The Second Daughter

“Come on, Jacks.” Bea teases her younger sister - by only a year, as Jacks was vehement to point out to anyone and everyone that would listen ( and even if they wouldn’t ). Jacks lets out a small groan of protest and presses the silk pillow over her own face as if it might drown out the too loud volume of her sister’s voice, and the glaringly offensive sunlight that shone bright and proud like a gleaming golden coin in the sky. The sun warms her pale skin where it touches her arms still smeared with neon glow-in-the-dark body paint and glitter.

Jacks’ hangover was, in fact, gnarly and she was far from in any sort of good mood. In fact, she was in a rather terrible mood that bordered something remarkably close to surly. Her sinking mood made her wish a black hole would open up miraculously in the middle of her sister’s bedroom — where she couldn’t remember crashing what ever ungodly time of the morning she’d gotten in from the club — and swallow her whole.

“You need to get cleaned up and sober up fast.” Jacks can’t see but she imagines in vivid detail Bea lifting her arm to check the elegant silver watch for the time. “Father has requested our presence.”

“Ours …or mine?” Jacks mumbles into the pillow; unwilling to admit that the distinction actually mattered.

“Ours.” Bea reiterates, wrestling the pillow from Jacks who does not have the energy to fight her off. The sunlight is, somehow, even more offensive the second time, and Jacks throws her left arm over her eyes in a secondary attempt to shield them from the glare. If her head would not have been throbbing like someone had taken a sledgehammer to it, she might’ve been impressed by Bea’s ability to understand her words muffled by the pillow and slurred by the hangover. However, it was and thus she was not. She couldn’t muster the energy for it.

“Tell him I’m sick.” It wasn’t entirely a lie. She certainly felt like she’d consumed enough alcohol to have drunk a sailor under the table.

And, in truth …she might’ve actually drunk a sailor under the table. She’d remembered catching the eye of a group of young handsome men dressed in the stark whites of the Queen’s Navy in a flash — there and gone like a toying will-o-wisp of a memory — that makes her head spin.

“He already knows about your nightly escapade.” Bea says softly, the couch sagging with her weight as she settles precariously on the edge of the cushion, gingerly moving Jacks’ splayed and bare legs out of the way. “In fact,” Bea gives a nervous clear of her throat. “Everyone knows. You’re all over social media this morning. The Party Princess.”

Which wasn’t anything new, Jacks wants to remind her sister, but in light of savoring the fact that she doesn’t have to speak, simply chooses not to.

This wasn’t her first nightclub crawl …and it wouldn’t be her last if she had anything to say about it.

“Anyway, it’d be best if you look and seem presentable. It might help to curb his …anger.”

“Being the party princess is my role, Bea. I’m the rebel child and you’re the golden girl. As history has dictated of first and second born children from the dawning of time.” Jacks, with some effort, forces herself to sit up and take the perspiring glass of what looked like tomato juice from Bea who holds it out to her.

Jacks downs the concoction in a smooth swig and leans over to sit it on the glass coffee table, noting that it looks as out of place in Bea’s pristine and pale lavender room as she, herself, does.

A quick glimpse in Bea’s nearest mirror tells Jacks she’s right.

“I look like a neon gothic unicorn threw me up.” Jacks groans and collapses back against the cushions, offering her sister a half hearted grin when Bea tries and fails to stifle her laughter.

“Here.” Bea rises from the chaise lounge and goes to her wardrobe, pawing through her dresses until she finds a pale pink one with a skirt of lace and chiffon over a silk body, with the bodice beneath sewn with rose gold sequins on the bust. She holds the hanger out to Jacks who stands wobbily on her heels for a moment, before she totters over to Bea and takes the hanger, trying not to look as affronted as she feels.

“Bea,” She says slowly. “I have my own clothes.” She reminds her.

“I had it ordered for you.” Bea says and Jacks feels her mouth form into a smile that does not quite touch her eyes. The fact that her sister had thought of her at all was touching and Jacks bites on her tongue from saying anything that might hurt her sister’s feelings.

Jacks doesn’t really feel like the pale pink fits her vibe but she drapes it over her arm, leans in to give her sister a sloppy kiss on the cheek — leaving a small smear of Russian red lipstick upon her sister’s softly blushed cheek and makes the trek back to her own bedroom.

Trying to get off the neon glow-in-the-dark paint and glitter took much scrubbing and scalding water …and even after the fact there’s a faint dusting of glitter on Jacks’ legs, arms and chest that stubbornly refuses to budge. She dries herself off and changes into the dress that Bea gifted her, wrapped her long blonde hair in a towel and stepped out of her bathroom and into her bedroom where she stands in front of the floor to ceiling length mirror and studies her reflection.

Pursing her lips, she twirls this way and that, studying the areas that look too bare with consideration.

