Paper Princess (The Royals #1)(2)

The sound of my voice jolts him out of his hypnosis. He strides forward and, before I can move, has my right hand clasped between two of his.

“My God, you look just like him.” The words are whispered so only he and I can hear them. Then, as if remembering where he is, he shakes my hand. “Please, call me Callum.”

There’s an odd tone to his words. Like they’re hard to get out. I tug my hand from his, which requires some effort because the creep does not want to let go. It takes Mr. Thompson clearing his throat to get Royal to drop my hand.

“What’s this all about?” I demand. As a seventeen-year-old in a room full of adults, my tone is out of place, but no one even bats an eyelash.

Mr. Thompson runs an agitated hand through his hair. “I don’t know how to say this so I’ll just be straightforward. Mr. Royal tells me that your parents are both deceased and that he’s now your guardian.”

I falter. Just for a beat. Just long enough to let the shock filter into indignation.

“Bullshit!” The curse word bursts out before I can stop it. “My mother signed me up for classes. You have her signature on the registration forms.”

My heart is beating a million miles a minute, because that signature is actually mine. I forged it to maintain control over my own life. Even though I’m a minor, I’ve had to be the adult in my family since the age of fifteen.

To Mr. Thompson’s credit, he doesn’t chastise me for the profanity. “The paperwork indicates that Mr. Royal’s claim is legitimate.” He rattles the papers in his hands.

“Yeah? Well, he’s lying. I’ve never seen this guy before, and if you let me go with him, the next report you’ll see is how some girl from GW disappeared into a sex trafficking scheme.”

“You’re right, we haven’t met before,” Royal interjects. “But that doesn’t change the reality here.”

“Let me see.” I jump to Thompson’s desk and pluck the papers out of his hands. My eyes run over the pages, not really reading what’s there. Words pop out at me—guardian and deceased and bequeath—but they mean nothing. Callum Royal is still a stranger. Period.

“Perhaps if your mother could come in, we could clear everything up,” Mr. Thompson suggests.

“Yes, Ella, bring your mother and I’ll withdraw my claim.” Royal’s voice is soft, but I hear the steel. He knows something.

I turn back to my principal. He’s the weak link here. “I could create this in the school computer lab. I wouldn’t even need Photoshop.” I toss the sheaf of papers in front of him. Doubt is forming in his eyes, so I press my advantage. “I need to get back to class. The semester is just starting and I don’t want to fall behind.”

He licks his lips uncertainly and I stare him down with all the conviction in my heart. I don’t have a dad. I certainly don’t have a guardian. If I did, where was this jackass all my life while my mom was struggling to make ends meet, when she was in god-awful pain from her cancer, when she was weeping on her hospice bed about leaving me alone? Where was he then?

Thompson sighs. “All right, Ella, why don’t you go to class? Clearly Mr. Royal and I have more matters to discuss.”

Royal objects. “These papers are all in order. You know me and you know my family. I wouldn’t be here presenting this to you if it were not the truth. What would be the reason?”

“There are a lot of perverts in this world,” I say snidely. “They have lots of reasons to make up stories.”

Thompson waves his hand. “Ella, that’s enough. Mr. Royal, this is a surprise to all of us. Once we contact Ella’s mother, we can clear this all up.”

Royal doesn’t like the delay and renews his argument about how important he is and how a Royal wouldn’t tell a lie. I half expect him to invoke George Washington and the cherry tree. As the two bicker, I slip out of the room.

“I’m going to the bathroom, Darlene,” I lie. “I’ll head back to class right after.”

She buys it easily. “Take your time. I’ll let your teacher know.”

I don’t go to the bathroom. I don’t go back to class. Instead, I hustle to the bus stop and catch the G bus to the last stop.

From there it’s a thirty-minute walk to the apartment I lease for a measly five hundred a month. It has one bedroom, a dingy bathroom, and a living/kitchen area that smells like mold. But it’s cheap and the landlord is a woman who was willing to accept cash and not run a background check.

I don’t know who Callum Royal is, but I do know that his presence in Kirkwood is bad, bad news. Those legal papers hadn’t been Photoshopped. They were real. But there’s no way I’m placing my life in the hands of some stranger who appeared out of the blue.

My life is mine. I live it. I control it.

I dump my hundred-dollar textbooks out of my backpack and fill the newly emptied bag with clothes, toiletries, and the last of my savings—one thousand dollars. Crap. I need some quick money to help me get out of town. I’m seriously depleted. It cost me over two grand to move here, what with bus tickets and then first and last month’s rent along with a rental deposit. It sucks that I’m going to be eating the unused rent money, but it’s clear I can’t stick around.

I’m running again. Story of my life. Mom and I were always running. From her boyfriends, her pervert bosses, social services, poverty. The hospice was the only place we stayed in for any substantial amount of time, and that’s because she was dying. Sometimes I think the universe has decided I’m not allowed to be happy.