Chapter 1
Is it a crime for a princess to have cleavage?
I zoom in on the one inch line my breasts create. It’s staring back at me, mocking me in the mirror. ‘Yes,’ it seems to answer back.
I look around my room and let out a deep sigh. The ornate, poppy wool rug that is usually like a cloud under my feet has been completely obscured by gowns. Other victims of today’s activities are my gilded canopy bed and the matching accent chairs, which are currently serving as glorified dress racks. At least twenty floor length gowns are thrown about the room. I’ve been at this all day.
“I’m 23 years old,” I say, stomping my foot on the ground. “I’m an adult and should just be able to wear what I want.” I pause at my outburst, a pained laugh forces itself out of my throat. My own petulance isn’t lost on me, but the pulling in my chest won’t let me throw all caution to the wind.
I change again, this time opting for a red gown with a modest boat neckline, so no more cleavage. I run my hand down one of the gown’s long velvet sleeves and nod in approval. My arms are covered so I am showing significantly less skin. I stare at the dress in the mirror and my initial confidence in the choice begins to quickly fade. Is the color red too bold? Am I still exposing too much with my shoulders out?
I can imagine my mother’s scalding stare as she assesses my outfit before charging into a lecture. ‘You don’t just represent yourself, but the whole Ambarvalia family. You need to make sure your appearance is conveying an appropriate meaning.’
I grab the full A-line skirt of my gown and spread it like I am about to curtsey. “What is my outfit supposed to say?” I do a twirl. “Hello, yes, I am but a demure princess and sole heir to the Ambarvalia throne. Don’t perceive me too much, but also put all your faith into me as the future leader of Ceres.” I plop onto the ground, my dress pooling around me. “All anyone cares about is appearances.” I pull my knees to my chest. “This is stupid.”
A sudden knock pulls me out of my head. “Lady Celeste, it is about time to leave.” A deep voice calls.
“I’ll be right out,” I answer. I stand up and run my hands down the front of the gown. “Out of time.” I grab my favorite hairpin off the dresser and use it to pull back my dark, waist length curls then give myself a final once over. “Red it is.” And I head out the door.
When I exit my room, Benedict is silently waiting. He is a tall, bald, dark skin man who has looked the same age my whole life.
I clear my throat and I stand up straight, making myself as big as possible. “You know,” I begin, pursing my lips. “The benefit is being held in the palace. I am sure I could safely get there myself,” I say, snark oozing from my words, to my very serious looking security guard.
Benedict meets my gaze and throws a wide hand over his chest with a gasp. “You would take away my honor of escorting you to this event, my lady?” He wipes an imaginary tear from his eye.
I raise an eyebrow.
Benedict bows slightly and gestures his hand in our intended direction, but I see the smile flash across his face.
I roll my eyes. Ever the jokester. Then we head on our way.
The sound of my heels clack down the palace hallway as Benedict and I walk in silence. Each click echoes like a countdown of the things I still have left to do for the Galactic Food Benefit after I arrive.
As I run through the list of speakers who I haven’t gotten confirmation of arrival from, a nasally drawl snaps me back to the present.
“Oh Lady Celeste, what a pleasure it is to run into you today.”
Ah, Count Isthmia. He is an older, portly gentleman, who is about as friendly as a rabid weasel.
“What brings you to the palace today?” I ask, but I have no interest in the answer. I stare at the Count and wonder if he had somehow incurred the wrath of the Goddess to make his outside appearance match his inside personality. He’s an absolute wretch and everyone knows it, but he is a member of one of the founding families so… I look at a clock on the wall. He’s still going. How can someone talk so much but say so little? My foot begins to tap. I don’t think I can take much more of this. My eyes drift to the delicate poppy flowers engraved into the hall’s columns and a small smile crosses my lips.
Unfortunately I think Count Isthmia took that as some form of confirmation because out of the corner of my eye I see him reaching for my hand. I step back before the Count can make contact and return my gaze to him.
“Aw, don’t be like that princess,” Count Isthmia says, stepping forward to close the distance between us. “I just want to know more about your event. It’s about food right? Tell me about it.” He places a slimy hand on my shoulder.
