Page 49 of A Queen and HER Bad Boy
A boy in an oversized tank top that hung to his knees danced forward, his cheerful face streaked with mud but glowing with excitement. He tugged on Bris’s sleeve with grimy fingers. “Ti periechei to kuti?”
“English,” Maggie repeated patiently. “Try again, Yiorgos.”
“What in box?” the boy asked hopefully.
Strangely, Bris had no idea what they were delivering. “Do you want to find out?” she asked.
He nodded enthusiastically, and she lowered the heavy box. The children had tracked in more dust with their bare feet, and it billowed up in golden clouds as she set the cardboard down firmly against the packed earth. They gathered around her in a tight circle, their faces bright with anticipation.
The “oohs” and “ahhs” that erupted reminded her of the enchanted sounds children made unwrapping Christmas presents. That had never been Bris’s reaction to gifts, of course. She’d always viewed holidays as disappointing reminders that her father wasn’t really listening—just spending obligatory money to keep his children occupied and out of his way.
But this moment felt far more magical.
As soon as Bris peeled away the tape, she pulled out a battered textbook, its pages warped from long use and love. She ran her fingers over the torn cover, noting how these books resembled a few of the buildings outside—once new and promising, now damaged but still treasured. This was really the best they could provide for these bright young minds?
Yiorgos let out an enthusiastic whoop and claimed the book with reverent hands, as if she’d handed him a precious artifact. The other children were equally thrilled, hugging their new textbooks to their thin chests like beloved toys.
“Just a slice of life in Tirreoy,” Maggie told her with quiet pride. “We make do with what we have, considering.”
Bris realized she was still kneeling in the dirt, her expensive riding pants probably ruined, but she didn’t care. This felt more real than anything she’d experienced in the palace.
An older girl swayed gracefully on her feet, her patched skirt fluttering around her calves as she reverently flipped throughyellowed pages. She glanced up at Bris with solemn dark eyes. “Are you… from Tirreoy?”
“I am,” Bris whispered, though it felt like a lie. The hardships her people had endured had never touched her privileged existence. Her family had escaped to London’s luxury while these children grew up in poverty.
Polly pressed her shoulder meaningfully. “We really should return soon.”
Yes, the palace staff would panic when they discovered her absence. She stood reluctantly as Maggie opened the remaining boxes, revealing more shabby textbooks that the children fawned over.
Their joyful voices followed her as she made her way back outside into the crisp air. Nestor walked with them, his expression grave. “In modern Tirreoy, we have the extremely wealthy and the desperately poor. There’s not much in between—too much corruption and not enough opportunities to better themselves… unless they emigrate elsewhere.”
Her heart broke. She’d failed her people. “What can I do to help?” she whispered.
“Our resources are in our people, but they are uneducated, demoralized; many lose themselves in drugs and other vices.”
There were no easy fixes. Offshore drilling was blocked by Aeaea, fractured loyalty and instability spread through their lands caused by constant civil war. Meanwhile wealthy oligarchs that made up the High Consortium seemed more interested in padding their own pockets.
Her country was broken while she’d lived in pampered luxury… and continued to do so! But, couldn’t she change that? The money in her bank account could make a real difference. What if she could fund proper buildings, qualified teachers, modern textbooks and supplies?
Now that would be the ultimate shopping spree—investing in her people’s future!
But accessing those funds would be complicated. Her personal trust fund came with her father’s restrictions—fifty thousand euros monthly that she could spend freely. Enough to transform this school, but spread across an entire nation? It would barely scratch the surface.
What else? What else could she do?
Nestor patted her hand gently. “There is much good to do here, but first, my dear, you must heal the soul of this nation. Love your husband. That is the key to everything.”
The priest had completely derailed her train of thought with this unexpected advice. “What do you mean?”
“Achilles’s mother has always been a dear friend of mine.”
“You knew Clysta?”
“She is a remarkable woman—a heart of gold wrapped in a will of steel.”
That sounded like Achilles in many ways, yet Clysta had fallen from grace when she’d married that creep Atreus Mnon, the rebel leader behind so much of Tirreoy’s suffering.
Nestor’s kind blue eyes unsettled her with their penetrating warmth. He must have sensed her doubts because he took her hand between his leathery palms. “Nothing is simple in this wounded country—there’s too much pain, too many unhealed rivalries. You see, I also knew your mother before she was taken from us…” His eyes clouded with memories that seemed almost too painful to bear. “I was with her the day she died… killed by Myrdon forces when they followed us to our planes. We’ve all lost so much.” Bris’s throat tightened as she thought of everything Achilles had sacrificed—his mother stolen away, his father murdered in cold blood. Nestor met her gaze with eyes that watered with pain. “This land will only heal its ancientwounds when you heal yours. You must lead this country toward forgiveness and reconciliation.”
