Page 6 of Royally F*cked

Chapter 3

Jude

“But seriously, Jude, you have to talk to her!” Willow is exasperated now and my amusement at her predicament isn’t helping matters.

I really do not envy Charlie if this is what she’s had to deal with all morning. My little sister has been going on about being just Willow since we left the palace, making me forever thankful for things like discretion and privacy among my personal detail.

“Willow, you must understand that you are royalty and that does command respect,” I try to remind her before our pizza is served.

“Yes, but Ozzy calls you Jude all the time.”

Behind us, Ozzy coughs to hide his laughter. She may have a point there. Not that I’m about to tell her that. I’m sure this entire conversation is amusing him while he does some recon on his phone pertaining to a certain someone that I inquired about via text message while we drove to our lunch destination.

“Oscar and I have known each other for some time. And as you’ve noticed, he does refer to me properly in public.”

“We were not in public earlier,” she huffs and takes a sip of her fizzy drink, a luxury she is only allowed on our dates. “We were in the privacy of my living quarters. Alone.”

“You’re correct, but I did walk in. What if it was Grandfather?”

It’s times like these that she reminds me so much of our mother. Determined. Headstrong. And tenacious. So many times our mother stood toe to toe with our father and argued her point. Especially when she believed she was right about something.

Ten years and the grief still hits me out of nowhere. They should be here now. They should have had the opportunity to watch their daughter grow up. It should be my father who is preparing to take the throne and not me. Not yet.

“Do you really think Papa would split hairs over my lady in waiting referring to me as Willow? I’m thirteen now, Jude. That’s plenty old enough to make my own decisions and decide what I prefer to be called in private.”

“It’s not that simple. And you're far from being old enough to make all of your own decisions.”

“I didn’t ask to be born a princess!” Willow goes on, essentially ignoring everything I’m saying to her.

I raise a brow. Reasoning with a teen is not an easy task. Though I certainly did not ask for this life either.

“Many would trade places with you in a heartbeat.”

“I just want to be a normal girl. I want to be Willow Hope, a thirteen-year-old girl from Herefirth who plays soccer, rides horses, and goes to a normal school with others my age. Is that so much to ask for?”

A normal school? Way too much to ask for. The closest she’ll ever get to normal school is an expensive prep school where only the most elite attend. Been there, done that. Hated every fucking minute. Except for the part where it got me out of the palace for a few years as a teen.

I hate to be the one to break it to her but, “Perhaps that is too much to ask for. Have you talked with Nan and Papa about how you're feeling?” I can’t help but wonder if she’s made mention of this before now, to someone other than me. Someone who can actually do something about how she’s feeling or at least explain things more clearly.

While I understand her feelings all too well, I don’t think she fully realizes what she’s asking, either. Unfortunately, our name alone means we will never be normal, as she puts it. If only Ma and Da were here. They’d know what to say. What to do.

And I wouldn’t have Oscar digging around for any and all information on the one woman I’m even willing to consider for a wife. The future Queen. And mother to my children. Jesus Christ, how did we get here?

Willow has no idea how easy she’s got it right now in comparison.

She shovels another bite of pizza in her mouth and continues talking, though it all sounds muffled between the cheese and dough.

I can’t help but chuckle. If anyone saw her right now she would be reprimanded for her unladylike behavior. Instead of chiding her, I decide to join her childlike behavior and stuff my face as well.

“You know, I can’t really understand you when you talk with your mouth full,” I say, though it comes out more like baby babble.

Willow erupts into laughter and Oscar shakes his head at us with a playful grin.

Oh, if anyone saw the both of us now. Paparazzi would have a field day while Pap and Nan would have our royal tushes.

“Seriously. She’s like my big sister, Jude. I see her more than I see you and she refuses to call me anything but Princess or Her Royal Highness.”

Shots fired. Willow’s nonchalant comment about seeing Charlie more than me stings. I wish we could spend more time together. If only it were that damn simple.

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