Prince Maxwell Valora had to adjust to his new bodyguard since his former one had to take a maternity leave.
But GOD, he hated that man.
Damien Westwood was everything Maxwell loathed: overly serious, infuriatingly punctual (most of the times), and...
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I lean back against a pillar, champagne in hand, surveying the lively chaos of the party. The sound of classical music rings through the room, which is a whirlwind of colorful faces.
Today is just another day. My mother is hosting one of her many parties at the palace. Normally, I don't mind parties—quite the opposite, actually. But my mother's parties are not the ones I look forward to.
She invites politicians, celebrities, royalty, and other important figures, forcing me to act like a proper, functioning human being instead of a lazy alcoholic.
I glance at the clock—he's late. He should be here already. I don't remember his name since I've only heard it once when Monica mentioned I'd be getting a new bodyguard. Something with a "D," I guess. Maybe Dane, or David.
My previous bodyguard was a 37-year-old woman named May. She had dark skin and a muscular figure I was always jealous of, but she treated me like a younger brother, which was nice. Last weekend, I was informed that she's pregnant and can't be my bodyguard anymore.
Why do the best women always get pregnant and have to leave? The same thing happens with English teachers at school. Not that I have any personal experience, since I was homeschooled, but I've heard about it on the internet.
This "Dane" dude isn't leaving a very good first impression, I must say. Being late on the first day is not a good look. That also means whatever happens to me right now is his fault, which gives me the idea of doing something stupid just to mess with the bodyguard agency, like screaming loudly and then jumping into that huge cake over there... What am I even thinking?
I figure I should rather socialize with the crowd. There aren't as many young women as I'd prefer, but all these people came here to meet the royal family, so I'll show them a royal family.
I set my glass of champagne down on the tray that a nearby waiter is holding. Just as I take my first step, a young man appears in front of me.
"Prince Maxwell?" he asks, probably rhetorically. I mean, who doesn't know Prince Maxwell? He's wearing a simple business suit, so I doubt he's one of the guests. They usually wear fancier clothes. Still, he's cute.
I also notice his messy hair, wounded knuckles, a small mic in his ear, and a gun on his belt.
"Are you a bodyguard in training?" I ask with a smile after nodding in response to his question.
"A bodyguard on duty, sir. My name's Damien Westwood, and I'm your new bodyguard," he answers, and I feel my jaw drop.
Is this a joke?
"Haha... nice joke, man. But joking with the royal family like this isn't very nice," I say in a stern tone, still trying to smile.
He looks my age, younger even. If I met this guy on the street, I'd think he was some underground thug or something. How can this kid be the "Dane" I was waiting for?
