3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

My eye twitches as, arm in arm, one of the groomsmen leads me toward the front of the chapel. It flutters when Cecily and Gage exchange their vows. My twitchy eye threatens to wiggle jiggle down the aisle and out the door as everyone claps, celebrating their union.

Given that it’s Cecily’s big day, the wedding guests are relatively discreet about being in the presence of a duchess, but it’s impossible not to notice how their attention lands on me, watching, evaluating, speculating.

I’ve never understood the big deal. I’m a regular person, just like them. I just happen to wear a tiara sometimes.

All I ask is that they don’t notice the involuntary movement of my eyes, which are both now a-twitch. If someone catches this on film, it’ll be splashed all over social media and ultimately make its way back to my mother. She’ll fake concern, send me to a specialist, and tell me to get over it.

Then she’ll blame me for choosing the wrong pearls for the garden party, forgetting her purse, or staining her silk scarf. She’s always fussing, pointing out flaws, and playing the victim victor—she’s a master at making her woes the center of attention and using that to lord over all of us.

Because my wedding is next, that means signing away what I have left of my independence. Not only will my mother still have supreme authority over my life, but Antony will, too. I’m not at all opposed to marriage, but the kind of union that comes from a relationship, love, and a promise to each other.

Antony and I have had two stiff conversations. One was about the Concordian banking system. During the other, he argued with me about my take on the tax situation. He votes for more. I say less. He’s so obtuse that he thought the minutes before I presented the winners at a toy Scotchpoodle purebred show would be a good time to tear apart my beliefs about how to infuse more resources into our economy while keeping money in our citizens’ pockets.

My eye twitches again. As everyone congratulates the bride and groom in the receiving line crowd, lingering a little longer on me than Cecily and Gage, I eye the exit.

Wearing a smile, nodding, and replying politely to inquiries about Concordia and my upcoming wedding, I tell myself I can hear the soothing sound of the waves rolling into the shore over the incessant small talk. That the sun is warming my face and the perspiration pooling at my lower back isn’t from imagining myself on my wedding day.

I’m modern royalty, and I know people would do almost anything to be in my position and experience the extravagance and opulence of life close to the throne. I’m not complaining. But all I want is a moment to breathe. A break. A release from the constant pressure. Unfortunately, Myra can’t help me there, even though she keeps me in her line of sight at all times. My personal security is here somewhere, too, blending in.

My thoughts wander to the last time I experienced full freedom. For one school year, I was the girl next door and had my own life before I handed it over. My thoughts snag sunsets, beach bonfires, and sharing laughter with my friends.

The scene dissolves and in its place appears my wedding day, with me in an elegant gown by Antony’s side.

My entire body twitches, but no one notices as the smiles and laughter continue, the string quartet plays in the background, and Phyllis Lichtfugte, a cousin several times removed, asks if once installed in the fiduciary, if I plan to reform the monetary allotment for superannuation.

I’m about to reply that she’ll have to ask Antony when I realize something. If no one batted an eyelash (pun not intended) at my twitchiness, maybe they wouldn’t notice if I disappeared.

Just for a minute. I’m sure there’s a room in this building where I can be by myself...or I could go down to the beach briefly.

Surreptitiously looking left and right, I shuffle back slightly. No one steps forward, returning me to my position in the receiving line. I repeat the motion once more. When the gap in the line closes and I’m not thrust back into it, with a swish of my skirt, I slip through the nearest door without so much as a knock. I expect someone to follow me or for Myra to appear as if out of thin air, but I’m alone.

The room is small with a sitting area, a bookshelf, and a large wooden clock. I’m guessing vendors and the resort personnel meet here to plan for events like weddings.

Peering out the window, I’m on the ground floor. There is no other exit. If I crawl through the open window, I could make my escape.

I just want to spend a few minutes on the beach. That’s all. No one will miss me. That’s not true, otherwise, this wouldn’t be an issue. But if I’m quick, maybe they won’t notice my absence.

I tell myself I’ll take five minutes tops to dip my neon-painted toenails in the water.

Voices rise and fall from the other side of the door. I shove open the window the rest of the way.

“Maybe she had to use the ladies’ room,” someone says.

“I was just about to ask her about the benefits of bonds under the proposed changes in the financial regime bill.” That’s Phyllis again.

My eyelid twitches.

I cannot talk to another person about the Concordian economy. At least not today. Sliding my shoes and phone under a chair, I clamber out the window and slide behind the hedge. Peering above it, a group on the sidewalk blocks my passage toward the beach.

