Page 3 of Reveal Me
It does sound like fun.
‘The members will go crazy for it,’ she crosses one long leg over the other.
‘We don’t need to appease them,’ I remind her. Their membership here is a privilege that they have to reapply for annually. ‘How fast can we make it happen?’
‘For anyone else, it could be weeks. For the country’s most eligible billionaire—Friday.’
I roll my eyes at the bullshit tabloid description. ‘Have Dominic host it. The man is a natural born entertainer.’ He’s also my best friend, fellow dom, and one of the most feared men in Dublin.
‘He’s a natural born psycho,’ Larissa smirks.
She’s not wrong. He controls the country’s underworld, which is why he was the best person to organise security for this place. Naturally, I couldn’t use my brother Killian’s guys. Dominic’s men are on another level. They don’t ask questions, and they don’t leave loose ends.
‘This is either going to be the best idea we’ve had, or the worst. Either way, it’ll be seriously entertaining.’
Chapter Two
LAYLA
You know how in Disney movies, princesses always end up with their happy ever afters, a cute sidekick best friend who’s a snowman, a cute little cup called Chip, or a fat faced fish called Flounder? Well, the reality is far from that picture-perfect fairy tale. I may be Princess Layla of the House of Sinclair, the third daughter of the King of England, but right now, the only princess I can relate to is Rapunzel.
I glance around the draughty suite at Ardmore Castle, my mother’s ancestral home, half an hour outside of Dublin. There are no singing mice to help me get dressed. Kat, my long-suffering lady-in-waiting—and the only true friend I have on this earth—doesn’t even pretend I can choose what to wear. She’s laid out yet another stiff conservative dress for me. It’s not her fault. She’s following orders, while I’m rebelling against them.
I haven’t seen any spontaneous dance numbers in the village square where everyone somehow knows the choreography. But then again, I’m not allowed to leave the castle grounds, let alone venture into the village, so maybe they are hopping around to a merry little Irish jig. Who knows?
Everything about this “holiday” retreat is punishment disguised as privilege. The ancient exposed grey brick walls might look aesthetically pleasing, but no matter how many logs the staff put on the open fire, it’s always freezing. There are twenty people on the premises at any given time, yet I’m constantly lonely.
Dead ancestors stare down at me from their oil portraits in every room, a full gallery of disapproving relatives whose idea of being rebellious probably amounted to two sherries before bed. Great-Aunt Prudence looks particularly miffed this evening, as if she can actually see me reaching for my riding jacket instead of the formal, floral attire Kat left out.
My darling parents have arranged another perfectly suitable bore to test my resolve tonight—Lord Finegan Montgomery. Apparently, they didn’t get the message when I publicly shunned the last man they forced on me. I tried explaining that the glass of Bollinger I poured over Lord Harrington’s head was an accident, but they didn’t buy it. Perhaps they would have if they’d heard what he said first: “When we're married, you'll learn that a woman’s proper place is in the nursery.”
Then again, perhaps not. Knowing the Queen, she might even agree with that statement. Though I don’t recall her spending much time in the nursery when I was a child.
Lord Harrington is a pompous twat.
A presumptuous, pompous twat at that.
But after what the tabloids called ‘The Royal Splash—Princess Pours Her Heart Out’, my parents banished me to the Irish countryside immediately after Christmas. They didn’t even permit me to stay for New Year. Instead, I got sent to the arse end of nowhere to ‘reflect on my actions and consider my options.’
Ha! Like I have any!
In their eyes, my duty is to marry well—someone with atitle to secure alliances between other influential families, and breed impeccably groomed, perfectly mannered royal robots—oops, I meant children. Lord Finegan Montgomery has a sufficient title and wealth, but all I remember from our last brief but painful meeting two years ago is that he spends most of his time discussing agricultural pursuits and tending to his mother’s garden.
Is it too much to ask for a man who’s interested inmygarden?
I might be a princess, but I don’t want ‘suitable’.
I don’t want ‘proper’.
And as much as I love children, I don’t want to be banished to a nursery. Not at the age of twenty-five, at least.
I want love.
I want lust.
I want to feel like a woman, not a royal womb to be bartered over.
If someone is going to control every aspect of my life, can it not be for my pleasure?
