Chapter Two
Ash
“To His Royal Highness, Prince Ashley of Trisea,” said Weston Creightly, the curator of the newly opened Brooklyn Museum.
A chorus of “Hear, hear’s!” echoed around the museum’s atrium which now served as a ballroom. What better way to celebrate a new art museum than by donating an obscene amount of money and then throwing a party in it? Everyone clinked their champagne flutes, took a small sip of the expensive, bitter bubbles, and then all eyes were on me.
That was the deal. Everyone always deferred to me. Whether leading the conversation, setting the group dynamic, or even the overall tone of an event, it was all up to me. It went with being born into the Trisean royal family. Except, this time, they weren’t deferring anything to me. This time, they wanted a speech.
I stood, smoothed the front of my formal dress jacket, pulled a folded paper from the inside pocket, and pretended to read from it. “Ladies, gentlemen, I’m so very honored to be in your presence tonight. Firstly, I’d like to thank all the people behind the scenes who helped make this event a success.” The obligatory applause crested, and when it died, I continued.
“The arts, I’m afraid, rarely get recognized as what they truly are or, perhaps more importantly, for what they truly do for us. Art has the power to transcend space and time, transporting us back to a long forgotten memory or even a distant, foreign land in the span of a single breath. It has the power to not only elicit emotion, a tear, a gasp, a chill up your arm, but to transmute it as well. How many of you have felt poorly, maybe after the end of a relationship or a tragic death, and chosen to listen to a piece of music in the hopes of feeling something else?”
I paused, taking in the dining room to see nodding heads and rapt, fixed gazes. “Sometimes, we want to feel better, and we search out uplifting or comforting art, and sometimes, we lean into that pain, finding the most melancholic, heartrending composition there is in the hope of fueling a catharsis. Art does that for us. It’s therapy, it’s cumulative, it’s representative of the entire human experience. It is, simply put, magic. With this donation to the Brooklyn Museum, on behalf of myself and the Trisean Royal Crown, I hope to have at least a small part in keeping that magic alive. Thank you.”
The crowd erupted in applause, and after a respectable amount of gracious nodding, I refolded the blank paper and sat back in my seat. I hadn’t needed speech writers or even notes in a number of years. I could cold read a room in seconds and give them the best speech they’d ever heard off the top of my head.
“Very well stated, Your Highness,” the curator said.
“Thank you. It took years of practice.”
Mr. Creightly didn’t quite know what to make of that. He simply smiled and turned to start a conversation with someone else at our table.
It was true. I’d been born royal, but I wasn’t born eloquent or with anything that resembled social graces. In fact, in my youth, I was known as an embarrassment to the Crown. It wasn’t unearned either. I was so horrendously unskilled at all the things I was supposed to be good at, I eventually gravitated toward more destructive things.
But I worked on it, hard and for a long time. I studied people day in and out. I practiced public speaking, first in front of the mirror and then with larger and larger crowds, until I became comfortable enough to do my due diligence as a member of the royal family. A prince has one job, support the king and queen. That can mean any number of things, but the two main responsibilities are: going on goodwill missions as ambassadors of the Crown when the king and queen are unable and making charitable donations to causes deemed worthy of the Crown’s money.
The thing is, once it all came together for me, once I could read a room and tell them precisely what they wanted to hear, I started to see how everyone, no matter how noble or gracious they appeared, everyone was after something. Everyone had ulterior motives. Everyone wanted something to make them even the tiniest bit better off than they were.
Seeing through the veil of social nuance exhausted me. It jaded me, and the people I trusted were few and far between.
How could I when, in this room alone, there were three people in unhappy relationships, four desperate for a baby with their partner but afraid to tell them, seven who were actively cheating, and one embezzling from his company. I wasn’t trying to notice the tells and ticks of unhappy people. I didn’t want to know how few honest people there were in the world. But once learned, once seen, it couldn’t be unseen.
The worst part was the women. They’d throw themselves at me because of my title. Each one more charming and beautiful than the next, and all wanting power or prestige or the security money offers. It was absolutely staggering.
So I played the game. I did the goodwill tours, and I attended all the right balls, galas and charity events. I donated to the right organizations, and I hated every second of it.
“Excuse me, Prince Ash?”
Thank the gods for attentive staff. Stationed directly behind me at all times, my security guard, Nathaniel, tapped on my shoulder. I angled my head so he could whisper in my ear.
That is, he pretended to whisper in my ear. I nodded a few times, then one final, grim nod when I was sure I had everyone’s attention.
“Ladies, gentlemen,” I said, standing at the table. “I’m afraid an urgent matter has come up that I must attend to.”
The collective, “Oh noes,” and “What a shames,” bounced off the marble floors and walls of the atrium. I held up my hands and smiled at the guests. “Please, please stay, enjoy the food. Enjoy the party. Enjoy the art. I must take my leave. I bid you all, adieu.”
And with that, my security guard led me out of the event.
“There. That wasn’t so bad was it?” Nathaniel asked as he opened the door to the black sedan with diplomat tags and the flag of Trisea flying above the headlights.
I smiled as Nathaniel slid in next to me. I trusted him implicitly. He had proven himself time and time again and had always been upfront about his motivations. Money. Nathaniel didn’t work for the Crown out of any sense of duty or national pride. He didn’t believe in the system. He wasn’t honor-bound to protect me like the vassals and royal guards of old. No. I paid Nathaniel very well to protect me, keep my schedule, and to occasionally get me out of events early. He was quite good at it, too.
“I suppose it could have been worse,” I said.
“Well, the good news is you only have one last gala tomorrow before you can return to Trisea.”
I shook my head, running my hands through my hair. “Is there any way you can get me out of it, Nathaniel?”
“I’m sorry, Your Highness. The Met Gala is quite an important event. Not attending would be categorically unwise.”
“I suppose you’re right. But make sure you get me out in no more than an hour.”
“Absolutely, Prince Ash.”