In this story filled with “romantic tension, royal drama, and family secrets” (Kristy Boyce), four teens living in a glamorous boarding school must compete in order to inherit a European kingdom. Perfect for fans of Elite and Maxton Hall—The World Between Us.
For fifty years, King Leander Eldana has ruled Ashland without naming an heir to the crown. After sending away his grandchildren to be raised out of the public eye, it’s finally time to secure his nation’s future by appointing one definitive heir. The best way to appraise his successor? In the halls of Almus Terra Academy, a boarding school infamous for breeding the world’s next generation of leaders—and liars.
Titus Eldana has always known he’d inherit Ashland’s future. Now he must prove he has what it takes. Alaric Eldana was not raised with a silver spoon. His secondhand clothes might not be fit for a king, but he knows how to rule: with his fist. Emmeline Eldana only wants to please her neglectful parents. If that means securing the crown, she won’t hesitate to destroy anyone in her way. Sadie Aurelia has no idea why she’s been given a chance to bring new blood to the throne. With nothing left to lose back home, she’s ready to take it.
Filled with competition, secret alliances, enemies-to-lovers romance, and cunning revenge, Royal Heirs Academy is a breathless, entertaining read set in modern-day. This gossip-filled school for the global elite is inspired by UWC of the Atlantic, which Vanity Fair has described as "Hippie Hogwarts."
For fans of the breakout television hits Elite and Maxton Hall—The World Between Us.
Release date:
January 7, 2025
Publisher:
Little, Brown Books for Young Readers
Print pages:
384
* BingeBooks earns revenue from qualifying purchases as an Amazon Associate as well as from other retail partners.
Leander scraped his thumbnail across the charcoal words inked into his skin, embedded beneath an angry rash that was spreading like flames over his arm.
Allergic reaction be damned. The mantra would be permanent, the pain temporary. And that’s what he was looking for: permanence.
His advisors had scoffed at the idea of a tattoo on a man approaching sixty—more so, on a man in his position. Even so, Leander knew gold-plated words would never suffice to commemorate this day, or the steps he’d taken. It wasn’t penance, but it was as close as he dared.
A knock sounded at the door and Leander tugged his shirt sleeve down to his wrist, adjusting the cuff without a sound, though the cotton against his inflamed skin made his back molars grind in annoyance. The captain of his royal guard stepped inside his office, bending at the waist in deference. “Your Majesty. Apologies for the interruption.”
Leander merely nodded at the formality. He had long ago established he could be called upon at any moment, for any reason. A king had no privacy, and no time off.
“Headmistress Aquila has arrived.”
Thanks to an internal clock he’d maintained since his days as a soldier, he didn’t bother glancing at the old grandfather one in his study. He knew she was early.
“Bring her in,” Leander said. Hardly a need to keep her waiting merely to show he could.
“Yes, Your Majesty.” His captain disappeared and the next moment, the door opened fully to allow a tall, striking woman to step through. The ivory pantsuit was a lovely contrast to her brown skin, while a pearlescent duster hung off her shoulders like a royal mantle. The headmistress took the seat before his desk, shrugging off her coat, and fixed Leander with her dark gaze as if he were a student she was about to lecture.
“Tell me you’re joking.”
Leander regarded the woman seated in one of his wingback chairs with grudging respect. He might be two decades her senior, but he’d rather chew glass than pull rank with her. The blood of Nelson Mandela ran through Zuri Aquila’s veins, and as powerful as King Leander of Ashland might be, Zuri had been charged with the world’s future leaders. On a global scale, she eclipsed him.
“You’ve had a long day of travel. Can I get you a drink, Headmistress?” Leander reached for the bottle of one-hundred-year-old brandy in the cabinet under his desk.
“No, thank you. I’d like to get straight to why you summoned me here. Unless…” Zuri tilted her head, her braids draping down one shoulder. “The rumors aren’t true?”
He’d known Zuri would have questions—just as the press had. Though he hardly needed to defend his actions to someone so young with no descendants, who’d never been charged with governing a country, he valued her opinion. Her expertise in economic and sociological theory, as well as moral philosophy, made her one of the most erudite scholars in recent generations.
Unconsciously, Leander rubbed his left inner wrist, and he felt something warm and wet bloom under his thumb. Blood. The tattoo was bleeding. Ah well. He had plenty of good shirts.
“They are true,” Leander said slowly.
It was the closest he’d ever come to seeing the headmistress in shock. For a long moment she said nothing, relaxing further into her chair.
“Do you think it wise? Separating children from their parents?” Zuri finally asked.
