Till The Sun Rises West

Isabella’s POV

I’m smiling like a Cheshire cat. I think it’s highly likely that I will even purr. The sun is shining brightly through the row of the plane’s portholes. The white leather armrest feels warm under my fingertips. The reclining seat - this masterpiece of design and ergonomics with lower back support, horizontal footrest and cushiony neck pillow - is absolute bliss. My body relaxes to jello.

But what really makes my mind get high is a stunning view outside the window. White clouds look so edible, I swear, I can almost taste sweet whipped cream on my tongue. And, of course, the sunlight... no words to describe it... it looks amazing... Maybe the reason is we are 38,000 ft. above sea level, but the sun rays are practically flowing all around, piercing the air.

I’m quite literally on cloud nine. I’m savouring the moment. My therapist, Mr. Friedman, would be proud of me if he saw me right now. Lately it is the treatment technique that I thrive the best on. The drill is to catch each happy moment I have.

So I do exactly as I was taught. Closing my eyes, I concentrate on the remaining feelings. The light is so bright, I can still see the halo through my shut eyelids. Smiling again, I devour everything my other senses are experiencing now: the song, humming quietly in my Air Pods, the warmth of the sun on my heated skin, the comfort of cotton joggers and oversized long-sleeve t-shirt, even the faintly perfumed smell of plane air-conditioning.

I absorb these drops of joy and open my eyes. Blue sky and icebergs of clouds, floating above this infinite blueness, welcome my stare through the porthole. White clouds really look as if they were floating. Are they physically floating or rather flying? Flying above the sky. Does it sound weird? How could something be above the sky? But I believe this weirdness makes this awesome view even more captivating.

Slightly shaking my head, I drag the gaze from an endless sea of whipped clouds washing over our plane. Earth to Isabella! Or should it be ‘Plane to Isabella!’? My eyes roam through the plane cabin.

My Personal Assistant Mrs. Donatella Geraldi and the Chief Protocol Officer Mr. Dillan McMillan are sitting across the aisle, seemingly oblivious to the beauty of the sky. Occupying opposite sides of the table, with their laptops back to back, they look like one mirrored by the other, both typing furiously. They even blacked out the nearest windows. How could they be so indifferent or just unobservant? Maybe being a mature adult means becoming boring, oblivious, and incurious?

It just so happened that all the members of my team, being technically my employees, are much older than I am. Age being the reason or not, but I never feel like I’m in charge. I know my duties as well as all the others do. And I’ve never given any reason to question my reliability. The latter can be said about any person working for the Crown.

As the reigning King, my father is very demanding and strict with those he once decided to trust and used to rely on. He never gave any allowances to me being his daughter. Not that I have ever asked for one. My only peculiarity is I can’t resign or be replaced by some other employee. I’m stuck with my duties till death makes us part. That does not sound funny, actually.

I need to stop this train of thought right here, knowing too well the destination point this railway leads to. And I just can’t deal with a new panic attack now. I’ve got the Mission.

My Mission... Yepppp... mentally I drag this ‘pppp’ endlessly. The thought ruins my mood in a heartbeat. I don’t want to think about it... I don’t want to go there for it... I don’t want to be on this flight anymore... And I do want to cry... No! Need to stop it... Need a distraction... One more try... Distraction...

I rub my face with my palms. Breathe in, breathe out... My fingers stroke the screen of my iPhone. I don't often have it in my hands. Standard Security Protocol. Nothing that can be traced is allowed while I’m getting around the city. It’s usually evening when I have my smartphone time. Royal Security believes the wi-fi in the Palace to be the only protected way for the access to the world wide web. Something with an untraceable IP that I don’t really understand.

But if they want me to follow this rule, so be it. I am used to it. I have no private accounts on Instagram or Facebook, so no need to regularly post something or follow my friends. It saves me a lot of time, actually.

Last summer I spent two weeks with one of my cousins. Her Highness Gabriella Adelaide, Duchess of Florandia - small Duchy on the Ligurian coast. We are best friends and we have known each other as long as we can remember ourselves.

