The Prince and I

  The Prince And I

  R.S. Lively

  Copyright © 2019 by R.S. Lively

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Description

  The Enchanted Masked Ball, the biggest event of the year.

  A magical night and anything could happen.

  I could even meet Prince Charming and lose my v-card.

  Like I said, anything is possible.

  When a tall and chiseled masked stranger approached me, I was mesmerized.

  “Tonight, I want to be by your side”, he said.

  We dance and he stole a kiss.

  It should have been one of the best nights of my life.

  Instead it was a tragic one.

  I was forced to run from the ball. To leave him and everything behind.

  Months later, I gave up hope of ever meeting Mr. Right again.

  Til I walked into his castle. And he gave me an unforgettable night.

  Prince Luca wants me to stay, but we’re from completely different worlds.

  How could we ever make this work?

  With his heir on the way, I guess we’re about to find out.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Epilogue

  Unexpected Gift (Sample)

  About the Author

  Also by R.S. Lively

  Keeping Up With R.S. Lively

  Chapter One

  Rosie

  The clock ticks, but time seems to stand still. Professor Carlisle rambles on and on about sedimentary rocks, lullabying me to sleep. I try to stay awake—I really do—but the longer his monotonous voice plays out, the heavier my eyelids get. My elbow slips off the desk as I nod off, which was inevitable, but my head falls off my hand, and I'm jolted awake.

  Well, for another three seconds, that is, until I start to doze off again. Maybe staying awake and studying for my physics exam last night wasn’t the best idea.

  Yeah, like that would have helped.

  I only have to make it through this class. After that, I’m homeward bound. I'll be getting ready for the night that every wealthy person in Billings, Montana has waited for. Tonight, the Enchanted Ball casts its magical spell over the rich, reaping millions of dollars from them in one night in the name of cancer research. Luckily, I get to attend because of my father’s money.

  The Caldwell’s are the richest family in town. The entire family has to be there tonight, or else the family name will be tarnished, according to my stepmother, Tabitha. The vile woman. I can’t stand her or my stepsisters. I don’t know what my father saw in Tabitha or how he decided to marry her, but here we are, ten years after my mother’s death, and I’m stuck with them.

  I shouldn’t complain. I’ve had a good life, but ever since my mother’s death, I’ve been withdrawn and a little bit of an outsider. I like to look in on the things happening around me instead of being on the inside looking out. I don’t like to get close to anyone. And another reason for that is the horrible duo of step-monsters my father took in. Felicia and Gabrielle, the twisted sisters, give me a hard time every chance they get. I try to stay out of their way, but it never fails to be the case where I'm the one to get in trouble over their misgivings, and what hurts the most is that Tabitha goes the extra mile to convince my father it’s my fault every time.

  He never believes me. His own flesh and blood. I might as well be dead to him like my mother. That’s an awful thing to say, but I just haven’t felt like myself in a very long time. My mother wouldn’t have ever allowed this to happen. If she were still alive, I’d have the love of my father again, but instead, I have something cold and unforgiving toward him.

  I think it’s because I look so much like her. I’m a reminder of someone he can never get back. I’m the past that prevents him from moving forward to the future, so he copes by being with someone just as cold as he allowed himself to become.

  “Are you paying attention, Ms. Caldwell?”

  His voice reminds me of Ben Stein so much. The only thing playing through my head right now is the Visine commercials. “Yes, Professor,” I whisper.

  “Just making sure. As I was saying…” The chalk scratches against the board as he writes about metamorphic rocks.

  His voice lulls me back into my thoughts about the ball. Everyone is going to be there, and I really don't want to go. I’m probably the only one in the entire state who wants to stay home in their pajamas and watch reruns of Whose Line is it Anyway? At least those people are funny. The people at the ball are just going to be fake.

  I begged my father not to make me go to the ball. I tried telling him that he doesn't need me there, but he says the entire Caldwell family has to be in attendance. Even though Tabitha and her evil spawns aren’t Caldwells by blood, they're required to go, too. My chair squeaks as I lean back, sighing at the cruelty of it all. What bothers me more than anything is that deep down, there is a part of me that is excited to get dressed up and look pretty. What girl doesn't love putting on a big ball gown? But I hate that I’m excited about it. I just can’t help but think about this as a night where I don’t have to be myself. It's the one night I can be whoever I want to be, without question and without fear—I won’t be the one in the background, even if it’s where I feel safest.

  No one will actually see me. It’s a masked ball, so no one will know who is behind the costumes, which will allow me to spend a night behind a façade. It brings me comfort, knowing people won’t recognize me.

