Page 16 of A Girl and HER Prince
“Are you so afraid of your father discovering you’re not his shadow?” Achilles asked. “Just own it.”
Venice rolled his eyes. His best friend made being his own man seem so simple. “You try answering to an unrelenting statue who demands perfection.”
“That’s why I don’t,” Achilles said bluntly.
Venice sighed. Achilles wasn’t exactly loyal to the family. There was a time his friend had seen Venice’s father as his own, but those days were far behind them. Besides a rough patch after graduation, Venice didn’t know what happened between the two, but Achilles defied his father every chance he got.
“You don’t understand.” Venice clenched his teeth as he admitted the truth. He’d been avoiding telling Achilles because it only made this all the more real. “When my father called earlier, it was to say that my cousin Helena abdicated the throne… to me.”
The duke stared at him in open horror. “You? Rule.”
Venice groaned. It was really bad, but how could he fight this? “My father sacrificed so much for our survival. He gave us everything he had and more.”
Achilles’s deep scowl showed just how little he thought of such sentiments. “You don’t owe him anything.”
“He can’t accept that the Tirrojans don’t want a ruler—they want anarchy,” Venice said. “What leaders they have now are corrupt and tribal… they’re embroiled in civil war. They’ve never had anything close to a fair election, but try convincing my father it’s a losing battle. He says that’s why Tirreoy needs a king, one who isn’t out for himself, who leads the way to a democracy.”Not to mention bullet proof when the Myrdons came after him.“He’s asking for a lot.”
Achilles pierced Venice with a more serious look than was his usual. “You’re not thinking of accepting this call to rule, are you?”
“And give the responsibility up to Bris?” Venice asked. “If I don’t, she’s next in line for the throne.” Handing this off to his younger sister felt even worse than taking this over himself. She didn’t have a diplomatic bone in her body; even worse, that would make her the Myrdons’ new target overnight. He’d do almost anything to keep her safe from those revolutionaries.
Achilles’s jaw hardened, which happened whenever Venice brought up the royal pain that was his sister. Even the normally irresponsible duke knew tossing the rule of Tirreoy into Bris’s painted fingernails was a disaster waiting to happen. “There has to be another way,” Achilles muttered.
“There isn’t.” He’d been exploring every angle since his father broke the news. “Unless you want to wrestle the throne from her and take over?” He pierced the duke with a knowing look. Let Achilles be the one to wriggle around like a fish on a hook. “You’re third in line for the crown. How about it, tough guy?”
Achilles sat down heavily on a creaking chair. Growing up together after their exodus from Tirreoy made it so they were painfully aware of each other’s weaknesses. The duke didn’t have it in him to rule. “I think it might be more fun watching Bris bankrupt the whole empire with her budget on shoes alone.”
“Oh, come now!” Bris’s silky smooth voice drifted lazily from behind him. “It’s not so bad as all that, Killiefish!”
Venice spun around to confront his unexpected guest. He was still reeling from his run-in with Deedee, and now he was meant to face his sister? Worse, Achilles likely called it earlier and Bris had breathlessly tuned in to Deedee’s live feed and witnessed every gory detail.
The royal princess—who’d taken the cue from the rest of her family and shortened her name from Brisius to the more palatable version of Bris—laid back against the chaise lounge, her legs crossed as she finished up a text with surprisingly nimble fingers. She was wearing a tight white dress that was far too slinky for present company.
She might as well be wearing a garbage bag for how much Achilles looked at her.
The feeling was mutual. They’d squabbled as children, but they’d graduated to cold disdain.
“Our father’s going to kill you for allowing Deedee access to your royal personage. It’s bad enough you’re abandoning your duties in the first place.” Bris glanced over her phone at Venice. She had the usual hazel eyes of those from the royal family, but they were huge and heavy set, and with those impossibly long lashes, they belonged to the femme fatale in a black-and-white film noire.
His father always said that Bris was a picture of her mother, but Venice remembered a much happier, sweeter lady than this scowling debutante.
Achilles scoffed and sat on the other side of her, irreverently leaning across her legs. “It’s just a party,” he said. “Your brother’s not planning on murdering anybody.”
“So, it’s not premeditated,” she muttered. “That’s little consolation.” She flipped her long silky black hair over her shoulder and turned her unrelenting passion against her brother next. “Don’t worry, I get it. You’ve always been a sucker for a pretty face, but it was especially pathetic watching you flirt with Deedee’s mousy friend in front of more than two million viewers. I almost lost my lunch.”
Venice squirmed with discomfort. Had he been that obvious? At any rate, he wasn’t about to give a repeat performance.Involving Luvvy in my life would belike plucking off the wings of an angel… and Bris doesn’t have to know what a romantic softie I’ve become.
“It’s called fun,” Achilles said. “You should try it some time, instead of smiling all fake into the camera at those charity events like you’re actually doing something good.”
“Guess what? It’s better thanwhatyou do here, dovey.”
“Okay, guys,” Venice said. These two could go at each other’s throats for hours if he didn’t throw himself between them.
Achilles ignored his peacemaking attempts. “It must make you feel all warm and gooey inside to pat yourself on the back for doing nothing, Bris. If you wanted to make an actual difference, you could take the money you use on one of those designer dresses you wear for those photoshoots and donate it to our people starving in Tirreoy.”
“How about you sell one of your boats?” she retorted. She caught Venice in her glower. “What did this elegant little metal heap cost you, huh? More than a million, I’ll warrant you that.”
None of them could donate a penny of their trust funds to the Tirrojan people—the Myrdons had taken the country by its throat, and perverted it with the disease of oligarchies and warlords, so that what remained of the failing parliament the fleeing revolutionaries had left behind was so corrupt that any funds funneled to the country would never reach those in most need—no, it would just go to more weapons to be used against them.