She chooses a pair of knee length high heeled black boots — her favorite pair, admittedly — and pulls them on and heads to her jewelry stand where she rifles through the mess of gold and silver and settles on a long rope of pearls that she tosses on, doubling it so it hangs like a layered necklace.

She blow-dries her hair and lets it hang over her shoulders before she does her makeup, sticking to her signature every-day look: foundation, light blush on her cheeks with a good for any time of the day smokey eye; not going too heavy on it and a nude lipstick topped with a small coating of lip gloss.

After a second more of consideration she grabs a fitted leather jacket off of the arm of her own chaise lounge and shrugs it on, tugging her hair out from beneath it. A last glance in the mirror brings with it a small smile of satisfaction to her face before she skipped out her door and down the hall, contemplating if she had enough time to sneak down to the kitchens to grab a quick bite to eat.

The answer made itself apparent to her as Bea stepped out of her own room and matched pace with her, looping her arm through Jacks’ own after giving her a critical eye and letting out a small sigh.

“The dress was cute on its own.” Bea says in a way that makes Jack feel like she’s being chided without actually being reprimanded.

It was a talent that Bea had no doubt inherited from their father.

“It was,” Jacks allows, weighing her words carefully. “But I made it cuter.”

Despite herself, Jacks feels her chin lift as they approached their father’s study where he’s sequestered himself away …no doubt to deal with the social media storm Jacks had generously left him to clean up from the night before.

“Father.” Bea says all prim and proper as the pair step over the threshold, causing everyone in attendance — secretaries, and assistants — to quiet to an eerie stillness. It was amazing to Jacks, to see how Bea could be such a commanding force to be reckoned with …though she supposed it was a perk of being the heir to the throne.

Jacks’ eyes wander to the group of stiff backed guard detail, looking for any sign of Ruben… but her own bodyguard is no where to be seen.

“Girls,” Their father addresses them, and Jacks’ eyes go to her father, taking note of the familiar tension in his face. He is all hard lines and sharp angles; stern even when his voice was softened. “After last night’s …” Jack feels her shoulders tense as her father’s eyes land on her, trying to decipher whatever emotions he was hiding behind their grey depths. “…mishap, again; I’ve decided to make some changes.”

Jacks’ fingers lace with Bea’s own when her sister grips her hand. It brings Jacks some small measure of comfort that Bea was just hearing this for the first time as well, and this wasn’t one of those moments where Bea and their father had made a decision regarding her without her.

Which happened more than Jacks would certainly like it to.

“As you’ve no doubt noticed, Jacquelyn; Ruben is no longer among our staff.” For a moment, Jacks feels an overwhelming amount of guilt. It really hadn’t been the guy’s fault — she was too good at sneaking off.

“Father, it wasn’t his fau—” Jacks bites her tongue as her father raises a hand to silence her.

“I am well aware of who is at fault, Jacquelyn.” Ah, there it was. The leveling look of disappointment that could raze empires to the ground and bring stronger men and women than Jacks to their knees. Finally, his true feelings slip out from beneath the careful mask he’s learned to compose over the years and it settles into Jacks’ soul like a bone chill. “Nonetheless, despite your every attempt to prove otherwise your life is too precious and your …habits are too dangerous. Ruben has proven that he cannot keep up with the demand or attention you require and thus, has been replaced.”

Probably the most verbose way of saying she was a problem child without actually coming out and saying it. Even so, he wasn’t wrong …despite that she was no longer a child. At twenty she was most certainly an adult in the eyes of the world.

Jacks watches as her father motions with his hand and a figure she hadn’t noticed before looming with the small assembled boyband of guard detail, breaks away from the group. The first thing Jacks notices is that he is young …perhaps a bit older than her and Bea but not by much. The second thing Jacks notices is that he is infuriatingly handsome; almost pretty in a way that makes her itch to dig out her paints and paint him.

Her artists’ eye studies him, the shape of his jaw the cupid bow of his lips, the long bridge of his nose; dark hair and dark eyes, thinking that if she had to pick a palette to use to paint him she’d use dark, velvety royal violet and celestial shades of lavender and lilac. Mysterious and elegant; with accents of star shine champagne.

Lovely colors that inspire intrigue.

“Oh my god,” Bea hisses into her ear. “Maybe I should start getting into trouble.” Jacks barely contains the ‘yeah right’ snort that threatens to slip from her. Instead, she mashes her lips together to keep herself from more trouble… if such a thing was even possible at this point.

But Bea in trouble did paint a rather amusing picture in Jacks’ mind.

“This is Park Tae-Hyun and he has quite an impressive dossier.” A thick folder is pushed towards Jacks by her father across his desk and Jacks untangles her hand from Bea and steps forward to take it at the King’s invitation.

It’s heavier than it looked and she clutches it carefully to her chest, eyeing Taehyun again.

