Page 13 of Royally Rivalled

“Don’t be so glum. The musician was a shithead?—”

“And the Dickish Duke,” I muttered.

“Ah, yes. What ended up happening there? Last I saw, you were laughing with that politician’s son.”

“Politician’s son? Amara, you should talk!”

“No, his dad is a Tory,” Amara pulled a face. “Rich prat, but has a sense of humour about himself.”

“Jeremy?”

She nodded.

“He’s fine. He was nice to me when I needed a friend.”

“I could think of two dozen reasons why.”

I rolled my eyes. “I dunno. The dress makes my tits look more impressive than they have reason to be.”

“What? Nah!” Amara pulled on the bodice a bit. “They look fine.”

“They look better than fine!” I giggled. “But that’s the point. Is it… false advertising?”

“Are push-up bras a fake-out?” Amara asked.

I shrugged. “I dunno. I grew up comparing myself to everyone in my family—my sisters, anyway. And I’m outclassed.”

“They’re fine. You know what my mother always said?”

“No?”

Amara smiled. “Comparison is the thief of joy. Buy the dress. Feel pretty.”

“Fine, Amara. You’re right! I have a right to feel beautiful sometimes.”

The staff held our bags as we took tea in the fabulous cafe off the mezzanine floor. Amara was in good spirits, telling me everything I didn’t understand about tea. Neandia was a hub of coffee culture, so I’d never even thought about it. In England, there wererules.

“You seem so cultured,” I said. “I’m out of my depth. Go easy on me, okay?”

“You’re fine! And c’mon, darling. Cultured?”

Unsure how much to disclose, I worried. If I told her how awful my early years were or how much I suffered as a teenager, would she ever want to talk again?

“What’s wrong?” Amara asked.

I took a deep breath. “Growing up… I didn’t have a normal childhood. Amara, my grandmother kept us locked up. She decided everything for us—what we ate, who we spoke to, and what we wore. She prohibited us from doing most things. I wasn’t allowed to even go to school from when I started secondary school until I started uni. And even then… I wasn’t allowed to make friends.”

“What?”

“I know it sounds mad.” I flushed beet red.

“I’m sorry. So, you’re a little behind on life achievements, but that doesn’t mean anything. We’re both very clever, and I’m not one to give up. You must worktwiceas hard to catch up on friendship, debauchery, and uni life. You’ll have to embrace living four whole years in one.”

“Sounds daunting.”

“Think of it as a fantastic reinvention. Who is Astrid Dechamps? The possibilities are endless!”

I considered that question but had no answer.

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