Sage

“You are running out of time and women, son,” Father barks.

I lean back in the seat of the Rolls-Royce white limo on our way to my personal hell—I mean, possible future wife. I roll my eyes, thankful I have my sunglasses on, and he can’t see. I made that mistake once and will never make it again.

“I know, sir. What can I say, the others were not up to my standards,” I state with no emotion.

“Your standards?” he grits through his teeth. “Your standards have been off since day one. It’s time for you to get your mind right and get ready to rule this country like the Stevinson you are.”

“Yes, Father,” I agree, because I’ve fought this for years, and have all but given up.

I should be thankful they respected the private way of life I wanted to live the last few years, but that was my mom’s doing. She’s the only one who understands my wanting to actually do good, not just lend my name.

She would rather be on my side, but she has to uphold the image of our family. And that’s all it is—an image. Noses in the air, a holier-than-thou “I’m-too-good-for-everyone-else” attitude, an overall perception that I absolutely hate. My gaze roams over the tailored suit my father’s wearing that probably cost more than what some people make in a year here in Canterbury. Bile boils in my stomach at the thought.

We pull up to The Ridge and wait for our driver to open the door. I despise this part. I don’t want them thinking I’m incapable of doing anything for myself. But God forbid a royal let himself out of a car.

A deep sigh escapes my lips, which earns me a nasty glare from dad. After swallowing my anger, I step out, hoping this girl does something for me.

Gripping my Prada sunglasses in my hand, I glance over the empty room, shocked she's not here waiting like the puppy I make them all out to be.

According to tradition, I am to marry by my twenty-fifth birthday, and I've waited as long as I possibly could. I don't really have any options, well hardly. Picking between four women who were bred to be my wife is hardly much of a choice.

The two I’ve met already have been the same. Both formal as hell and stiff as can be. I tried to get to know them, but I couldn’t look at them without wanting to jump off a cliff from the boredom their expressions displayed. I'd rather eat glass than spend a lifetime married to the prim and proper nightmares I’d encountered.

I could have said I wanted them to eat dirt and they happily would have, just to be by my side and satisfy my every whim.

That is exactly what I don’t want.

I need someone with passion, fire that burns so deeply I'll have to play the fighter to tame it, even when we’re old and gray.

Just because I'm to be king one day doesn't mean I can't live the life I want. I’ve been able to push the limit on every turn…except this one. My father would not go against tradition for anything—no matter how hard I fought.

I have four more months until I turn twenty-five, and this is the third girl I’ve met from this approved list. If I don't like her, I'm screwed. I’ll have no option other than to be with number four—even though I have no idea who she is.

The doors fly open, and my heart skips a beat when my eyes play tricks on me. Our security team walks with them, allowing access to us so I know I’m not hallucinating.

I picked The Ridge for a reason. For the past eight years, whenever I was in town, I’d stare out the window from the palace to a rock on the other side of Mount Palisade. If I were lucky, I’d catch a glimpse of the most beautiful, mischievous girl I've ever seen sitting on a rock by herself.

She first caught my attention when I was still a scrawny boy, awkward in my own body and not sure of whom I was supposed to be versus who I wanted to be.

Over the years, I’ve noticed her evolve in the same ways I found myself changing. The day she took off her schoolgirl uniform and threw it as far as she could, proved she was facing the same struggles I was in my life. I was jealous she seemed to be doing something about it, while I just did as I was told.

It was because of her that I started standing up to my father. Constantly fantasizing about what she would do if she were in the same situation.

The idea was crazy. I didn’t actually know her, but in my mind, she was my personal inspiration for who I wanted to be.

With my last few visits home, I've watched her do yoga, read, and one time, I even watched her dance by herself.

I'm sure she thought no one was watching her, but I was. Absolutely mesmerized by the way her body moved. I couldn't do anything but stare. I was so tempted to sweep her into my arms and sway along with her, but there was something about her that held me back.

I was so intrigued by what I saw that I worried reality would ruin my fantasy girl. The idea of her was the person I could envision when whomever I married didn’t give me the life I desired. Sounds fucked up—even I'll admit it—but so does forcing me to marry someone I don't know, much less love.

My luck must be changing. My dream girl just walked into my reality. The other girls I've met—and turned down—showed up in dresses resembling something their mothers would wear. The polyester, knee-length ensembles did zilch to turn me on—the exact opposite actually. Nothing says I'm boring in bed like a light-pink dress covering more than it should. Prim and proper equates to prudish and dull. There's nothing mundane about the girl who caught my attention years ago, though.

My vision works down her purple, mauve, and navy-blue skirt hugging her curvy figure, flowing all the way to her toes. When I move my focus up her figure, my cock twitches to life at her navy-blue top that's loose around her chest but so low cut her cleavage peeks through in a hidden, seductive way.

“You must be Judy and Everly Stanley,” Dad says as they approach.