“Now, leave us. I must speak to Beatrice alone.” And with that dismissal, Jacks leads the throng of dismissed peoples out of her father’s study, meandering towards the kitchens, very much aware of the looming presence of Taehyun behind her despite that he moves with the lethal silence of a feline.

It’s a bit alarming and has her spinning on her heel to face him. He is even closer than she realized and tall. Beneath the black uniform he wears, she can see the swell of muscle that she had not noticed before.

For a moment, it leaves Jacks floundering in a way that she immediately dislikes. She isn’t one to lose her cool over a pretty face.

“Are you a spy?” She asks him without preamble, fingers curling around the thick folder she holds with, presumably, all of his sordid details inside. Or lack thereof. She doesn’t want to admit that she’s curious about him and about what kind of dossier he’s managed to cobble together that is enough to impress her father and pass all of the government’s rigorous checks.

The short of it was, if Taehyun wasn’t qualified and didn’t have a squeaky clean background he wouldn’t be here.

Jacks watches as Taehyun’s cupid bow lips curl with amusement and he leans towards her, as if he’s about to let her in on every delicious secret that she imagines is dancing in the ocher depths of his dark eyes. “Regardless of whether I am or I am not, I wouldn’t be able to tell you, Your Highness.”

Jacks’ eyebrows rise in the silent form of ‘touché’ and she spins back around, marching to the kitchens with purpose.

“You know, you don’t have to follow me around inside my own palace. I’m quite safe.” She says absently, setting the file down on the counter as she makes a beeline for the fridge, digging out the custard pie from the night before. It wasn’t the most nutritious breakfast but it was something; and it would stave off the worst of her sweet-tooth. For now, at least.

“No offense, your highness but that’s debatable.” Jacks fishes out a fork from the drawer, parks herself on a stool at the table reserved for the staff and digs into the pie, drawing the folder nearer to her on the table before gesturing for him to take a seat.

“And anyway,” Taehyun continues, refusing the seat she offers him to stand like a soldier nearby, spine straight, shoulders high, hands clasped behind his back. “There’s an event later that requires your attendance.”

“I wasn’t made aware of any event.” Jacks says in a very unladylike way around a mouthful of custard pie. She watches as Taehyun pulls his phone from his pocket and scrolls through it before her own phone vibrates in the pocket of her leather jacket. She reaches into it with unbidden exasperation and pulls it free, swiping on the screen to unlock it.

“A charity auction at Miravilla Art Museum?” Jacks reads the calendar notification, vaguely noting the bit of custard that falls off her suspended fork. “Sounds dreadfully dull. I’ll pass.”

“There’s no option to pass, your highness —”

“Can you please stop calling me that?!” Jacks interrupts him, scowling into the pie. “It’s Jacks.”

“With all due respect, your highness, protocol says I must address you with proper titles …” With an exaggerated roll of her eyes, Jacks tunes him out, taking another mouthful of pie.

Protocol, schmotocol.

He was like a beefy, tall, handsome version of Bea with all his talk of schedules and protocol.

“Listen, bodyguard. I’m the princess. I do what I want, when I want, with who I want, ok?” She snipes at him, ensuring to put emphasis on the fact that she meant it as a rhetorical question.

“And yet,” Taehyun drawls, smiling at her like he had a secret. Jacks hates that she isn’t sure what feeling it ignites within her is more prevalent: the want to slap him or the soft rush of desire that curls her toes in her boots.

“You’re still going to attend the charity auction. You have responsibilities as a Princess, and the good press might help to mitigate the bad you’ve accumulated.”

Jacks lets out a groan and lets her head lull back, unable to believe that she got saddled with a stupidly attractive bodyguard who was infuriatingly good at sounding just like her father and Bea.

Of all the rotten luck.

Or perhaps, it was exactly what she deserved; either way, Jacks felt the weight of the invisible shackles binding them together. It didn’t take much to suspect that Taehyun was different than her numerous and previous bodyguards. He would, as her father no doubt considered when hand picking him, be able to keep up with her …much to her utter and intense dismay.

Her phone clatters to the marble counter and she polishes off the pie, dropping the dish into the sink with only a slight twinge of guilt for eating all of it and leaving the dishes for the staff to clean up. Nevertheless, it was their job and she doesn’t focus on it for long.

“Great.” Jacks blows out a breath as she grabs her phone and the folder on him and marches back to her room. She stops in front of the double doors and turns to him abruptly. “You stop here,” She commands him. “If you insist on lingering then you’ll be stuck waiting on the outside.” With that, Jacks slips inside and promptly slams the door in his face.

It was the one — if only, it would seem — place where she had privacy and she wasn’t keen on letting Taehyun inside. She had to keep something to herself and her bedroom was now her only sacred place.