Page 1 of Princessa
Chapter 1
Ishould have known Parker Jones was a bitchass fool.
“We can still be friends, right?”
But stupid me stayed with him for far too manygirl what the hell were you thinking?years.
“I mean, we won’t be able to hang out like normal friends do”—he tossed up air quotes to emphasize the word normal—“but we can definitely text each other.”
My eyes rounded out into wide balls of disbelief before I snapped them shut long enough to imagine little puppies running through a meadow. In other words: anything to keep me from losing my cool.
We can still be friends?
Really? Exactly twenty-four hours before, I sat across from him at our favorite restaurant, fully expecting a marriage proposal—a proposal everyone in all of Savannah, Georgia was also expecting.
The setting atLe Chimi Pawas perfect.
Candlelight. Wine. Lobster.
Even his chippier-than-ever mood suggested he was ready to slip a ring onto my perfectly manicured finger. When those magical words,I think it’s time we talk about our future, flowed out of his mouth like the beginning of a new love song, I was so ready to scream out the word,yes!
Until he broke up with me.
“Please don’t be upset,” he grumbled, following me around my two-thousand square foot suite as I shoved his belongings into a small cardboard box.
Upset?
Yeah. Right.
That was so yesterday. Literally.
I’d traveled up and down Upset Street and had finally turned the corner onto I’m Freaking Over It Blvd.
“Like I explained at dinner, we’re at a crossroads in our lives now. I’ve got my political career to think about and you…”
I spun around to face him, my head ever-so-slightly tilted, eyebrows lifted high enough to make my forehead hurt, waiting for him to belittle me—once again.
“…well, Arabella Royale, you know you’re not the type of woman a man of power should marry.”
Wham. Like a punch to my anger-was-bubbling-inside-me gut, Parker Jones struck again.
You’re not the type of woman a man of power should marry.
Ass. Hole.
Walking past him, I brushed his slumped shoulder, the box full of his stuff—which I really should have instructed housekeeping to discard in the trash—jiggling with each and every agitated stomp it took me to make it to the door.
Mr. Bitchass Fool tromped behind me; the sound of his overly ugly loafers hitting the marble floor told me he wasn’t far behind.
As I swung the door open, Parker regarded me with dark green eyes that used to make my heart skip its finely tuned beat. “Princessa, you haven’t said a word since I arrived. Don’t you have something to say?”
Handing over the box containing his pitiful belongings, I scoffed under my breath. “Why, yes, Parker. I do have something to say.” Placing one hand on my hip because let’s face it, a skillful hand-to-hip placement is beyond essential, I all but barked, “GTFO.”
Parker scratched his almost-bald head and his bushy eyebrows connected as though they were longing to be a unibrow. “I’m sorry? Is that social media talk? Something your one-point-five billion followers would understand?” I ignored the droll sound of his tone when he sarcastically enunciatedone-point-five billion followers.See, the entire time we were together, Parker seemed to be envious of my social popularity, often dismissing it as though my success were some useless hobby. But I worked my ass off to become the influencer of the decade.
Beauty. Makeup. Clothing. Lifestyle.
Simple flat-lay posts soared and, in the blink of an eye, my Instagram became one of the most followed, almost out-ranking those famous K sisters. Of course, when I launched my own makeup and clothing line, my following tripled. Name brands came a-knockin’, requesting to co-brand with me and before I knew it, I was giving interviews with Allure, Cosmopolitan, Glamour, and the latest, my BFF’s fashion magazineHaute Couture—all with a focus on my knack for fashion, merchandising, and swanky beauty trends. The term “celebutante” was tossed around, triggering interest from paparazzi, eager to be the first to know and show what I was up to. Hobby or not, I was good at it. And despite the fact I was born into an elite family, happened to be an heiress to a ritzy hotel chain, and was referred to as the Princess of Savannah, I’d more than earned my stripes. What I apparently hadn’t earned, was the respect from Parker Bitchass Jones, the soon-to-be politician I was expected to marry because my family allowed society to declare we were equally yoked.
The two of us were together for three years. Three of my prime years wasted on a man who, evidently, couldn’t handle a strong woman.
“What the heck is GTFO?” The query dripped out of his hung-open mouth like lava, and I swear, the more that man spoke, the more I wondered what I ever saw in him.
Calming relief washed over me, and for once I felt the words that were about to dart from my mouth with granite force, would open the door to the freedom I never realized my bruised heart beat for.
“Get. The. Fuck. Out.”