Our eyes meet, and I'm surprised at the sight peering back at me. Every other girl had this plea in her stare, begging me to take her. But all I see in Everly is the same reflection that stared back at me before I left my house.

She doesn't want to be here any more than I do.

“Yes, it’s so nice to meet you, sir, ma’am,” her mom says, curtsying to my parents.

I hold out my hand to Everly, noting how awkward it is to shake the hand of someone my parents are encouraging me to marry. The irony is not lost on her either.

Her lips tilt up, but the smile doesn’t reach her eyes when she says, “How do you do?”

Wet and dirty is the response playing in my mind, and I have to bite back the stolen opportunity to surprise the hell out of her. If only we’d met at another time or place, without our parents around.

I glance at her mother, smiling sweetly. Instead of letting go of Everly’s hand, I lift it, bringing it to my lips and kissing it softly.

The annoyance spilling off her causes me to let out a slight cough, disguising my laughter. Trying to hide the enjoyment, I peek down to find her nails painted a mauve color to match her dress—all but the ring finger, which is painted black.

Do I think this is a coincidence? No.

It’s her subtle way of showing me that she disagrees with this whole arranged-marriage tradition as much as I do. Funny how it has the exact opposite effect on me that she had hoped.

I’ve never wanted someone to know the real me more than I want her to right now.

Not because I have to.

But because I want to.

I’m introduced to her mom, Judy, and we head toward a seating area. It doesn’t take a genius to notice Everly sits as far away from me as possible. That’s okay though, I need to gather my thoughts some more. This entire meeting just took a turn I never saw coming. For now, I’ll sit back and see if the girl I’ve watched for so long is really the woman I’ve made her out to be this entire time.

“Tell me, Everly, what did you study in school?” Mother asks, trying to ease into a friendly conversation.

“Film and music production,” she says with excitement.

I nod my head slightly, enjoying seeing a glimpse of the passion I always thought she had, but it disappears just as quickly as it arrived.

My mom holds her hand to her heart. “Ah, I love classical music. Was there a favorite composer you wrote your thesis about?”

She smirks, and I swear my cock twitches again at the mischievous way she responds, “No, I’m sorry. I’m not really a fan of classical music. I studied music production, which is everything needed to produce rock, pop, electronic dance beats, and even rap using Pro Tools and mixing boards.”

I have to bite the inside of my lip when I see my dad’s face blanch in absolute disbelief. Anything other than classical music is a disgrace to him. The kind of music she described is for commoners not held to royal standards.

Thank God I lived the past few years at boarding schools where I was introduced to everything life offers, including music.

“Is there a style you like better?” I ask, sitting up to lean toward her, loving where this conversation has gone.

She shrugs. “I like a little bit of everything New Age, especially after learning all that goes into it. I’m impressed with anything that creates a good beat and an original sound.”

Her response is perfect. This girl is real—unwilling to hold back who she is, which means a lot to me.

“How about you, Prince Sage, what did you study in London?” her mom asks.

I want so badly to tell her I studied foreign cultures, majoring in African studies, but feel my dad’s glare and tell her the lie I’ve told everyone else. “Business management and law,” I state matter of factly.

What I studied was pretty much the only big family battle I’ve ever won. Since I was in London, we were able to hide my true passions. Mom helped convince Dad, but with everything I do in my spare time, it just made more sense. And it’s not like I needed a degree to land a job. My future was already clearly spelled out.

I glance at Everly, taking in the girl I’ve studied from afar, still in disbelief she’s here. She looks comfortable in her chair as she reaches for her water. There’s nothing stiff or pretentious about the way she takes a sip.

Her brown hair is straight and runs down her back, which is a big difference from the other two candidates I’ve met whose hair was pinned up like a football. Her makeup is done naturally, and instead of gaudy jewelry, she only has on a simple yet elegant watch. She’s practical, and I like that.

If she’s here—one of the only four allowed by my father—I can only imagine she’s just like them, yet there’s something different about her.

“Shall we step outside, alone?” I ask, standing and holding out my hand, dying to see if what I thought for years is truth or fantasy.

Before she can reach for it, my father interrupts. “No, how about we all move toward the dining room? I’m sure they are set up for us.”

I turn, giving him a confused expression. That’s not the plan. Dinner wasn’t for an hour, and her mom’s face displays nothing but pure panic. Everly, on the other hand, appears relieved when she stands without hesitation.

I’ll have to find another way to get her alone so I can get to know her better, and hopefully change the perception she seems to already have of me.

I place my hand on the small of her back, leading her into the dining room where every table is set with white tablecloths, every type of glass and utensils you could ever imagine and a bouquet in the center that would rival the fanciest weddings. But there’s no wedding, not even a group of patrons. The entire place is set this way just for us.

After I pull out her chair, helping her push it closer to the table, I take a seat opposite her. I want to know more about her, but I get the feeling she’s not going to open up tonight. If I’m lucky, her facial expressions will guide me to the real her.

“Everly, my dear,” Mom breaks the silence while everyone searches their dinner menu. “Do you also play an instrument?”

