantmealof the day? Feast implies gobbling up copious amounts of food, which is an activity I’ll never take part in”—I poured mint tea into the petite porcelain cup—“and pay no mind to my ass and tits,” I remarked, plopping one sugar cube into the teacup. “They may be on the smaller scale, but you must admit I rock the fuck out of a string bikini.”
Camille’s eyebrows jumped up to her chestnut-brown, always-up-in-a-bun hairline before she could no longer stifle the giggle that bubbled free from her lips. “You’re lucky Mrs. Royale has yet to bear witness to the salty cuss words that spring out of your mouth.” She stood over me, arms crossed over her chest, dishing a side-eye glance that said,mm-hmm.
Indeed, Camille was spot on since my mama was all about family image, representation, and preserving the Royale name. Even the casual use of the word damn could’ve caused the pearl-clutching perfectionist a near coronary explosion.
“Which is why I only let loose when Mama is nowhere close to earshot—or eyesight, for that matter, since she’s blessed with the uncanny ability to read lips. Besides, only my loving friends are gifted the F-bombs that fall freely from my mouth.” I reached up, giving her arm a squeeze. “And you, Camille, are one of my dearest friends. I’m going to miss you when you retire next year.”
It was true. I’d known Camille my whole life. She knew things about me even my best friend, Lauren, wasn’t privy to—which was saying a ton because I shared just about everything with Lauren. Yet, Camille was a confidant, someone whose shoulder I’d cried on a zillion times or more. At age forty-two, she’d been through, seen more, than anyone in my circle. Advice given by her was like a venerated treasure you held onto for life.
“I know, honey, I’m going to miss you too. And all kidding aside”—she chucked my chin, lifting it until my eyes met her steely green ones—“you need to eat. So now, how about them pancakes?”
I smiled, appreciative of how much she seemed to care about me. “Fine. But only one, please. I’m trying to preserve this skinny-ass figure of mine.”
The tray ofsupplement breakfastwas delivered mere minutes after Camille, and her all-knowing attitude, sauntered out of my suite. Admittedly, the pancake topped with warm blueberry syrup was pretty damn delicious, as was all of the fine cuisine offered at Royale Resort—Savannah, Georgia’s most luxurious waterfront destination.
A sigh escaped me as I sipped tea from my terrace, absorbing the view of boats on the harbor and lush trees, birds chirping in the distance. Sitting there brought the kind of indescribable peacefulness I thought I’d never tire of. Royale Resort had been the place I had called home for my entire life.
Twenty-five years.
Growing up, living in a luxury resort came with loads of perks. Every imaginable service was at my disposal, not to mention a staff that waited on me hand and foot. They treated me like a princess, and Royale Resort my palace. It was the only life I knew and breathed, but honestly, I craved something different. Something my shitty ex-boyfriend, my overprotective parents, fashion design, or my loyal Instagram followers couldn’t provide.
Only, I had yet to discover what that something different was.
My phone buzzed, jolting me out of my hypnotic haze, and as soon as my BFF’s name flashed on the screen, I couldn’t help but squeal in delight. Other than a few text messages, it had been a couple of months since the two of us, basically inseparable, actually spoke. She’d been on a long honeymoon with her delicious husband, Jaxson Malone, after the two tied the knot at none other than Royale Resort. Lauren was one of the lucky ones. You know, one who found a real charmer, a keeper. All I seemed to find were guys, like Parker, whose only notable attribute was breathing.
“Hey, girl,” she said, glee spilling from her phone to my ear. “It’s late here, but I wanted to call and let you know we’re finally back home. I’ve missed our FaceTime chats, missed seeing your gorgeous face.”
Daily FaceTime chats were our habit, something leveraged to close the distance between us when Lauren moved to Paris, France several years ago to successfully launch her Haute Couture clothing and magazine line.
“I’ve missed you too, babe. How are you feeling?” I asked, eager to know how pregnancy had been treating her. The lovebirds realized they were expecting a baby girl they planned to call Gigi, only weeks before Jaxson and her were married.
“Other than feeling fat, hungry, and horny all the damn time, I’m fine,” she said through a breezy laugh. “How are you feeling?”
I knew her question wasn’t as simple as it sounded. She wanted to know how I was feeling post-breakup—a breakup that occurred a little over six months before, mind you. Yet, it was hard to get past the bitterness, the hurt, and the betrayal. Parker Jones used me to hide a secret he’d been harboring for most of his life.
“I’m fine.” I bit down on my lip as if that could numb the rancid taste of the two-worded fib that oozed out of my mouth.
Lauren sighed, eschewing what she knew was an untruth. “Have you thought more about the opportunity your father offered?”
That opportunity frightened me to the core. “Lauren, I don’t think I’m ready for something so…grandiose.”
“Darlin’, the Arabella I know is ready for whatever the world tosses at her. Plus, it would do you good to get away from Savannah, put things behind you. Besides all of that, you’d be near me, silly. Right here in too-beautiful France.”
My heart fluttered as I envisioned myself a resident of majestic France, albeit a train ride from where Lauren was in Paris. Papa had suggested I get away from all the hubbub Parker Jones caused, by moving to one of our smaller Royale Resort properties in Saint Jean de Luz, a southwestern coastal town in France. If I took him up on the offer, I was to be in charge of all resort events. Parties. Weddings. Fashion shows. It was indeed my wheelhouse since I held a degree, not only in fashion but also in marketing. Yet, truth be told, I was scared shitless to be so far away from home, far from Mama, Papa, Camille, and everyone else at the resort.
It was difficult to swallow the colossal lump of emotion sawing at my throat; beginning a new chapter in my life would be thrilling and equally heartbreaking. “I’ll simmer on it a bit and let you know,” I said, trying to squash the subject before Lauren pushed it any further.
“Alright, love.” She yawned into the phone, a subtle hint she was ready to end the call. “Let’s FaceTime tomorrow, okay? I can’t wait for you to see how round my belly is now.”
After we ended our conversation, I padded back into my room, crash-landing on its king-sized poster bed, my head sinking into the fluffy down pillows as I scrolled Instagram. Glamorous had been my life on and off social media pages, and I was proud of the name—the image—I’d made for myself apart from Arabella Princessa Royale, Hotel Heiress. Better was I than any one of the H sisters and K sisters combined, primarily since my popularity wasn’t fueled by scandals and sex tapes. Mama would’ve died if the family name were tarnished by such disreputable acts, so I’d been keen on making sure to behave accordingly. Everything I did in view of the public eye reflected the Royale name in a cohesively pragmatic manner. My parents’ rules were etched on my brain, forever evident.
No cussing. No drinking. No nude photos or videos. No drama.
Unsurprisingly, I’d adopted those rules as life principles, allowing them to dictate the way I presented myself to society—even when I snapped a simple selfie and uploaded it to Instagram. But let’s face it: life was becoming monotonous, dry, and dull. Remaining in Savannah probably would make things grow even more stagnant.
I need something different.
Positioning my cell phone at an arm’s length above my face, I puckered up and snapped a selfie, then uploaded it for all one-billion Instagram followers to ogle over, an easy smile gracing my lips.
Caption: When life gives you lemons, move to France. #RoyaleLemonade.