Zuri scoffed under her breath. “Your grandchildren are no different from their peers.”
“You’re wrong, Headmistress.” Leander’s tone was neither angry nor dismissive. It was emotionless. Dry, like he was plainly quoting a statistic. Opening his top drawer, he withdrew a black leather box about the size of a glasses case and set it on the desk.
With a raised brow, Zuri took the hint, picked up the box, and flipped it open. Her eyes widened, but her response was otherwise restrained. Then again, people saw fingers all the time… though rarely severed.
“And whose is this?” she asked, snapping the case closed and passing it back.
“Emmeline’s nanny. She was caught trying to poison the child’s bottle.”
“Poison?”
“Traces of lead and mercury. Seemingly low doses that would lead to defects, not death… most likely.” Leander flicked his wrist dismissively. “Already, political interest groups are aligning with my children, making moves in the shadows. I have not spent thirty years working toward stability only to let it all go to hell.”
“You should’ve appointed your heir a long time ago and avoided all this,” Zuri countered. “Your son—”
“My sons are worthless. They’re all greed with no ambition. And my daughter is too frail.” With a heavy sigh, Leander stood from his desk and turned to face the window. “If I were to perish tomorrow, the line of succession would be determined by my advisory council. I pity their prospects.”
The Cliffs of Durah dropped to the frigid Atlantic down below. Waves frothed and foamed, clashing against the rocks, warning of the incoming downpour. It stormed often enough in eastern Ashland to warrant an old superstition: If the Cliffs of Durah were ever dry for longer than a day, they would crack off into the sea and take the Heres Castle with them. Locals liked to say a castle drenched with blood would appease the old sea gods. Iron into salt.
Leander could count on one hand the number of times he’d admitted mistakes—not for excessive pride; simply because the occasions were few. But there would be no appeasing Zuri without divulging his biggest regret.
He turned back to her calm gaze. It was the same expression she wore at the Peace Summit last year when she was appointed Headmistress of Almus Terra Academy.
“My children know nothing of how to shepherd a country and grow an economy, Zuri. I was a negligent father, too busy repairing my kingdom wrecked from centuries of civil wars to pay them mind. You know I speak the truth. I see who they are. What they have become. I never groomed them, and therefore I cannot entrust the fate of Ashland to them. But my grandchildren… they have a chance. A real chance at greatness.”
Zuri closed her eyes and sighed. When she looked back up at Leander, there was something in the angle of her chin and the simple elegance of her posture that was telling. Though morally it still felt wrong, she was intrigued by the concept of innate potential, of “nature” without the inevitable flaws of “nurture.”
“I suppose this is why I’m here? I don’t fly halfway across the world during my summer holiday for just anyone, Your Majesty.”
With the barest traces of a smile, Leander opened his desk drawer for a second time. The envelope he produced was slim, but the paper was a substantial weight, top quality, and sealed with a deep scarlet wax.
Unceremoniously, Zuri ripped open the wax seal. The check inside boasted nearly three million euros from the treasury of Ashland, made out to her school.
“I’d rather not wire such a hefty sum. I hope you understand,” Leander said.
Zuri frowned at him. “This amount is incorrect.”
“I assure you it isn’t.”
The headmistress stuffed the check back into the envelope, annoyed. “I know our deposit fees, and this covers four students, not three.”
“Correct.”
Her maroon lips pinched. “You’ve publicly stated no more heirs would be born.”
“No more heirs by blood,” Leander stated, his thumb massaging his inner wrist where the tattoo oozed and burned. Pain and prickling numbness swirled under his skin, but it felt good. Oddly centering.
Zuri gazed at him, waiting for an explanation.
“I’ll need a name for the fourth student, Leander. To secure their spot.”
“And you’ll have it. But not yet. List the deposit under the Eldana name.”
“Leander—”
“On my honor, Headmistress, four Ashland heirs will matriculate at Almus Terra.”
“Fine.” Zuri stood, tucking the envelope into her coat. “But they’ll be held to our scholarly requirements for acceptance, like all students.”
Leander dipped his head. “Naturally.”
Zuri started for the exit of her own volition, unfazed by the precious customs of royalty. Then she stopped, her fingers curled around the door handle, her broad shoulders tense.
Her eyes moved back to the king, landing on him with bold admonishment. “Let me be clear: My students will not become pawns in the battle for your succession. I won’t allow it.”
The heavy door shut behind her with a deep echo just as the rain started pelting the windows, louder than the ancient Norse drums on the battleships that landed in Ashland millennia ago.