Her eyes shine when she glances over the top of her menu at me first, then to my mom. “I’ve played the guitar since I was a teenager.”

Mom brings her hand to her chest in surprise. “The guitar?”

I watch as panic fills Judy’s face, and she places her hand over Everly’s. “I tried to get her to play the violin, but her instructor swore to me she could transfer easily in a few years since it was a string instrument.”

“Nope, not for me,” Everly barely whispers under her breath, making me cough to hide the laugh forcing its way out.

I don't think anyone in the royal family has ever played the guitar. I tried, but my parents both said it was not distinguished enough and only made noise.

“She plays beautifully.” Judy tries to save the moment.

“Yes, I’m sure,” Mom replies, looking down to her menu, not wanting to continue the conversation.

I keep my eyes glued to Everly. The way her eyes crinkle on the sides proves she’s hiding a smile behind her menu. She’s got a devious side to her just like I envisioned when I watched her from afar. But I can also see there’s more to her.

So much of my own personality is reflecting back at me. I can tell there’s a crazy side to her, but also a side that makes her stand out from the crowd. She doesn’t seem to be afraid to be who she wants to be and not what others thinks she should be. I like that.

“Everly,” I say, getting her attention and waiting to see what her instant reaction is to me. Just like I expected, she pauses for a moment before turning her head in my direction, acknowledging me without speaking. The other girls I’ve met would have already had their sights set on me, waiting for me to talk to them. But not her. “Tell me. What’s your life’s ambition?”

She’s taken aback by my question, which is the exact reaction I wanted. I don’t want to know what I can see on the outside. I want to know what’s inside.

She thinks about it before smiling and saying, “Not to be a housewife.”

A sharp laugh escapes my lips. Not at all what I expected to come out of her mouth. “You have something against being a housewife?” I ask, mocking offense.

“No. I’m just quoting Jackie Kennedy. When she was asked a similar question in her high school yearbook, she answered the same thing. It’s always stuck with me. She wanted kids and to be an involved mom, but she wanted to go out and make a difference in the world, too. I think it’s possible to do both.”

“So, you want to be the President’s—or, in this case, the king’s—wife, just like her?”

“Not if I’m in a cheating relationship like she was, I don’t.”

I love her spitfire response. She’s not afraid to say what she believes, and her expression was stern enough to make sure I heard her correctly. “Then tell me, are you making a difference now?”

“I’m trying.”

My eyebrows rise, encouraging her to continue. She smiles and drops her menu, seemingly wanting to be in this conversation.

“I volunteer at an orphanage. I’m sure you’ve heard my father passed before I was born. My mom has done an amazing job raising me on her own.” She glances in her mom’s direction and smiles. “I know what it’s like not to have a father. I connect with the kids who have lost their parents, and I’d like to say I help guide them in a way only a person who has been through it could.”

I can’t stop the smile growing on my face. “How long have you been volunteering there?”

“Everly, why don’t we order our food now,” Dad interrupts us, nodding to the waiter approaching the table. It’s obvious he doesn’t want me to hear what she has to say. He hates that I want to volunteer and actually do things instead of just stand for photo ops.

Until now, I’ve had to do my volunteering outside of our country. It’s bizarre I can’t help our people the way I help other countries. No, we’re not a third world country, but we still have needs, and there are so many good things I can do…if he would only allow it.

I watch as Everly scans the menu with a different purpose than before. She liked where our discussion was heading. Thoughts that I might have broken through the first sheet of glass fill me with hope.

After she orders, I do the same, and while everyone else orders, she picks up right where we were. “I’ve been going for about a year now. There’s this particular child who lost everyone and hadn’t spoken for a few years. It’s such a sad situation, but I’ve been hanging out with him, not trying to get him to talk, just playing with him. The other day, he spoke to me for the first time.” She sits back, relishing in the happy memory. “It was magical.”

I lean toward her, wanting to experience the rush of passion she’s remembering. Our eyes lock and for the first time I can tell she’s finally seeing me. Not as a prince but as someone her age who she might want to get to know. Her face flushes slightly so I lean in closer. “Yes, I would imagine so.”

“Sage,” Dad interrupts again, giving me a stern stare before turning to Judy to ask a mundane question that’s irrelevant in the grand scheme of things.

I take a deep breath, trying to calm my anger. Here I am, actually wanting to get to know one of his prospects and he’s not having it. Figures.

In a normal family, hearing about these amazing things she’s doing would make them only love her more, but mine’s not normal. My parents only put on the front that they care, but the thought of them sitting on the floor to actually interact with children at an orphanage is laughable. They would never get close to people in low society, even kids.

I stopped going to family photo ops years ago for this exact reason. I wanted to actually help these kids in any way I could, but my dad chastised me when I expressed my intent of setting up something as simple as an inner-city soccer game.

The woman I will wed is someone who would want to actually do something to help everyone, no matter what social class they are in. Realization hits me that I might actually get my wish.