I really love to spend my time with her. But she’s got an Instagram account. And her security service has no problems with her being glued to her smartphone twenty-four-seven. So on that holiday the problems were all mine. And the problems there were.

Gabriella is an Instagram blogger. She’s got a lot of followers. Like really a lot. More than 3 million. Who knows, there are possibly even 4 million by now. I mean, come on! It’s more than the whole population of both countries of ours all together. Who are all her followers? My imagination refuses to give me some plausible images. But last summer I did feel their presence every moment I spent with Gabi. She had been either making, or proceeding, or posting, or сommenting, or liking some photos almost all the time.

I was hurt by her negligence. But it appeared that just in the beginning of the summer Gabriella had signed the contract with one of the swimming wear brands. Under the contract, she had to post and promote pictures of her in the garments they provided. And she had to do it twice per day at least. I was lucky that the contract had expired by the end of our first week. But those seven days made me hate all post-it-like-it madness irrevocably. And now I am not sorry a bit that I have only official accounts all being conducted by Donatella, my PA.

I smile from the memories of my summer vacation. By the end of the second week, Gabriella had done everything to make it up to me. We had had so much fun my cheeks were hurting for some more days after I returned home. And I also brought with me some nice swimsuits as the bonus part of Gabriella’s redemption.

Luckily she always preferred bikinis and my Protocol Department clearly preferred me being dressed with something made more of a fabric, rather than of a few strings. So I became a happy owner of the bunch of one-piece swimsuits, all of them too unrevealing and ‘monk-style’ for Gabi’s liking. Though I’m not sure nuns have a special style of swimsuits to complement their robes and wimples. And as far as I’m concerned, my new garments were nice and classy.

However, to tell the truth, it is not even the question of my preferences. The Royal Attire Protocol doesn’t allow me to wear a bikini in places that are ’available for public access or are situated in visual range for the public’ since I’m unmarried.

Unmarried... Yes... That I am... The word makes me scowl. My mind sucks me to the whirlpool of unpleasant thoughts I desperately struggle to avoid. My Mission... Again...

I can’t sit here anymore. Not a single second. I’m going crazy. I need to stand up and take at least a few steps. Sighing, I pause my Spotify playlist and get up. I like the feeling of soft plush carpet under my bare feet. But this is not enough to start Dr. Freidman’s drill.

So I’m just gonna move. Maybe if I can’t put these excruciating thoughts out of my mind, I still can move my head away from this torture instead. Run away. Literally. If I’m quick enough jogging to my bedroom, maybe my Mission obsession won’t be able to catch up with me? So all my anguish inducing thoughts will stay here in my seat, admiring the view from the window.

Gosh... I’m completely delusional. The low groan unconsciously escapes my throat, drawing the attention of my PA.

“May I offer any help, Your Highness?” Donatella rises from her seat across the aisle, concern obvious in her gaze.

“No, no, thank you. I just want to have a nap. Just half an hour and I’m good.” I want to escape. I smile and she smiles back. I just need a reason to justify my small walk to the back of the plane where the bedroom is.

“Oh, of course,” she sounds a little bewildered, “The nap. It’s a good idea. We have a busy schedule tonight.” She glances at the screen of her laptop, which rests on the table in front of her.

I nod, pivoting on my toes, fully aware of Donatella’s gaze locked to my back, and head down the aisle. Grrrhhhh... Yes, and it’s the only aisle I want to go down by. I wish my desire would have changed something.

It takes less than a dozen steps to reach the back of the plane, where my four bodyguards and the Chief Security Officer are sitting. My quick glance brushes three relaxed bodies sleeping in their seats on the left side of the aisle. Guess they appreciate the comfort of their recliners as much as I did mine.

I shift my glance to the right side. Rising his head from the book, the youngest one of the security guys looks up at me. I smile back and nod to greet him.

His name is Roger. Roger Sanders. He is twenty-seven, only four years older than I am. But I don’t think his age is the reason I feel at ease with him. It’s more of his personality. From his first watch ten months ago, he always gives me this friendly vibe.

Stopping in front of him, I lean my shoulder against the back of the seat.

