Page 87 of Royally Rivalled

I felt guilty taking him up on it. I couldn’t leave the estate forever. It was a ridiculous thought, even if Astrid supported it. Heading to Scotland meant leaving her. If I stayed in London, I’d see her at the weekend. Up there, I might as well be in another world.

forty-eight

ASTRID

Essays clouded my view.I stacked double-spaced disasters separately from the ones I knew I’d enjoy, breaking them up by name. I knew who would get a few lovely comments, one or two critical comments, and those who would hurt my hand. I was organised. Parker had his protocol. Neither of us got in the other’s flow. We only met to work through them here in public. In private, we were too distracted.

Last night, an innocent attempt to mark essays ended in shagging on his kitchen table. It was so pointless. I couldn’t stand to be in a room alone with him without thinking something terrible.

“Briggs asked to see me. I’m worried.”

Parker shrugged. “I’m sure it’s fine.”

Why was he not freaking out? I was crawling out of my skin—unable to focus on anything until I got answers. Was I about to be sacked? My marks were fine, and I thought my performance was good, but I was always my biggest critic.

“What if I am in trouble?”

“You’re such a good girl; there’s no way that’s true,” Parker said.

I stared at him in disbelief before looking around. “Parker!”

“Shit. I really should watch my mouth. I blame it on pure exhaustion.”

“Why didn’t you sleep last night?”

“Are you asking me, Astrid? You know.”

I rolled my eyes. “It’s not like we pulled an all-nighter.”

“I was referring to the 3 AM wake-up,” he whispered.

I threw my hair over my shoulder. “Oh. Well, I slept fine.”

“Of course you did, princess.”

I snickered. “I’m going to drop by and see if he is there. Please pray for me.”

“If I believed in God, I would. You’ll be fine, Astrid. Remember, you’re exceptional.”

I blushed.

“Good girl.”

I flicked him off where no one could see and turned to go down the hall, a smile soon fading to a nervous gaze. Briggs’s door was slightly open. I knocked.

“Yes?”

“It’s Astrid, Dr Briggs.”

“Oh, come in, come in!”

I stepped into his office. Briggs’s space looked typically academic—the actual aesthetic apart from what you saw on television. Most academics looked like Parker or Briggs—white men with questionable fashion sense. Their offices were rarely large or pristine. Briggs’s domain was reasonably sized if you dodged messy piles of journal articles, essays, and well-loved books. Parker’s was unique in its impeccably organised presentation.

“Should I close the door?”

“Just a crack.”

Sitting in the old, leather-covered chair across from his desk, I did as I was told.

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