Page 7 of Take My Crown

Ivy Archaic

“When Solomon says the finer things in life are all mine, he isn’t kidding, is he?”

My jaw drops when I see the room that my father had given to me. And by room, I actually mean a full on suite, with bathroom, walk in wardrobe, living area and bedroom. It’s ridiculously nice and expensive, nothing like I have ever had in my entire life. A part of me doesn’t want it all, knowing I don’t deserve any of this shit. I wish my mum was here to tell me what to do, how to get through this, and if my father isn’t the snake he seems to be.

Why did you leave all this, mum?

“He hired the best interior decorator to furnish it for you,” Isabella tells me, “but if there’s anything you don’t like, all you have to do is say, and we’ll change it.”

“No, no. Don’t be silly. This is fine. More than fine.”

And it really is. For a girl who’d grown up on the wrong side of the tracks, this is unbelievable. Going into the wardrobe, I can see my father had spared no expense to get everything he thought a girl my age would like. The scary thing is that the clothes hanging up are just my style–sassy tees with funny slogans, cargo pants and black denim jeans, slouchy jumpers made from the softest materials.

It is quite spooky, really. He must have been watching me for a long time before he sent Archer in to snatch me.

Laid out on a low table in the middle of the wardrobe area is what I supposed is my school uniform. Picking it up, I can’t avoid letting out a grunt of disgust.

“Really? They can’t have designed something better than this?”

I’m being forced into wearing a black pleated skirt and black V neck jumper with a crest embroidered on the left hand side. Above are the words ‘King Academy’ and underneath ‘House Archaic.’ There are also some long black socks, a white shirt and a black and white striped tie.

The only good thing about it are the funky black Doc Martens. I have always wanted a pair, but Katy said they were too expensive. She was right. These have my name on the inside, and last name in a small font down the outside edges so they must be custom made. As it is, they are a small consolation for the fact I’m going to look like an idiot.

“Is there anything else I can get you?” Isabella asks with an overly sweet voice. I don’t trust her or anyone for that matter. “More food, perhaps? There’s a small fridge in your lounge with a supply of soft drinks, but if there’s anything in particular you want, let me know and I’ll arrange for it to be sent up.”

“No, I’m fine for now, thanks,” I tell her. “To be honest, I would like to be alone for a while. It’s been a bit of a day.” I pause. “Wait, can you send up some bells on a string or rope of some kind. I lost my bag and it’s a comfort thing.”

“Of course,” Isabella nods, looking a little confused. “I’ll leave you be then. But if you do need anything else, pick up that phone on the wall and press the button for the person you want to speak to. Solomon has asked me to be your personal assistant, so most of the time you should call me, but you’ve also got a direct line to the kitchen and chauffeur should you need them.”

“O-okay.”

Isabella leaves, closing my bedroom doors behind her. I hear the distinct sound of a key turning in the lock and even though I don’t feel that threatened here, I still panic. Rushing over to the door, I try the handle. Sure enough, she locked me in.

I try to suck in deep breaths, pushing back all the memories of that one foster parent who loved to lock me in my tiny room and not come back for days, forgetting about me. I sink down to the floor, taking a long time to remind myself I’m not there anymore before I hear the lock being turned. I climb to my feet as a woman in her late fifties and soft eyes brings a tray of tiny blue bells and blue string, placing them on the small table by the door.

“For you,” she claims in what I think is a Spanish accent.

I nod and she leaves the room quickly, the lock turning once more. I make quick work of tying bells to all the doors and windows like I do in every home I’ve lived in since I was fourteen.

Finally, I feel like I can breathe again. I slump down on the bed, knowing I’m stuck here for the foreseeable future.

Then something caught my eye, which made me sit up and take notice.

“Hol-ee crap!”

In the corner of the room is a guitar on a stand. Crossing over to it, I pick it up. Running my hands over the wood, I can scarcely believe my luck.

It is a Gibson Montana Hummingbird!

Placing the strap over my head, I strum a few chords and feel like I am in Heaven. It is the most beautiful sound I have ever heard.

Dad certainly had taste in guitars, but I had to keep sight of the fact that he seemed to be planning on keeping me prisoner for the indefinite future, perhaps the rest of my life. I have to stay strong, stay focused, and not let his money turn my head.

It is a gorgeous guitar though…

Sitting on the bed, I pick out notes at random, a song practically writing itself as I play. I have to get this written down.

Opening a few drawers, I eventually find pen and paper and start scribbling out what I have played so I wouldn’t forget.

---