Page 42 of Scandal Queen

“How, if I never get to go anywhere?”

“No one is keeping you prisoner. All we ask is that you are safe.”

“So I can go to work?”

She laughed and shook her head. “Probably not every day, not unless you want to bring Bermondsey to a standstill.”

“I’m not Oliver.” I frowned.

“No. You are far more interesting. You are the woman who captured a prince’s heart. One of the people, a true-life people’s princess. You are the one who can make that into a reality.”

I nodded, somehow she managed to make it sound easy, like I could actually do it.

On a whim, I turned to Isabella who had the bottle of wine in her hand in the process of filling her glass to the brim. “I don’t suppose you fancy coming to work with me, do you?”

She glanced up, surprise across her face. “Me?”

“Sure.” I shrugged.

I didn’t know what filled Isabella Beaufort’s days, apparently work wasn’t it.

“Okay.” She gave me a smile and straightened her back.

“You know, Leia. It’s not just Bright Futures, that needs you.” The Queen raised her own glass.

“No?”

“Of course not. There are hundreds of charities out there. All of them desperate for exposure, just the way you once were before Oliver turned up.”

I flushed as I remembered the way I’d behaved on our first meeting.

Isabella laughed loudly. “See, Mum. He did say she was the rudest woman he’d ever met.”

The Queen chuckled and shook her head. “If we’d known all these years he just needed a woman to be rude to him, it would have made things so much simpler.”

I slunk down in my chair, but the Queen shot me a sharp glance. “A princess never slouches.”

I sat up ramrod straight unwilling to be the one to point out I wasn’t a princess. I was just a girl from Hackney having lunch with the Queen.

At six in the evening, I lurched back towards the apartment. I’d never remember a single thing I’d been told, but two things had been totally clear: the King’s say was utterly final, and don’t fuck up. Those were my two take away lessons.

I had staff now.

And high-heeled shoes—which I’d never wear.

And I needed to throw away all my jeans and only be seen in skirts that didn’t go above my knee.

Oh and the King’s word was final… did I mention that already? Assuming he actually ever spoke to me.

I let myself into the apartment, wondering for a moment why nothing seemed to have keys. The doors were just unlocked; but then I guess the soldiers stood on guard at all the external doors put off would-be burglars.

“I’m home, my feet are killing me, and I think my face might be frozen like the Joker’s for all eternity.”

I lurched in and then drew to a halt.

Oliver sat at the kitchen counter, looking utterly fucking divine in a navy lamb’s wool jumper and dark jeans. His dark head was propped in his hand as he studied a notebook, a biro poking out between his lips.

He should be illegal. I’d put him in a tower like Rapunzel’s if I could. That way I’d be the only one to be able to see him look like that. Just call me the number one royal stalker.