“What are you reading, Roger? Don’t tell me you are Jane Austen’s secret admirer.” I tease him a bit, hoping he will retort something funny back. Не’s got quick wits and a great sense of humour. I like the guy.

I wave my hand in a don’t-stand-up gesture when he starts to unfasten his seat belt. But it’d be a breach of the Protocol and we both know it. Since I’m not a crowned person, people are allowed to sit while I’m standing. But if while I'm standing, I speak directly to somebody, they have to get up. So does Roger, ignoring my weak attempts to protest.

Even dressed in a dark grey uniform suit, he doesn’t look like a bodyguard. Now his jacket rests on the hanger behind his seat, and it makes him look even more casual and nonchalant.

He is tall, of course. I think he is about 6′1 ft. All the bodyguards on our team are tall. But who is not, compared to my 5′2 ft? But except for his height, he has nothing potentially intimidating in his appearance. His grey eyes always hold a sparkle of joy and mischief. And the ginger tint of his hair polishes up his friendly-next-door-guy aura.

Are all the security guys supposed to be a little bit menacing? Roger is anything but menacing. He always smiles. He’s got the widest variety of grins, smiles, and smirks I’ve ever seen.

He leans his back on the flimsy bedroom door behind him. He has a slender frame, though he definitely works out in the gym regularly. It’s part of his job description, I think. But he doesn’t look like the Hulk, for his own good.

How he even once decided to be a bodyguard rather than... maybe... he could be... a bartender? Yes! He is a very talkative laid-back guy. I'm sure, he would be a great bartender. I should ask him about it one day. But today is not the day. I need a small talk to lighten my mood.

I nod to the book that he holds now in his lowered hand, the front cover pressed to his thigh.

“Which one is your favourite - ‘Sense and sensibility’ or ‘Pride and Prejudice’?” I mock further.

His usual grin becomes even wider. “Would you like to see your bodyguard being on the watch with red puffy eyes, Your Highness? I cry so hard every time I'm reading these books.” He closes his eyes with his left palm and shakes his head, pretending to cry.

I am grinning back. It’s exactly what I need. He always jokes around.

Continuing his little performance, Roger wipes his non-existent tears as if he were trying to fix ruined mascara. Аnd then he fans his face with the splayed hand.

“No sentimental readings for me this morning, Your Highness. I can’t have the luxury of getting all emotional. Just old plain non-fictional boringness.”

“What’s this? Please, tell me,” I ask curiously, leaning forward to get a better look at the book cover.

Roger crosses his arms over his chest, turning the book’s face-cover for me to see. His smile transforms from careless to sheepish. My brows are sliding up in surprise as I read the title.

“Wow... ‘The history of the Crusades - records made between the lines’. Is it captivating?”

He shrugs and moves his gaze to the book. “It’s funny how political incentives stay almost the same through the centuries.” The seriousness of his answer takes me by surprise. And then his lips curl up, forming a new smile. Slightly baffled this time.

Our talk just did a full one-eighty, shifting from us fooling around to almost having a historical discussion. “Roger, you are full of surprises!” My admiration is sincere. Не just shrugs again and gives me another one of his trademark grins.

“And if you have an opened packet of Meller caramel...” I make a quick glance to my right, where Mr. Larsson - my Chief Security Officer - reads the newspaper that hides him like a paper curtain. He is in his late fifties, which explains some of his habits. But I’m always curious, where does he even buy his news-papers?

I move half step closer to Roger and low my voice to the whisper. “If you have it, you are officially my knight in shining armour. And once I’m crowned, I promise to give you a hereditary title of Royal Caramel Keeper.” I’m joking, of course, because it’s not gonna happen. Me being crowned. Everybody knows it. And since we’ve grown a bond with Roger, we keep joking about it all the time.

Roger chuckles, turns to his jacket and pulls the Meller caramel out of his inside pocket as if he was pulling a rabbit out of a hat.

I giggle and grab the packet of my favourite sweets from his hand.

“I opened it this morning, two caramels behind, and I’m still alive and rather healthy.” Roger flexes his biceps in a bodybuilder style, his voice barely enough to be heard over the sound of jet, since he clearly tries to keep our antics under his chief’s radar.