  When I turn my head to look out the window, a ball of paper smacks me right in my face against my cheek. Closing my eyes, I count to three to get ahold of my annoyance, so I don't snap. It’s screaming me at me like a banshee in the night. I click my tongue and glance down, the bundled-up notebook paper balancing on the edge of the desk.

  I ignore it.

  Until another ball hits me on the back of the head, getting caught in my long brown hair. I reach back to pull it from my locks and set it beside the other one. I know who is throwing them, but I’m paying him no mind.

  “Rosie!” His voice grates my nerves, whispering from two seats back.

  Brandon Harlow. The one person in the entire world who won’t ignore me. He only pays me attention because of the arrangement between our families. Caldwells are the richest in town, but the Harlows are a very close runner-up, and my dad thinks it’s smart to make a pair out of us and
have us get married after graduation. He thinks combining the family name will only make us more powerful.

  Another Tabitha-like thing for him to say.

  I have nothing against Brandon, but I have no interest in marrying him. I have no interest in marrying anyone, especially some rich snob—no offense to myself. As a side note, I’m not a snob like most. I'm only actively annoyed by them.

  My hair falls into my face, and I use it as a way to block his glare. He tries so hard all the time to get my attention, but it can’t be because he’s interested... He isn’t. He wants my daddy’s money, which is laughable considering he has his daddy’s money already.

  He throws another paper ball at me, but this time it’s folded, and written on the outside is ‘Open me’. Dread fills the pit of my stomach as I stare at the lettering. It looks perfect, imitating old cursive, and reminding me of calligraphy or something along those lines. I pull the sleeves on my shirt, covering my hands as I open the folded paper.

  “Will you go to the ball with me tonight? My dad said I had to take you.”

  I scoff because I knew it. I click my pen and scribble my own reply. Folding it back up is out of the question. I ball it up and throw it to him, fast and hard, smacking him right in the forehead. His friends around him laugh, and he nudges them, warning them to stop.

  He reads my ‘NO!’ in capitalized letters and all. I wanted to make sure the message got across.

  “Rosie, come on.”

  Why can’t people leave me alone? That’s all I want.

  No, it isn’t what you want. You’re actually tired of being alone. My subconscious whips back. She can be a real pain in my rump.

  “It will be fun,” he says to me, throwing the paper once more. I watch it roll across my desk and fall onto the floor. “Listen—”

  “Am I interrupting you, Mr. Harlow?” the professor drones over Brandon's annoying mating call, rolling the chalk between his dusty white fingers.

  “No, sir. Just trying to see if Rosie would let me borrow notes from another class. Sorry, sir. Won’t happen again.

  I narrow my eyes at him, knowing that tone of voice. He fools everyone with his slick tongue and above-average charming skills, but he can’t fool me. A snake is still a snake after it sheds its skin, and Brandon slithers like the best of them.

  “Save it for after class,” Professor Carlisle says as he slaps his hands together and a cloud of chalk puffs into his face, making him sneeze so hard he hits his head against the chalkboard.

  The entire class groans from the sound of his head banging against the green slab. It has old chalk marks all over it and a nice, round circle from his skull. No one moves to help him as he bowls over, holding onto his desk. I jump out of my seat and run down to where he is barely keeping himself upright, moaning in pain as he holds his head.

  “Professor, are you okay? Do you need help or anything?” I ask, worried that he may have really hurt himself.

  He withdraws his hand from the back of his head to see if there is any damage, and I gasp. Blood decorates his fingertips, and he stares at me with a face that is as white as a ghost. “I think I may, yes,” he slurs right before his eyes roll to the back of his head and he passes out.

  “Oh, boy,” I murmur as I stretch my arms out and grunt when he falls into them. My feet lose their balance, stumbling a bit before I right myself. Wow, this teacher is so much heavier than he looks. I turn my head toward the class, and everyone is staring at me with open mouths.

  Of course, none of them are getting help. I yell at the seated mannequins, “Someone call 911, for goodness’ sake!” I maneuver him in a way that lets me get my hands under his arms, and I drag him to a nearby chair. Every muscle in my body protests because I’m doing this on my own and no one in the room is helping the girl who is five-foot-nothing, dragging a teacher who is over six feet tall.

  I place him in his big, leather chair that has chalk handprints all over it from the way he always turns it before sitting down. I want to laugh when I see it. This guy and his chalk, man. He loves it. I don’t, though. The blood makes this situation serious, and he needs someone to rally for him since no one else in the classroom will.

