Alexandria was only ever meant to be a princess. A scandalous socialite to grace the covers of gossip magazines and twitters trending page.
When her older brother tragically dies in a suicide, Alexa suddenly becomes the next heir to the English thr...
The loss is immeasurable, but so is the love left behind. -Felicia Moran ♛•♛•♛
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Grief came and went in waves.
It flowed and rippled through my body at all times. Somedays, the waves were small. Comforting. Ebbing through me with a gentle touch. I was reminded of days on the beach, with Henry and Alexandria. He'd kick around a football and Alexa would smear shiny tanning oil all along her legs and stomach. I'd sit by the water, my toes dipped under sand as a calming scent of salt water drifted under my nose.
Other days, the waves of my grief were tremulous. They crashed down on my body with anger and ferociousness. I kicked my legs and arms desperately, but I could never reach the surface.
I'd awake drenched in sweat as if I had been lost at sea. My saliva salty with blood from where I'd accidentally bit down on my tongue.
I'd managed to wash the exhaustion off my face and pry on some clean and unwrinkled clothing, to watch my fathers public broadcast with my mother in our living room. Well, I didn't know if living room was the right word for this place. A Living room implied comfortness and casualness- which this room was not. The walls were cream and it's trim and wainscoting a luxurious gold. The floor was covered with majestic burgundy rugs, it's floral design Persian in nature.
Decadent chandeliers hung from the ceiling, dripping in seven tier glass shards that glittered against sunlight. Paintings of past Kings and Queens decorated the walls, their frames golden and carved with ornamental flowers and vines. Century old curtains of velvet sat heavy and pristine along windows. Even the sofa I sat on was stiff, it's material embroidered silk, and legs gilded.
Growing up here was... strange. When my parents gifted me a new apartment in Buckingham palace for my eighteenth birthday, I asked for the walls to be painted a simple gray and that the sofas be exchanged for comfortable leather ones instead.
My mum watched the tv screen anxiously, a teacup clutched between her hands.
"Tea your highness?" A maid asked me, her eyebrows raised in waiting.
I shook my head and she scurried out of the room, the door softly shutting behind her. Another reason why I hated staying with my parents- the formality was suffocating. When I entered University, no one gave a shit that I was a Prince. I was ignored and treated normally. For the first time in my life I was ordinary. And it was refreshing.
My father's image came into view on the screen. He was in the White Drawing Room, a room in Buckingham palace that was utilized primarily for audiences, gatherings, public broadcasts, and photographs. It was not a room that was lived in. It was too grand, too fancy, almost like a preserved museum. I hated that room, despised it.
I got up from my seat at the sound of my fathers voice and started pacing anxiously, my mum looked up, her eyes narrowed and mouth set into a line with confusion. "Are you not going to watch?"