I can’t help but laugh. It’s our inside joke.

It was one of Roger’s first shifts on guard, when I caught him tossing caramel into the air and catching it with his mouth. I was impressed, because he had managed to catch seven out of seven, without dropping a single one. And when it appeared we both had a sweet tooth for Meller caramels, I couldn’t reject his proposal to share his packet of candies with me.

The problem was the Royal Food, Feast and Catering Protocol distinctly prohibited such a behaviour of mine, because everything I eat or drink had to be either tested or provided by certified Royal Court purveyors. So Roger, being my bodyguard, had a sort of professional ethical dilemma.

But we found a solution and in jest we called it the Classified Sofia-Meller Pact. Since then we’ve been strictly following it. The procedure is: Roger has to open the new packet of caramels and to eat one of them as a test. And when everything is okay, I can eat it too.

It is ridiculous. And I know it. But I don’t have it in me to fight the rules... never had, never will... The only thing that is important for me is that I’m sure, my little rebellion doesn’t affect Roger, and doesn’t increase the real hazard his occupation already implies. What harm, besides rotting tooth enamel, can a caramel cause?

I rip further through a foil tube package and shake out my precious sweets. Shoving two caramels at a time into my mouth, I close my eyes and moan softly, feeling the chocolate on my tongue.

I hear Roger chuckle and whisper again: “Your Highness, I’m absolutely altruistic here. With all due respect... I’m sure there are a lot of deserving claimants to the honorary title of the Royal Caramel Keeper among your brother’s bodyguards.” It’s his allusion to cognatic primogeniture - the order of succession, under which my younger brother tops the line of potential successors to the throne of Montevalland, because he is male. And I’ve got no complaints regarding this.

I look at my bodyguard’s boyish smile and nod: “Fair enough, Roger. But just believe me, you would have been the best. And you are for sure my favourite bodyguard.” I pat his shoulder with a fake patronising grimace.

“Only the best of the best are honoured to protect the Crown.” His voice is loud and clear. He winks smugly, making me laugh one more time.

Our fun is halted by the newspaper rustle and the sounds of Mr. Larsson clearing his throat. Roger mouths silent “Ooops”, and I have to tighten my lips, not to burst into laughter again.

So I decide to retreat to the solitude of my bedroom and leave Roger to withstand this battle all by himself. After all, it is his direct responsibility - to keep me out of any troubles. As if reading my mind, he steps aside and presses to the back of the seat. I give him my sympathetic glance and hurry to pass on.

As I’m alone in the bedroom and the door is shut, I lean my forehead to its varnished surface, laughing silently.

But I stop abruptly, because from the other side of the thin partition I hear the gravel voice of my Chief Security Officer Mr. Christer Larsson. “Sanders, when should I expect your transfer application? I’d better know ASAP, to find a good replacement for your position beforehand.” The poor excuse of a door does nothing to mute his enraged snarl.

Oh my God... transfer?! Is Christer going to sack the guy because of stupid sweets?! But he couldn’t see it, could he? No, no, no! The wave of heat is flowing over my face. I fight the urge to swing the door open and explain everything. But I am not so willing to reveal my involuntary eavesdropping. So I stay still.

Roger’s voice sounds muffled behind the door and I can’t distinguish his words, but the intonation makes his shock evident.

Mr. Larsson speaks again. His harsh voice is calmer now. “I’ve got no reasons, son.” Have I just heard Christer’s chuckle? I’m sure I have. I press my ear to the door.

“But don’t you want to apply for a position in the Royal Dramatic Theatre or in the Circus, instead of the Royal Security Service.”

Oufff... That’s a joke? Has he just been joking? I guess so. I can’t hear Roger’s answer again. Вut Larsson’s hoarse one is loud enough.

“The honour? You think it is? Really? Hmm... That’s it then. Glad to know, I don’t need to worry about new recruitment. Relax, Sanders.”

Wow... Mr. Christer Larsson and his way to remind his people he always keeps tabs on them... and his way to give me a heart attack. Almost.

The door vibrates under the hurricane of guffaw, bursting on its other side. “Rodge, baby, you should have seen your face!” “Priceless, Sanders!” “It was worth waking up for!” I hear the chorus of man’s voices.

