A Brief Escape
Tyler
London, England
Later that morning
“Ished a tear whenever I think about your mother.” The charity organizer smiled at me. “She was so beautiful and stylish. How she passed away when you were only a teenager is so tragic, you know?”
“Yes, I do know…”
“You’ve handled the pain quite well, and I’m grateful you show up at our party to honor her memory every year.”
“Likewise.” I forced a smile. “Thank you for your sympathy.”
“We painted a brand-new mural of her in the garden.” She handed me a brochure. “Your brother and sister seem to like it, so I bet she would’ve loved it as well.”
“She would’ve found it utterly tasteless.”
“What?” Her smile faltered. “What was that, sir?”
“I said, she would’ve wanted to take it.”
“Ohhh. Well, of course, and we would’ve helped her move it to wherever she wanted on the grounds.”
“I’m sure.” I shook her hand and stepped back. “If you’ll excuse me, please.”
I can’t take any more of this.
This woman and the rest of these people—even my younger siblings—had no idea how much my mother hated this life, how she suffered behind these palatial walls.
I walked across the room, giving a fake smile to the other guests who were wearing bright blue ‘Rest in Peace, Princess Joanna,’ pins.
“Excuse me, everyone.” My father suddenly stepped onto the stage. “May I please have your attention?”
The light murmuring and laughter dissolved into silence.
“As you all know, today is a very sad day in our family’s history,” His voice cracked, the same way it always did whenever he rehearsed this tired line. “Princess Joanna will forever live in my heart, and our children, Tyler, Charlie, and Priscilla, continue to carry her warrior spirit.”
What the hell does that even mean?
“Tyler, as you all know, is twelve years older than the twins, and he’s a lot more distant and aloof than they are.”
Loud laughter filled the room, but I missed the punchline.
“Anyway, he isn’t one to make public statements, so he asked me to make one on his behalf.”
He cleared his throat, and I crossed my arms.
“He’s turning thirty-five years old next month, and for the first time in forever, he’s inviting the public to his birthday celebration that may hold a few surprises for someone he’s been coy about lately.”
Victoria Nauss, a pretty brunette princess from Denmark—who I had zero interest in whatsoever—became the subject of attention in the room.
Her eyes met mine, and her cheeks flushed red—earning a chorus of hushed whispers and “Awww” murmurs from the crowd. Despite her polished and “I’m so humble act,” the only thing she cared about was becoming “the prettiest London princess in history.”
She couldn’t hold a decent conversation to save her life, and the one time we’d attempted to have sex after a drunken night, she said, “If I give you my most precious gift, you’ll have to propose to me right after.”
I hadn’t touched or talked to her since.