“My dear Headmistress,” Leander murmured, pushing back his cuff to press hard into his raw, aching skin. “That is entirely up to them.”
Sixteen Years Later
THERE WAS A SLIGHT CHANCE HIS JAW WAS BROKEN.
Alaric tested it by slowly rolling it back and forth, left to right. Another explosion of pain reverberated through his skull, this one magnitudes worse than the hit that likely fractured his jaw in the first place.
It was concerning, but not because of splintered bones. He was pretty sure he’d shattered his jaw back when he was thirteen. And that hadn’t resulted in any lasting damage—that he knew of. He worried, instead, because head pain affected the whole body, and he couldn’t afford to pass out. Not right now.
“Kneel, yeh arsehole.” McKennah’s voice came with a ringing sound in his head. “Kneel and I’ll go easy on yeh.”
Lie. The second he cowered they would kick and kick and kick.
“C’mon, Durham. On the ground. Or yeh want me to mess up more of yer pretty face?”
“Yea,” snorted Walsh, “Game of Thrones that shite. Bend the knee.”
A cacophony of laughter echoed in the tiny alley behind the convenience store off Old Ballymun Road and it made Alaric’s skull throb in pain again. If only he’d eaten lunch before his shift, then he would’ve made it home in peace. But there was bound to be retaliation for Brody. If one of his own guys had been beaten to a pulp, he’d do the same.
My chicken is getting cold. The flimsy plastic bag sat at his feet, right next to an old sock and empty slushy cup. Even the smell of fried batter couldn’t cover the stench of fluids from the previous night’s pub patrons a block away.
Careful with his jaw, he spat a wad of blood onto McKennah’s shoes.
The gang leader jerked away. “Son of a—”
Alaric rocketed forward with a right hook to McKennah’s nose. Delicate bones crunched under his knuckles as a slasher-movie scream tore from McKennah’s throat. McKennah stumbled backward, falling to his knees. One down, three to go. On his left, Alaric slammed an elbow into the side of Walsh’s head, sending the scrawny boy into the brick wall with a groan.
Two more of McKennah’s goons were next. Alaric had forgotten their names, and he didn’t care to keep track—McKennah liked to switch his guys out.
They rivaled Alaric’s size, but in the narrow alley, it was easy to move over the bodies of McKennah and Walsh and throw an uppercut into the first one’s face, then grab the back of his Members Only jacket to knee him in the solar plexus—once, twice. The second swung wildly once his buddy was on the ground. Alaric ducked and, without mercy, slammed his fist right into the guy’s groin. He went down hard with a scream that rivaled McKennah’s.
Breathing heavily, Alaric turned, finding McKennah’s collar amidst the groaning bodies. He hauled the gang leader up and felt McKennah’s blood and spit speckle his face and shirt.
“Yeh put Brody in the hospital. Yer dead, Durham.”
Alaric would’ve laughed if not for his jaw.
“Yeh already gave it a lash. Better luck next time.” Alaric pressed the pad of his thumb into McKennah’s already busted nose, applying pressure, and the boy whimpered.
“Brody got what he deserved, McKennah.” Alaric’s voice dropped dangerously low, fury rippling through his veins at the scum around him. “If any more of yeh harass Kyle’s little sister I’ll skip the hospital and send yeh straight to the morgue. Walsh, phone.”
Walsh slapped his phone into Alaric’s open hand, which Alaric then dropped to the ground and smashed under his foot. The glass and little metal bits inside crunched into near dust.
“Jaysus, Durham,” Walsh groaned, still holding the side of his head that Alaric rammed.
“Next time don’t take pictures of thirteen-year-olds.” Alaric turned to grab his chicken, then thought better of it. Already the putrid stench of the alley had infiltrated his boxed dinner. Alaric couldn’t well afford to abandon food, but then he tested his jaw and another wave of pain rushed him—he wouldn’t have been able to eat anyway.
Hands in his pockets, Alaric legged it home. He was tired from work, hungry, aching all over, and now in a rotten mood. Damn. He’d been really looking forward to that fried chicken.
Dublin traffic was light on Saturday afternoons, especially on the fringes of Glasnevin and Ballymun. He barely had to check for cars as he jogged across the street, his phone buzzing in his back pocket. Ignoring it, he climbed the stairs to his flat. Likely a group text, with his crew laughing and cutting up about McKennah’s defeat. Word got around fast among the gangs in north Dublin. Well, they called themselves gangs.
Alaric was sensible enough to know they were just children playing at being men. What happened between them didn’t matter. None of it.
