His Royal Highness(18)
Ticking.
Chapter Five
Derek
Accepting my new role as His Royal Highness feels a lot like walking through the five stages of grief. Denial comes first, and it lasts exactly the length of time it takes me to get from Cal’s penthouse to my new apartment in exec housing. I smile to myself and think, That Cal, what a trip. He really pulled one over on me this time. Working In Character in the park? Hilarious. Then I realize, no. Cal is sincere.
He expects me to agree.
That realization gives way to anger—a healthy dose of it. It’s not that I think I’m above the task. Work is work. It’s an honest job just like everything else. Coming from the board, though, it feels like a slap in the face. They know how hard I’ve worked the last decade. They know it’s insulting to suggest I might not have earned the position as Director of Operations.
I go to sleep fuming and wake up only a few hours later, kicking off my sheets. My run is so abusive, the treadmill sighs with relief when I step off of it. Over coffee, I fantasize about forwarding my CV to our board members—a way of throwing my experience in their faces—and then creating a middle finger out of keyboard characters to go along with it. Once my coffee kicks in, I realize that option lacks tact. I can do better.
Leaving the Knightley Company is another possibility. Going to work for a competitor would certainly sting, but there’s no way I could go through with it. I don’t have the heart for revenge and I would never do that to Cal.
Bargaining blends with depression as I drag myself to the Costuming Department later in the morning. I’ve been here thousands of times before, but never under these circumstances—never for a fitting.
I barely smile at Patty, the receptionist. She’s been here so long, she knew my late grandmother. On another day, I’d stop and hug her, ask her how she’s doing. Today, I keep walking down the hall after a polite nod.
My grandfather is nuts, the kook everyone assumes he is. My entire life, I’ve looked up to him as a genius, but now that he thinks I should take a role as His Royal Highness, I actually think he might just be insane.
The thought sours.
He’s not insane.
Just…wrong.
I’m greeted by the Head of Costuming, who ushers me into a room where a tailor and his assistant are waiting.
While measurements are taken, the tailor only speaks to call out numbers, but his assistant fills in the gaps for him with answers to questions I didn’t ask.
“You’ll love working in Elena’s Castle. You’ll be with Whitney. God, she’s been in that role for years, hasn’t she, Hank?”
The tailor nods, reports the length from my hip to my ankle, and then separates my legs so he can get my inseam. It’s a pleasant experience for no one.
“I don’t think anyone is more dedicated to their post than Whitney. You know she’s won employee of the month more than anyone else here?” I didn’t know, but the assistant doesn’t give me time to respond. “Some people think she’s a little over the top, like we get it, you love working here, but Whitney sees the real magic in this place.”
I’ll admit, Whitney hasn’t been at the forefront of my mind in the last twelve hours. I’ve been a little preoccupied with the grieving process.
“You two will make a perfect pair. Ryan’s working alongside her now, but you were born to play His Royal Highness. You have the exact right coloring. The build too.”
It’s not a coincidence. Cal imagined the character with my father in mind. I’m his spitting image. I have a bone to pick with Cal, though, because His Royal Highness deserves a name. In the original story, Elena’s love interest is just His Royal Highness. I never cared much about that before. Now, it grates my nerves. It’s like he’s completely auxiliary to the main plot of the story. He’s just some guy. Y’know, the prince or whatever. Who cares?
I care…because apparently, I’m going to go through with this farce.
The tailor finishes up his work near my crotch—awesome—and then turns me around like I’m a mannequin. With my back to them, I can finally let my features relax into a mask of annoyance.
“Anyway, you’ll like working with her. Some of those princesses can be snobby, but not Whitney.”
“Are you two friends?” I ask, curious. If not, she might be the president of Whitney’s fan club.
The girl laughs shyly. “Oh, um, kind of. I don’t know. Whitney’s sort of friends with everyone.”
Interesting. My old mentee seems to be a lot more popular than when I first met her. I remember that first assignment I gave her years ago to make a friend. I guess it stuck.
I know she and Cal have grown close, moving past their mentoring relationship and forming a tighter bond. He’s mentioned her on the phone to me every now and then, and his tone always carries an air of affection, something rare for Cal.
I was happy to hear she was getting on well at the Knightley Company. She crossed my mind a time or two since I moved to London, but in my head, she was permanently eighteen.
The first time I met Whitney, she had red lipstick smeared across her chin and had just been doused in iced coffee. Her clothes swallowed her up. She might have been eighteen, but she looked fourteen. Those big eyes were full of vulnerability, unable to even meet my gaze.