The sensation makes my teeth clench. My eyes slowly peer at the offending appendage, then back at the Count. I tilt my head and contort my face into something resembling a smile. “I don’t want to bore you,” I say, sliding his hand off of my arm.
The Count grabs my hand before we break contact. “You couldn’t. I truly care about hunger on Ceres.” He steps closer. “ And throughout the whole Milky Way Galaxy.”
My eyes widen. This troll. I snatch my hand away “Listen Count Isthmia.” I pinch the bridge of my nose and let out an exasperated groan. “Do you really think I have the time to sit here and pretend like you actually care about any of this?” I pause a beat. “That’s right, I don’t,” I say before he can respond. “But I do know you care about the audit you have with the King next week. So instead of wasting time chatting me up, to squeeze out some information that will make you sound good to the King, don’t you think your time would be better spent preparing?” I walk past the Count. “Now if you would excuse me.”
“Princess-” he calls out as I walk away.
Benedict catches up to me shortly after. He was probably making some excuse about the things that I said to the Count. I don’t know why he bothers. If the Count has no problem lying through his teeth, why should I sit there and placate him. “Oh I care about hunger on Ceres and throughout the Milky Way Galaxy,” I say, trying to copy Count Isthmia’s distinct tone.
“Princess, that’s-” Benedict says, obviously trying to stifle a laugh.
“That’s what Benedict?” I say snapping my gaze to his. “You know as well as I do, he was full of it. If he cares so much about hunger throughout the galaxy, why isn’t he attending the benefit? An invitation was sent to the House of Isthmia and I believe he passed off his invite to his wife and sister.”
“Maybe he is busy?” Benedict says after regaining his composure.
“Busy futzing around the palace,” I sigh. I’ve wasted enough time on the Count. Contrary to what he and other onlookers may believe, I’m not just hosting this event to add legitimacy and mingle with foreign guests. Trying to find solutions to combat intergalactic hunger is something I genuinely care about. This benefit was my idea and I have been involved in every step of the planning process. Speaking of which “I need to make sure all the vendor accounts are paid in full before we start…” I mumble.
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I enter the hall and am immediately swept up in the energy of swirling around the room. The last minute chaos of producing a function this large makes the rooms buzz. The florist bounces from table to table putting up the last of the centerpieces. The engineers are checking the sound system and the projectors to make sure today’s presentations go over without a hitch. The delightful aroma of the roasted meal the caterers are preparing fills my nose. I look around the room taking in this picture and warmth swells in my chest. “Everything is falling into place.” I relish the feeling for a moment then ball my hand in a determined fist. “Alright, that’s enough.” I nod. There’s more work to be done and I won’t let pride make me complacent.
As the guests trickle in, I tense up. I love the planning and coordinating aspects of running events like this, but mingling... I squeeze my hands into fist and release a few times hoping to pump the tension out of my body. It’s not like I have an issue talking to people, Mother says ‘a princess must always be sociable.’ But deciphering what people are really saying when they speak is exhausting. It’s all just self-serving niceties, makes me want to jump out of my skin.
“Lady Celeste,” an elderly man calls out from across the room.
I flinch at the sound of my name, then shake my head. I can do this. Keep it brief. Keep it formal. Keep it factual. “Wonderful to see you again, Sir Coppola,” I say, walking over to the man.
Eventually, I’m able to sneak out of the hubbub, when the set of agriculturalists that were circling me got distracted by a tray of hors d’oeuvres. For a group of people who care so much about sustainability, they sure are greedy little things.
I take a deep cleansing breath and look at the time. “Still an hour before the next speaker.” Maybe I could slip away for a moment to recharge? I shake my head. There’s no way I could pull that off. Someone would immediately come looking for me. “Hmm…” I could tell the staff that I need to check the status of a few vendor accounts to give myself a few minutes off the main floor. I put my hand to my chin and nod. “That could work,” I mumble.
A large hand presses into my back and rage explodes within me. Someone obviously needs a lesson on personal space and boundaries. I whip around. “What gives you the right-” The words die in my throat when I lock onto a pair of deep obsidian eyes.
