His Royal Highness

I care…because apparently, I’m going to go through with this farce.

The tailor finishes up his work near my crotch—awesome—and then turns me around like I’m a mannequin. With my back to them, I can finally let my features relax into a mask of annoyance.

“Anyway, you’ll like working with her. Some of those princesses can be snobby, but not Whitney.”

“Are you two friends?” I ask, curious. If not, she might be the president of Whitney’s fan club.

The girl laughs shyly. “Oh, um, kind of. I don’t know. Whitney’s sort of friends with everyone.”

Interesting. My old mentee seems to be a lot more popular than when I first met her. I remember that first assignment I gave her years ago to make a friend. I guess it stuck.

I know she and Cal have grown close, moving past their mentoring relationship and forming a tighter bond. He’s mentioned her on the phone to me every now and then, and his tone always carries an air of affection, something rare for Cal.

I was happy to hear she was getting on well at the Knightley Company. She crossed my mind a time or two since I moved to London, but in my head, she was permanently eighteen.

The first time I met Whitney, she had red lipstick smeared across her chin and had just been doused in iced coffee. Her clothes swallowed her up. She might have been eighteen, but she looked fourteen. Those big eyes were full of vulnerability, unable to even meet my gaze.

The image of her then stands in sharp contrast with the woman I saw at Cal’s last night.

Whitney All Grown Up.

I nearly smile at the idea then realize I’m disappointed she left so quickly. I barely had a chance to take in the changes, to catch up with my old friend before she disappeared behind the elevator doors.

It’s that thought that has me swinging my Tesla into the executive parking lot right behind a row of shops on Castle Drive after I’m finished at Costuming.

If Cal is going to insist on having me do this, I want to know what I’m getting myself into. It’s been years since I’ve seen the insanity that takes place inside Elena’s Castle during the meet-and-greet sessions.

I pass through the gates, swipe my employee badge, and tug open the door that leads onto Castle Drive. The door itself is tucked behind a bank of restrooms, and no one even notices the fact that I’ve just popped up out of thin air. It’s a magic trick of epic proportions. With sights (Castle Drive), sounds (happy music), and smells (funnel cakes and hot dogs and popcorn), we draw guests’ attention to the parts of the park carefully curated for their entertainment and away from the back alleys and secret entrances.

I join the crowd of people heading north up Castle Drive and spot the windows in Cal’s penthouse. I wonder if he’s standing up there now, watching me accept my fate.

It’s not my curiosity about Whitney that has me agreeing to Cal’s plan. That has nothing to do with it. It’s the fact that deep down, I know Cal’s right. Not about me proving myself to the board—they can go fuck themselves. It has to do with our employees. I can see the value in stepping out of the boardroom and getting reacquainted with day-to-day life at the park. Our company only exists because of our base-level employees. It’s imperative that we take care of their needs and maintain a work environment they’re not only comfortable with, but proud of.

It’s been twenty years since I sold balloons for minimum wage. I’ve amassed degrees and climbed the corporate ladder one rung at a time, and now that I’m on the top, Cal’s right—I’m in the clouds. Maybe I do need to work alongside our employees and familiarize myself with their struggles once again.

Through the back entrance to the great hall, I’m able to bypass the line and take up a spot in the corner of the room, overlooking the crowd. A red rope guides guests around the perimeter of the room, winding them up into a spiral toward their final destination: Whitney.

The sight of her strikes me like a well-aimed arrow. My stomach clenches and my hand covers it reflexively, expecting blood.

I didn’t get a good look at her last night, the elevator doors sliding closed before I connected the dots of who she was. Now, those glimpses come together to form an image I can’t quite reconcile. In the years I’ve been away, Whitney has blossomed. For every year I grew older, she did too.

It’s hard to merge the girl I once knew with the beautiful woman standing before me. She’s centered in the room, framed by the hearth and the crowd huddled around her. Her sweet, round face has given way to a more feminine, alluring heart shape. She has high, apple cheeks and a breathtaking smile made all the more adorable when it’s accented by her dimples.