Don't Promise (Don't 3)

Molly

Brooklyn squealed when I walked backstage in a trance.

“Who was it? Was it fun?” She shook me. My head rattled. “I just heard the numbers going up and up and up. They were fighting over you.”

“I have no idea. It was a blur. There were two houses at the end. I couldn’t figure out the accents.” I reached for my forehead. “I-I really don’t know what

happened.”

The stage manager appeared beside us. “Cherie, Cherie, you must come. Come, with me. Quickly.”

I looked at Brooklyn. I wasn’t leaving without knowing exactly where I was going. I wanted to stay for her moment on stage as well.

“No. I need details.” I stuck my chin forward.

“Cherie, your sponsor. Come now,” he urged.

“Just tell us who it is,” Brooklyn pleaded. “I’m dying to know. I thought this was going in numerical order, but apparently, that’s not Galonian. I have no idea when I’m going out there. I’m dying back here. What if I’m left with crumbs?” All the men were billionaires. She had nothing to worry about.

He sighed. “Cher, he is waiting. You must be quickly.”

I didn’t correct his English. “Who is he?”

“Yeah, who is it? The director? Please tell me it’s an actor. I will die if you end up with Chris Fox tonight. Although, totally ironic that you’d land an American when we’re in Europe, but he’s still super sexy and—”

“The tenders are sealed,” he interrupted Brooklyn’s chatter.

“I’m not moving unless you tell me who is waiting for me.”

“Americans,” he grumbled.

I frowned. I hated when that happened. I wasn’t being American. I was being safe and cautious. Following the girl code. Brooklyn should know who I was with and I should know where she was. It was practical and logical. American, my ass.

He pushed the microphone from his lips and motioned for me to lean in.

“Yes?” My stomach lurched.

“His Royal Highness,” he whispered, cupping my ear with his hand.

I straightened my back. “Which one?” The royal family was huge. There were distant cousins and uncles. The family tree was a twisted spider web. He could be talking about a count or a duke.

“His Royal Highness,” he restated.

“Are you talking about the king?” Brooklyn blurted out.

“Shh.” He pinched her elbow. “Tenders are sealed. Don’t speak again.”

She rolled her eyes at him. It did seem ridiculous once we were vetted and inside the club that secrets had to be kept from each other.

“The king? The king was in the audience? And he bid on me?” I whispered quickly.

Two girls walked past us when the MC called another set of numbers. I didn’t notice if they heard our discussion.

“He has placed a formal tender which has been accepted and recorded. There are no bids,” he scolded. “Now we must go.”

I bit my lip. I was ill-prepared for this entire night, but facing the king had never occurred to me. That wasn’t supposed to be an option, was it? That was all Brooklyn’s fantasy. That we’d end up meeting a couple of the royal princes or maybe a couple of dukes. Really, she would have been happy with a B-list actor. The process thrilled her. The secrecy. The exclusivity of being a part of a fabled tradition. She was caught up in fairy tales and stories I hadn’t believed in until I was smack in the middle of one.

I was stuck in a chapter I couldn’t crawl out of.