Big red double decker buses zoom down the street, cabs stop for passengers, pedestrians spew onto the sidewalks and streets like a complex maze of bodies.

Having grown up in small town suburbia, I'm completely out of my element in a city. Especially a historic, giant metropolis like London.

Not to say that I don't acknowledge the perks of living here. It is beautiful for one; absolutely breathtaking in both its history and modernity. The culture is unlike anything I've ever experienced, from the theater to the underground scene to the royals. A cult-like exclusive existence that I'm now a part of, I guess.

Bennett escorts my mother from our town car onto the sidewalk, and then reaches back in to offer me a hand. I take it gratefully, and my heels hit the pavement in wobbly unsureness. I guess I need to get used to this if I'm to be attending all of these events now.

Camera flashes blind me, the paparazzi trying to capture any ounce of skin or tension between my mother, Bennett and me. They're vultures in the most basic sense; animals picking the bones of any unsuspecting victim. The hack job they've done on my mother and I has been horrific, and I have to refrain from lifting my middle finger in salute. Wouldn't be very royal of me.

Okay, so technically I'm not a royal and never will be. I'm a side attachment, the bastard as much as Jon Snow is. Half of Bennett's family just tightly nods at me whenever I'm in the room.

The Dunmore Ballroom is lit up like a Christmas tree, with red spotlights and a cream-colored carpet adorning the entrance. It’s definitely the grandest affair I’ve been to since we touched down, and I won’t lie and say there aren’t enormous moths flapping around in my stomach. I wipe my damp hands on the navy floor-length wrap dress one of the Palace stylists picked out, and pull the silver wrap around my shoulders a little tighter.

Before my future stepdad fell into our lives, jeans and dusty Converse were the norm. Now? I'm adjusting to cashmere, silk and tulle. The dresses they put me in, the hairstyles they whip up, the way in which the experts make my skin look dewy and sharp at the same time. I reach my left hand up self-consciously and finger a soft, red curl.

I have to admit, the pampering has been easy to get used to. For someone who used to swipe on ChapStick and call it a day, the prettiness of it all is alluring. And even though it may be vain, I feel sexy and womanly in a way I never have before.

“Rachel! Rachel! Will you be wearing the traditional McAlister veil?”

“Has Bennett told you about his past?”

“Nora! Do you still have that bikini?”

The slam of reality into my temples is harsh and blinding, and the bodyguards rush us inside.

We’re tucked into a corner of the foyer, the maroon and gold carpet as rich as the gold leaf wallpaper. Chandeliers hang from every inch of the ceiling, and someone asks if they can take my wrap.

“Will this ever stop?” I hear my mother whisper to Bennett, who presses his lips to the side of her forehead.

“Unfortunately, as much as I want it to, probably not. This is my life, and I don’t know how to apologize for dragging you into it.”

Mom sighs but smiles. “You didn’t, I dragged myself in. And there is nowhere I’d rather be.”

It’s as if they only have the capacity to see each other, and even though she is my parent, it’s very romantic. I guess I never really believed in love the way they seem to have it, until I saw it between them.

“Duke McAlister, your presence is required in the ballroom, now.” A man in a tuxedo appears out of nowhere, looking very official.

And just like that, we all snap to, putting on professional faces. It isn’t like I was forced to take a course on etiquette, but with all of the events I’ve been to in the past three months, I might as well have been.

The rules are numerous and sometimes stuffy. I’m to follow behind my mom and Bennett whenever they enter a room, and none of us can ever touch affectionately in a setting such as this. I’m to excuse myself if I need to get up from the table, and curtsy when the men stand to dismiss me from it. Even though my eighteenth birthday has come and past, I’m only allowed a sip of champagne during a toast, and no more. The salad fork is on the left, higher ranking officials must start a conversation with you and not the other way around, and under no circumstances am I supposed to start a flirtation with anyone. Bennett’s advisor, Jasper, was very clear about that.

“This could be fun, kiddo.” Mom smiles at me just as we’re about to be introduced to the ballroom.

I roll my eyes, showing her my enthusiasm. At least one thing hasn’t changed since our lives were turned upside down, and that’s the relationship we have. It may be corny, but my mom really is my best friend. She’s the yin to my yang, the one who will rub my back when I’m sick and open all of the car windows when a good song comes on in the middle of a summer drive.

“Introducing, Duke Bennett McAlister of Westminster, and his fiancée, Ms. Rachel Randolph, accompanied by her daughter, Miss Nora Randolph.”

The elaborate, floor to ceiling doors open into the ballroom, and the dazzle of hundreds of twinkling chandelier lights hit my corneas before I process anything else. I try to keep my head straight and my gaze forward, but there are too many things to see. Noble men in the most expensive tuxedos I’ve ever seen, the women that accompany them in floor length gowns of the most beautiful colors. Tables set with mile high floral arrangements, with china that must have been forged in the early nineteenth century.

From somewhere over our heads, an orchestra plays a pretty but regal tune, and the entire room stands at attention to greet my future stepfather.

Even with all of its intricacies and headaches, this life was mesmerizing. I may complain about the attention and the rumors, but this was every little girl’s dream in her deepest heart. I was living a princess’s life, and it was moments like this that shook me straight to the core and almost knocked me on my ass.

But just to be sure, I secured my wobbling ankles in my heels. Last thing I needed was the press getting ahold of a story about me falling flat on my face at one of the most important dinners of the year.

After our entrance, we are seated at one of the head tables, and the boring conversations begin. About policy and the government and polo matches. I largely tune it out, picking at the overly dressed Waldorf salad that’s been set in front of me.

By the time Bennett starts in about a charity theater project he’s heading up, my ears can’t take anymore. “Excuse me, I’m going to use the restroom.”

I get a couple of blank stares from some around the table, and I realize too late that I’ve used an American word.

“Okay, honey, you’ll be okay on your own?” My mom sets a hand on my mine.

“Of course, Mom, I’m not going to fall in.” I whisper this only to her, as bathroom humor doesn’t seem like it would be appreciated in this crowd.

Walking across the ballroom, I feel the eyes glued to me. Some stares are greedy, given by men too old to be looking at me like that. Others are inquisitive, wanting to know more about what lies underneath my skin. And others are malicious, wishing me ill will or harm. When you’ve been stared at the way I have for weeks on end, you get good at gauging the weight of people’s glances. Of feeling their intentions simply from the expression they cast upon you.

Once in the foyer, I head for the direction I think the bathrooms may be.

“HA!” A shrieking laugh captures my attention.

But the sound didn’t come from the hallway I’m in, rather, it came from above. Moving out from the hallway I’ve walked down, I spot a staircase, marble and red carpet sweeping up to a floor I can’t see.

Another sound comes, this one deeper, more male in its tone.

And I’m too curious not to follow it. The sound of my heels is muffled on the carpet as I use the big sloping bannister to climb.

“Give me some of that!” A girlish lilt trickles out of a doorway as my foot hits the top step, and a beam of light splashes onto the marble floor.

“Come over here and take it.” A boy’s voice, laced with innuendo, calls back to her.

“Bloody hell, Ed, this tastes like piss.” Another girl’s voice, deeper than the first one, rings out.

I move closer, trying to get an eye on the first interesting scene I’ve come across all night.

But my hand must hit the wall, or my heel makes a scratching noise on the floor, because before I know it, I’m face-to-face with the same pair of condescending green eyes that assaulted me in the hallway on the first day of school.

“Well, well, what do we have here?”