Royal Deception || ONC 2021

Chapter Four - Messalina

"Beautiful," Vincent says, appearing just to my left in the mirror's reflection. I glance at him, to where he'd just materialized out of thin air.

"I envy your ability to disappear." I say, pulling irately at the chiffon pink ball gown. Vincent snorts his laughter and steps closer.

"Why would you want to disappear in that?" He tugs at one of my three-quarter length sleeves, smirking wickedly in the mirror. I roll my eyes and try to see myself from his perspective.

Platinum ringlets fall gently over both shoulders, a small silver circlet rests on my bow with a trifecta of blue sapphires in the center. A lace bodice with a plunging neckline that hugs my figure and wispy sleeves that follow my movements. The glisten of a silver pendant in the hollow of my throat, accentuating my collar bones and bare shoulders. White flowers that trace my waistline and spiral down the layers of my skirt, which poofs out slightly due to the cage crinoline underneath.

"I'll trade you," I answer, staring wistfully at his simple black formal guardian attire. Black slacks, white shirt, black jacket. So effortless.

Vincent takes my hand and places it in the crook of his elbow, leaning down slightly to say, "I don't think I could pull that dress off half as well as you." He mocks.

With my free hand, I smack his forearm and roll my eyes. "I think we should find out." Comes my bitter response as Vincent tugs me forward and we slip out of the serenity of my bedroom.

"Hurry, or we'll miss your introduction." He deflects, moving us swiftly through the ornate corridors of the manor. Passing paintings of former rulers, busts of history's most favored kings and queens, swords and daggers protected by glass.

The farther we go, the louder the music becomes. The closer we get, the more my stomach churns. "So," I begin, desperate for a distraction. "What do you know of these men?" I inquire, because my legs are turning to jello and my hands are starting to sweat.

Vincent adjusts our pace slightly and places his free hand over mine in the crook of his elbow, gently freeing his jacket from my vise-like grip. "Nine have been personally invited by the king and queen. An innumerable amount requested an audience. And one was added to the list just this night."

"So last minute."

Vincent spares me a sideways glance, "Yes, I was inclined to deny him entrance. But he passed through the entry scanners without issue, his background is clean, and he's financially well off. Though I suggest you devote your affections to the nine that your parents hand picked."

I gulp and nibble on my lip, "Do you know any of them personally? What can I expect?" There's a hitch in my voice as I ask these questions, and Vincent draws us to a halt just before the huge double doors that lead into the concert hall. From within, classical music can be heard, the muted sounds of conversation mingling with the exhalted shouts of laughter from attendees in the midst of a dance.

"I know two personally, Sage Wilhelm and Colin Evensby. Both come from well off families and have successful business ventures of their own. Sage values beauty over brains but loves it when a woman can keep up with him. Colin isn't much for small talk and tends to hang back from a crowd. But at the end of tonight, the only opinion that matters is yours."

"What if my opinion is to send them all home and pretend this night never happened?" I voice, leaning in to press my forehead into Vincent's chest. He sighs and brushes a hand over my hair.

"I'd advise against that," he says, stepping back to look into my eyes. "Don't force anything Essie, just dance and enjoy yourself. What will happen, will happen."

I take a steadying breath and accept his advice. He squeezes my hand reassuringly and puts distance between us, leaving an object behind in my fingers. I peer down to see the soft pink mask with tiny white flowers around the eyes.

"I'll have them announce you," Vincent tells me as I pull apart the two silk ties and place the mask over my eyes, pulling tightly at the strings behind my head.

"If you must," I say softly to no one as Vincent's already slipped away to tell the whole room of my arrival. I fist my skirt nervously in my hands, wondering if anyone would notice if I slipped away now and hid in the gardens until dawn.

Then the doors are opening and light floods out, the music coming to a crescendo as a man says, "It is my honor to present Princess Messalina Elspeth, heir to the throne of Quinovia."

A roar of applause echoes through the room as my legs move me forward despite my mind's urgent cries to turn and run. I grit my teeth and smile at the crowds of young men and beautifully dressed women, all here to either earn my hand or act as a witness the event.

Vincent's waiting just inside the doors to reclaim my hand. His presence puts me slightly at ease among the curious stares of my people. This event is only my second public appearance since I was a child, the first being my presentation to the people when my parents announced that I would be taking over the throne.

Vincent leans in close to heard over the sounds of excitement. "You'll be asked to dance by most of the men here, you'll be obligated to accept." His warn couldn't been timed more perfectly as a young man with a forest green mask approaches and extends his hand.

"Princess, allow me to introduce myself as Xavier Cross, would you dance with me?" I barely have time to formulate a response as Vincent passes my hand over to Xavier, who accepts it eagerly.

"Oh, wait, I mean—" I stammer as I'm swept onto the dance floor. Music swells in the background and Xavier's hands find my waist, my own encircling his neck out of practiced instinct.

The tempo draws us in and I'm caught in the sensation of feeling myself whirling around, passing from one man's hands to the next. I realize Xavier had only intended to get on the dance floor, not to keep me to himself. Every spin sends me to a new partner, each dip makes my head spin just a little bit more, and I lose count of how many times I feel someone's hand grip my ass.

My only sense of passing time is when each song ends and another begins. It becomes suddenly clear why my attendants dressed me in comfortable flats instead of heels and why my hair has an army's worth of bobby pins to hold it in place. I start to feel sick somewhere in the middle of the fifth song, and my head begins an awful pounding that rivals the music.

I stumble as I'm passed between partners, and I chagrinned cry escapes me. A set of hands find my waist and steady me, I expect them to thrust me back into the throng of bodies so I squeeze my fingers around their forearms, holding on for dear life.

"Please don't." I say quickly, blinking rapidly to clear away the disorentiation and meet my partner's eyes. I find an angular face with soft brown eyes hidden beneath swirls of gold and silver. His long blond hair is in a neat ponytail at the base of his neck, giving me a clear view of the black lines that show above the collar of his shirt.

He smiles and says, "I could use a drink." The man grips my hand and pulls us through the dancers toward the edge of the dance floor. I cling to him, knowing he's my best chance at escaping this endless dancing madness.

It's a relief when we push through a gap in the masses and end up standing amid chattering people and women wearing revealing dresses and serving wine glasses brimming with golden fluid. The stranger releases my hand and waves down a woman carrying a nearly empty platter of glasses. She turns to head in our direction, bowing low to the floor when she recognizes me.

I feel my cheeks burn with a blush and wave her formalities away. "No need," I say quickly when other heads begin to swivel our way. The man beside me chuckles softly and plucks up two flutes, passing one to me.

"Princess Messalina, I presume," he says with a short, yet still respectful, bow of his head. I nod and accept the champagne, gripping it tightly between shaking hands.

"And you are?" I prompt when he doesn't willingly offer it. The man smirks and takes a long sip from his glass.

When he's finished, he reaches out to take my hand and lift it to his lips. The top of hand brushes the remnants of a beard and I see the light blond shadow around his chin. His lips gently brush my skin and the sensation sends a shiver down my spine.

"Logan Estelle, pleased to meet you." 

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Word count: 1544.

Total: 8400.