Page 270 of Naughty Nelle

“Ah, my new property,” says The Kings.

My old property,I seethe.

The bastard claps his thieving hands. “Splendid. I can’t wait to eat it!”

Dragonballs! Another missed opportunity. Had I known I was going to meet the property thief, I would have figured out a way to poison his slice of pie. One bite and he would have been history.

Marcella plumps up her breasts, then clears her throat with an attention-getting cough. “Your Majesty, I’ve also brought you a yummy dessert. Homemade vanilla cupcakes.”

Homemadecupcakes? You had me order them from Sparkles, you lying witch!

Marcella shoots me a nasty keep-your-mouth-shut look.

“I can’t wait to bite into one,” says The King, his eyes exactly where the skank wants them to be.

“Trust me, Your Majesty, after you eat one of my cupcakes, you’ll never want to eat that apple pie.”

Flaunting her boulder-size engagement ring, The PIW slaps me with a smirk. As much as I want to kill Midas, I want to kill her more. Much, much more.

“Grandpa, where’s Grammy?” asks Calla as we gather in the great room for pre-dinner cocktails.

“You know, Grammy,” chortles The King. “She can never make up her mind what shoes to wear.”

At that very moment, a buxom woman, with skunk-white hair and a scarlet satin gown, makes a grand entrance. “Hello, everyone,” she says in a thundering voice.

“Grammy!” Calla races over to hug her.

Wait! I know this woman. She’s the one Marcella battled at The Glass Slipper! For those glittery ruby slippers! She’s The Prince’s mother!? The wife of King Midas. Marcella’s future mother-in-law?

Marcella also recognizes her. Her body lurches forward, and her eyes almost pop out of their sockets. She seriously may have a seizure.

“This is my beautiful wife, The Queen of Hearts,” says King Midas affectionately.

Marcella practically tumbles out of her chair to curtsey.

To my astonishment, The Queen doesn’t recognize Marcella, who has her hair, blonder than ever, pulled back in a regal chignon. Maybe she’s blind as a bat or suffering from some extreme form of dementia. Whatever it is, she’s as gracious as can be. Relieved, Marcella plasters a sickening smile on her face and puts on her enchantée-I-speak-French act.

“Your Majesty, your shoes are so très faboo! You must tell me where you bought them.”

I want to vomit. Oh God. Can this night get any worse?

The banquet table in the grand dining hall is ornately set for eight. A huge vase of exquisite heart-shaped red roses graces the table. On the wall facing me is a striking, life-size portrait of The Queen. I recognize the artist’s hand instantly. Gallant. He has transformed his matronly mother into an immortal beauty—albeit, with a few nips and tucks.

We take our seats, but two chairs remain empty.

“Where is Cinderella and that other son of ours?” roars The Queen.

Prince Charming is Gallant’s brother?What other family surprises do I have in store?

“Dear, you know that Cinderella. She is always late,” replies The King.

The Queen pounds a fist on the table like a gavel. Everything shakes, including me.

“I’m going to sign that girl up for a time management class once and for all,” she says though clenched teeth. “In any event, we’re not waiting for them. I’m famished. Let’s eat!”

She still looks and sounds so familiar to me. But my mind is too jammed with Midas madness to figure out how I know her. I stop dwelling on it when an army of servants brings an elaborate meal to the table.

Wine begins to flows as The King and Queen pass an assortment of delectable tarts, purées, and breads. Being in the same room as Midas has killed my appetite. I feel sick. All I manage is some wine. I’m not alone. Gallant, seated across from me, isn’t eating either.

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