Page 3 of Wicked Prince

He pauses for a few long seconds, but this is already uncomfortable for me, and I'm not in the mood to make it comfortable for him. It's not like he actually gives a shit anyway.

"Natalie isn't really comfortable with that."

It takes all my willpower not to roll my eyes, because if I do, it's going to come through in my voice. "Can't have that now, can we?"

"Don't be that way," he scolds, but he sounds distracted, and I hear papers rustling, so I guess he couldn't even put aside five minutes for this phone call. "I'll have some time this week to show you around before school starts. My card is on file with the desk for anything you need, and there's a nice restaurant downstairs."

"Okay," I murmur. "So when am I going to see you?"

He hesitates again and I can hear a woman's voice in the background, muffled. "All right, I've got to get going, but I'll call you soon."

"Dad, I—"

He's already hung up, though. Figures.

I flop back onto the massive bed and stare up at the tiles on the ceiling, trying to fully process the fact that even though my life has taken a one-eighty in the last twenty-four hours, it still doesn't feel like much has changed.

I've always known my father lived in a different world. OneIdon't belong in.

That much has never been clearer.

ChapterTwo

AMELIA

The week and three days between my arrival and the day I'm supposed to move into the dorms seem to crawl by since I don't have a car. Even if I did, and even if I were allowed to use public transit, I don't know anyone in the city, so it's not like I'd have anywhere to go.

There's only so long I can spend at the coffee shop and bookstore across from the hotel before I start getting sympathetic looks from the baristas, and as swanky as the hotel room is, it's starting to feel like a gilded cage.

I've spent so long dreading the day I would finally meet my stepmother and stepsister, but it's clear that's not going to happen anytime soon. Dad hasn't even texted, so it looks like his promise to show me around turned out to be as empty as all the others he's made over the years.

Maybe it's for the best, I tell myself.

For reasons I just can't figure out now.

I'm actually desperate enough that I'm contemplating going out for a jog when my phone buzzes on the nightstand. I pick it up, surprised to see it's Dad.

We're having dinner at seven-thirty sharp. I'll send the driver to pick you up.

I stare at the message for a few moments, feeling like I just jumped into the middle of a conversation I don't remember having. I haven't, though. The conversation thread doesn't even require me to scroll far to see all of it, and I've had this phone for a couple of years now, which is just another indicator of our relationship.

Or lack thereof.

It takes me another few minutes to figure out how to respond. What does that even mean? "We" as in me and him, or "we" as in his legitimate family has finally decided they're willing to meet me?

Either way, I'm not sure what to make of it, but I can't leave him on read forever, even if that's basically a metaphor for what his parenting strategy has been my whole life.

At least with me.

Okay. I'll wait outside.

My message is marked as read almost immediately, but there's no response, so I decide to hurry up and shower so my hair can at least mostly air dry while I'm figuring out what to wear. I brought my nicest clothes, including a few new outfits for weekends since something tells me the socialites of Brooklyn don't usually schlepp around in jeans. Still, as I sort through the clothes on the rack in the closet, none of the things I brought with me seem good enough.

It's not like any new clothes are going to materialize if I stare long enough, so I settle for the black long-sleeved dress I just bought, along with a nice pair of dark blue leather ankle boots and my usual necklace. I go back and forth between pulling my hair up and leaving it down before I decide to go halfway, and pull on a red velvet headband that sort of makes me feel like an extra on Gossip Girl. If the uniforms I had to get tailored are any indication, the school is preppy as hell.

Even though I head downstairs early, the car is already waiting at the curb.

Francis gets out to open the door for me. He gives me a glance that lingers a second too long before he catches himself, so I'll take it my outfit is decent enough.

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