A male voice says, “I cannot fathom why she’d marry Antony. Everyone knows he’s a cheat and a liar. The man is as slippery as the oil on the North Concordian Craug Slope.

Sheesh. Can’t they focus on Cecily and Gage for a minute? This would be a good time to have a twin who’d switch identities with me. Katherine and I look nothing alike and she’s a few years younger. On the downside, if there were two of me, that would just mean Mother would have more people to boss around.

How about a doppelg?nger? Though, I don’t suppose Myra could obtain one of those.

“She must be around here somewhere,” Aunt Helene says.

Feeling slightly foolish, yet cornered behind this bush, all I need are a few moments of solace. But that’s not going to be found back in the venue. Edging in the other direction, my sequined gown picks up a few dry bougainvillea leaves as I sneak out of my hiding place. But I can’t go back. I’ll find another beach access gate.

A throaty male says, “Don’t worry. We’ll find her. She couldn’t have gone far.”

My eyelid twitches, and I count the seconds between comments about where I might be like lightning and thunder during a storm. This must be how a cornered animal feels, cast into fight-or-flight mode. I don’t bare my teeth, but I do run in the opposite direction, keeping to the tree line.

Still on the resort property, I pause in front of the valet.

“Your ticket, please?” asks the young man with curly, surfer blond hair.

Once again, my memories travel to my senior year of high school. If only I could be that free and have that much fun again.

A wild idea takes shape. Without overthinking what the consequences might be, I brush my hands along my gown and then turn them upward. “I didn’t have anywhere to put it.” The lie drops guilt deep inside because I’m not a liar, but I’ll deal with that later.

“Oh, which car is yours, then?”

Shielding my eyes from the sun, I survey the parking lot. Full transparency: I did not park a vehicle at the valet. Which one would a car thief pick? Never mind. They’d probably just jump in the closest and race away. For twenty-four hours, I don’t want to think. No, make that forty-eight. That’s all I want. Maybe that’s less than I need, but it’ll have to do.

I point to a teal convertible. “That one there.”

In ninety seconds, the valet pulls up, passes me the keys, and lets out a low whistle. “Gotta love the Bentley Continental GT.”

A thrill rushes through me and I take the keys, my passport to freedom. “Thanks, you won’t regret this.” I make note of his name in case he gets in trouble for aiding and abetting my crime. I’ll be sure Myra compensates him for legal fees and for his trouble. Get him one of these fancy cars in his favorite color.

As I speed away, I howl into the wind, a runaway bridesmaid, feeling home free.

Cruising along a palm tree-lined street under a blue sky with the golden sun shining above, I have a quintessential top-down convertible moment. Without my phone or any idea how to use the infotainment system on the dash, I follow signs and find the coastal highway that leads south as I admire the view to my right.

With the music up, I drive as my mind detours down memory lane until I arrive in the small beach town where I spent my senior year of high school, pretending to be the girl next door instead of a Barclay—yes, the billionaire royal family.

When I arrive at Palisade Shores, home of sun, surf, and summer fun, I park at Golden Sands Beach.

Rushing barefoot onto the sand, I lift my arms and spin in a circle. Not caring that the gown’s hem gets wet, I splash my feet in the shallows.

A family builds a sandcastle. Two young guys play frisbee and two little girls flutter imaginary flippers, undoubtedly playing “mermaid.” There is so much laughter and happy shouts as kids bodyboard and goof around in the water. I cannot resist a smile...and the best part, they hardly pay attention to me, except perhaps for a few side eyes at my beach attire.

Out past the breakers, surfers paddle, pop up, and ride waves, some shuffling to the front and hanging five. One girl does a handstand. A guy on a longboard, like I remember trying when I lived here, glides smoothly down the face of the wave before turning at the bottom and continuing his ride, outrunning the whitewater.

He reminds me of Sunny, all smiles and ease, laughter and fun. Had I stayed here with Gran-mère, my life would’ve looked a lot like this. Don’t get me wrong, I care about Concordia, but the role was given to me. Not earned or even wanted. Katherine would’ve been the better choice, but I’m the oldest, so the duchess by default.

Dropping down to sit in the sand, if I squint, I can almost see the life I could have instead take shape. The one my heart longs for. Liquid rises to my eyes, but I push it away.

For the first time since I was last here, I feel free...and sleepy. A yawn escapes. Being here again is the best kind of escape. I’ll deal with the consequences of running off, Myra’s worry, and the security team lecture later. Can’t say this was the best half-baked plan, but it’s certainly not the worst. Not even close.

Nope, being back in SoCal is a happy, peaceful dream.

...and I doze off in the sand with the warm sun on my face.