“This tower is not only infamous for the executions held by King Henry VIII, but this very room is where Queen Elizabeth I, also known as “The Virgin Queen,” was imprisoned in 1554 for her involvement in Wyatt’s Rebellion. Just twelve years later, the Queen would imprison Princess Margaret Douglas, Countess of Lennox. She was released after the murder of Henry Stuart, Lord Darnley, who was the second husband of Mary, Queen of Scots. Queen Elizabeth I reigned for forty-two years.”
Power makes people do crazy things, just like love. Seeing powerful—and maybe a bit unhinged—women like Queen Elizabeth I in a position like she was, is just the start of female empowerment. Just like Queen Elizabeth II, who has been the longest reigning monarch in English history. Even Queen Victoria was a queen in her own right.
These things define women like me, and that’s why Women’s History is so powerful. It gives us strength, it gives us a say, and it paves the path to who we are.
We, as women, are queens, no matter what may be said. The past and the present show us nothing less than the possibility of an empowered future.
Looking around the dispatch, I notice it’s only me and Mr. Donatello now. When did the rest of them leave?
“Where is Xavier and the tour guide?” I ask him.
“Xavier is hung up on how the King killed his wives in that very square.” He points down at the outdoor area of the tower. Mr. Donatello continues, “so, he dragged the tour guide down there with him to give him more information.” I watch as Xavier looks at the man, horrified at what he’s hearing. I can’t help but laugh. Mr. Donatello chuckles behind me.
I spin around when I hear that foreign sound come out of his mouth.
“Did you just chuckle?” I stare at him dumbfounded.
“Yes, Alejandra, it’s a normal response. I mean look at his face.”
“I’ve never heard you laugh. Ever,” I say.
“You are mistaken.” He looks down at me with a serious face and then turns around, looking at the ceiling and observing his surroundings. We sit in silence, a very tense silence.
“Are we just not going to talk about it?” I say rapidly so I don’t have to hear the words coming out of my mouth, but I can’t just sit here without at least addressing it.
“I believe you’re talking about the kiss?” I look at him with a duh expression.
“No, we aren’t. It’s not necessary to address,” he responds.
“I don’t know about you, Mr. Robot, but I address situations, so I don’t have all these pent-up emotions like you do. It needs to be talked about.” He crosses his arms and bends his head down close to my face.
“No, we don’t need to talk about it, because it is never going to happen again.” With that he walks out, gliding down the stairs.
Dickwad.
ChapterTwenty-One
Maria Alejandra
France, known for its beaches and cities. What I know it for is the mecca for rude people. There are French drivers who have always been nice to me, and I don’t like to generalize, but I haven’t met many people in France who have welcomed me with open arms. They act like they hate foreigners—mostly in Paris—but what they don’t realize is that those foreigners are one of the major sources of their country’s economy. It’s not just me; they even hate the French Canadians!
A few days ago, the French Grand Prix took place. Xavier and I had a good race. Now I’m in Paris collaborating with Adèle Couture. After the red carpet in Monaco, they wanted me to campaign and be an ambassador of sorts. I was skeptical about it for obvious reasons, all involving Mr. Donatello.
They contacted me in regard to their all-black line. Which I’m perfect for since it is my signature color after all. I would like to believe that I was the inspiration for such a collection, but I highly doubt it.
I take a sip of my coffee, then set it down to take a bite out of my croissant. On my way to the atelier, I saw this cute little coffee shop, and since I was about twenty minutes early, I decided to stop for a bite. The French waitress is giving me a nasty side eye when I wave at her to come over. Little does she know that I’ll be asking for the check so I won’t have to see her face again.
You’re welcome.
“Can you please bring the check?” She nods with a face that tells me she’s disgusted by my existence. My question is, has she ever heard of customer service? Because this bitch wasn’t trained in the art of being nice.
A few minutes later, she brings me the check and I sign the little piece of paper. Before I go, I make sure everything is correct and then push the chair back under the table.
Even though the waitress thinks she’s the best type of person on earth and I’m simply the scum in her city, disrespecting or not cleaning up after yourself won’t make the situation any better.
Striding out of the café, I walk a few feet before I make it to the atelier. I reach for the handle, swinging the door open and step into a marble-stained building. The lights are a bright that glare onto my form. A muted pink tone shines on each part of the structure. Looking up ahead, I see spiral staircases leading up to what I assume is a showroom. Ahead of me on the right are two big white doors that have two adjacent glass windows side by side. I can’t see through them because a mesh white curtain blocks any view from the outside. To my left, I see a circular receptionist desk with a woman on the phone speaking French. Above her, the words, “AdèleMaison de Mode”radiate in a rose gold shimmer, almost blinding me in the process. Everything about this place screams upscale. I don’t know whether to be scared or impressed. Mostly frightened, I would say. What if they ask me a question like,“what type of brands do you usually wear?”What am I supposed to say?
I usually wear one of your competitors: Dior, Yves Saint Laurent—which happens to be my favorite—Chanel, and occasionally Louis Vuitton’s black accessories. Would you like me to go on?