  I bring my ear to his lips to see if he’s still breathing. “Oh, thank god.” I hang my head with relief when his hot breath puffs against my skin.

  The sound of people murmuring yanks my attention away from the teacher. Whatever they are saying, it’s unintelligible. The door to the classroom yanks open and two paramedics run through the door, placing him on a gurney right as the bell rings. No one stays. Everyone runs out the door, excited about winter break and the stupid ball, but I stay behind. There’s no rush for me.

  “Is he going to be okay?” I ask in a soft voice, not wanting to bother the men working to heal my teacher.

  “Head wounds look worse sometimes than they really are. They bleed a lot because it is such a vascular area, but his pupils react to light, so that is good. We need to get him to the doctor, but the best neurosurgeon is in Glendive. He’ll have to go there,” the man with the mustache says, nodding to his partner to signal that he is ready to move.

  “Wait!” I run back to my desk to grab my books, but the paramedics don’t wait on me. Sprinting after them, I slow when I reach the pair. “That’s a few hours away. How will we know if he is okay? How will he get there? Will he make it?” I have too many questions. The guy might have a boring voice, but he is a good person. I don’t want to see him hurt like this.

  “We are airlifting him out. We do so with all head injuries. He will be there in twenty minutes with us by his side the whole time. We will take care of him.”

  My bottom lip quivers as I debate whether to give them my number so they can keep me updated, but they already gave me enough information to reach out to the hospital in Glendive if I really want to know anything further. “Okay, thank you.”

  They leave me in the dust, and I’m alone, taking my time as I walk to my car and begin to head home. There’s no need to rush. When I get to my car, I notice another piece of paper under one of my windshield wipers. “Oh, come on,” I grumble, pulling at my shirt to cover my hands again. Brandon’s handwriting stares me in the face.

  “I’ll see you at the ball.” I curl my lip in disgust when I see he drew a winking smiley face.

  Under my breath, I mumble, “No, you will not.” I have so many reasons not to go, but the urge to play dress-up still beats them all.

  Chapter Two

  Rosie

  “Rosie! Did you pick up my dry cleaning like I asked?” Tabitha asks in a pretentious tone, sauntering down the stairs in her long, silk robe with fur cuffs.

  “Yep, it’s hanging up in your dressing room, just like you wanted,” I say as I amble by her, dragging one foot in front of the other as I walk to my room to start getting ready for the ball. I have about three hours, which is plenty of time, but whenever I have to run my butt off for the wicked witches, time seems to be taken out of my hands.

  She grips my wrist hard in her hands, twisting her fingertips around my skin until it pulls. “Don’t take that tone with me, brat. Or I’ll have your father ship you off to Switzerland.” Her beady eyes dart around my face to make sure I get the warning.

  I yank my hand free and scoff. “Go ahead,” I say, waving my hand goodbye as I march up the steps. “Anything is better than this place.” I know they will never send me away. Who else will pick up the dry cleaning, dust all the wood in the mansion, and iron their clothes? Not even the maids have the time to get around to doing that. The house is too damn big.

  As quickly as I opened my bedroom door, I slam it shut. Sighing, I lean against my door and slide down the wooden frame. The hard surface rubs against my spine as I fall to the floor. My hands play with my hair as I think about how frustrated beyond belief I am with my life. People think I’m lucky to be living like this.

  A big, fancy house on top of a mountain, and the assumption that I get whatever I want is all they see.
No one takes into consideration how lonely I am. If I was able to, I’d trade all of this for love.

  I dip my head under the strap of the bag I use for school, and I take it off. A lot of people want to go home for break, but not me. I wish I was at school right now, instead of this grey-painted room.

  It used to be a beautiful, bright sky blue. My mom painted it to make sure I always felt happy in the morning. She believed bright colors affected your mood. I didn’t believe her at the time, but now that Tabitha redecorated my room to resemble something dark and depressing, I believe my mom.

  Tabitha even replaced my bed with a black, iron frame instead of the white, wooden one that my mom got me. A tear breaks free of my lower lash line, taking its time to roll down the curve of my cheek. It lands on my hand, and I watch as the light reflects off the water. I think about something my mom used to say.

  “Crying is good,” she’d say. “With each drop, the memory that hurts you most gets locked inside and it leaves you forever, making you feel a little bit better.” She said it every time I cried, even if I only got a paper cut. But she also made sure to tell me that it didn’t matter how many tears I cried because anything that hurts will always cause you some level of pain here and there. And sometimes, I might even find myself crying about the same things again.