Can’t help, have to see it. Pulling the door ajar, I peered out. “Mr. Larsson, is everything alright?” I give him a smile, raising the brow quizzically.

He gets up from his seat, throwing the folded newspaper down on the table. He smirks and answers with his rough voice: “You have nothing to worry about, Your Highness. Mr. Sanders just has told us how he appreciates the honour of being a part of the Royal Security Service. So my guys got a tad too... excited,” he gives a stern glare to Maximilian, Frederik and Axel - the other three bodyguards from our team.

They are sitting across the aisle from their commanding officer, fully awakened now. Mr. Larsson turns his pale-blue watery eyes back to my figure squeezed between the door and the jamb. “I’m sorry we’ve caused you some concerns.”

It’s strange, but every time I look at Christer I can’t help but imagine him to be Santa Claus in disguise. He looks so homely and cordial, but with a gleam of teasing in his eyes. He always wears his dark grey formal suit, but he hates his ties, and undoes the top button of his shirt the first moment he can. He has no beard, and his always dishevelled hairs are dirty blond, not white. He is not corpulent, just built big. But still there is something in him. The way he stares straight through your eyes and to your soul, makes you feel that he definitely knows whether you were bad or good enough to deserve your Christmas present.

So right now I’ve got a weird feeling that Mr. Larsson knows way too well what - or rather who - was the actual reason for my concern. It’s embarrassing, but I’m glad to have such a shrewd person in my corner.

I look up at Roger, who just laughs and shakes his head, but his face slightly reddens.

“I assure you, Your Highness, it won’t happen again. They will be as quiet as little mice. Nobody will bother your rest.” I prefer when Christer calls me Isabella, but he only does it if no one else can hear. And I always use his last name in front of his subordinates. He looks at me and the gaze he gives me is warm and comforting.

It’s not just my wishful thinking, I know his care for me is beyond his professional duties.

Mr. Larsson has been a part of Royal Security for almost thirty years. He started in the personal security for my father, who was just the Prince those days. They had stood together through thick and thin. He has always been around for as long as I can remember. And five years ago, as I turned eighteen, Mr. Christer Larsson became the Chief Security Officer of my personal security team.

My father - King Albert Emmanuel - trusts Christer with his entire life. And so do I. And for me he is not just the person ensuring my safety, but the part of the family.

“By your leave, Your Highness...” He nods to me slightly and turns to aforesaid ‘little mice’, as I nod him back. “Have you heard me, guys? Get out of here. Move to the lounge area, and you’d better sit tight and keep your heads down.”

“Yes, sir.” Four voices merge into a unanimous hum. “With your permission, Your Highness...”

It’s rather hilarious to see these four suit clad, mountain-like figures quietly hurrying away. I’d not call them mice though, more like tamed puppies. Mr. Larsson commands unquestionable respect.

“There was no need, but thank you, Mr. Larsson. Just half an hour. Donatella will wake me up.”

“Enjoy Your time off, Your Highness.” He knows all the weight this tour has put on my shoulders, and I’m happy to feel the wave of his sympathy and support.

With one more ‘thank you’, I shut the door behind me and plop on my bed. And this time nothing can stop me from crawling down into the black hole of my dark thoughts.

○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○

Published 08/07/2022

4100 words

○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○

A/N: Hey, everyone!

Welcome to my first story! I hope you are intrigued enough to afford the second chapter.

Frankly speaking, I’ve got a lot of insecurities about my writing. And the biggest one is that I’ve failed to formulate my ideas clearly to everybody. What if I misrepresented something and it distorted the meaning completely? So if you find some words, sentences or facts to be difficult to understand or just weird or illogical due to my grammar mistakes or inter-cultural differences of any kind, please, feel free to correct or ask. And I’ll be happy to answer all your questions and improve my story with your help. Though I won’t tolerate offensive, humiliating or abusive comments. My story is my home. I do respect all my guests and expect them to reciprocate.

Please leave your comments to let me know how you feel about my heroes and their actions. If you like the story, please, like and review!