The reality was that Alaric would be back in that alley, stopping by the same Tesco, cutting classes to play on Kyle’s Switch, or moving boxes at the shipping company day after day. Week after week.
But this was his lot in life. He’d long since accepted it. At least he wasn’t in foster care. He had his own place, however run-down it was, and he had trashy blokes like Brody to take everything out on. Which reminded him…
As he unlocked his studio flat, he slipped out his phone and texted Kyle. Pics of Kaylee gone.
Kyle responded immediately. I owe you, lad.
“Alaric,” barked an old, raspy voice to his left.
Alaric turned to find Mrs. Tuttle standing there in her stained muumuu, her wispy gray curls unkempt. Watery eyes squinted at him in displeasure and Alaric mentally prepared himself for whatever nonsense his old neighbor had to spout today.
“Aye, Mrs. Tuttle. Howsagoin?”
“Two blokes came looking for yeh today. Same ones as yesterday.”
Alaric stopped short of knocking his head against the door. For one, his head still hurt. For another, it would irritate Mrs. Tuttle. Though she was a cranky old lady, he sometimes got paid for random odd jobs she couldn’t do herself—sometimes in quid, other times in stew. And her cooking was unreal.
“Sorry they disturbed yeh, ma’am,” Alaric said, throwing his weight against the old, warped wood of the door; it shuddered open. He stepped inside, hoping to end this conversation fast. Painkillers were his top priority.
“I told them to come back this evening,” Mrs. Tuttle continued, clearly not caring what these men wanted, or if they meant trouble. As long as it didn’t bother her.
“Right, then. Cheers, ma’am.” Alaric shut the door and tossed his keys on the counter. He stripped off his jacket, threw it on the back of the one kitchen chair he owned, and crossed to the freezer for ice. There was none—he forgot to refill the tray—so he settled for a bag of frozen peas.
With a sports drink and two ibuprofen, he sat at the rickety table and pressed the bag of peas to his face while his empty stomach churned.
Part of him knew he should be concerned about the two strange men, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. When Mrs. Tuttle told him about the visitors yesterday, he’d spent almost an hour on his phone messaging anyone he knew to figure out who the men could be. Nothing panned out.
According to Mrs. Tuttle, they didn’t look like cops—at least not beat cops—and were too posh for detectives. Instead, they wore suits and drove a fancy car. Alaric figured they were maybe lawyers. Maybe even Brody’s… though he couldn’t imagine the coward getting some personal injury solicitor involved.
Ah, well. Whatever.
Cradling the frozen peas to his face, he ignored his stomach. He’d wait for the pills to settle in and then find a protein shake or soup for dinner—nothing he had to chew.
He was half out of it when a pounding sounded through his little flat. The nearly defrosted bag of peas slipped from his grasp and dropped to the floor while he strained his tired eyes open.
“Alaric!” screeched Mrs. Tuttle through the thin wall they shared, “open the feckin door!”
A bolt of fear suddenly went through him. He didn’t know who was looking for him or why, and the not knowing made him feel unprepared. Out of control. Then the trepidation was quickly replaced with irritation.
This whole evening was a bust. After his chicken, he’d planned to watch the latest episode of Jujutsu Kaisen. The current season of the anime was shaping up to be deadly, and now he’d be behind when all his friends met up tomorrow to debrief. With a groan, Alaric pushed himself from his chair, slid off the lock, and pulled the door open.
Two men stood before him. One was big enough to play rugby, maybe professionally, while the other was tall, but leaner. Both wore stern expressions and pristine navy-blue suits, polished all the way down to their dress shirts and ties.
Okay, so they didn’t look like solicitors either. Hell, Alaric didn’t know what they looked like.
“Alaric Durham?” the rugby-man asked.
Alaric tried to place the strange accent. It definitely wasn’t from the UK. It sounded vaguely American, but he’d briefly dated a girl from the States who’d taught him different American accents, and none of those seemed to fit. Perhaps Canadian? That could be it, though he’d only met someone from Montreal once.
“Alaric Durham?” the man repeated, now annoyed.
Alaric’s gaze dropped to a phone in the man’s hand. The screen was still illuminated with a somewhat blurry picture of Alaric at school. His pulse skipped. Who are these guys?
The fight-or-flight instinct was kicking in, but Alaric urged himself to relax. These men weren’t law enforcement and if they really were here to bust his face in, they’d already be swinging. With a picture, they didn’t need him to confirm their target.
“Yeh know I am. Who’s askin’?”
“May we come in?”
Polite too. This was, hands down, the weirdest ambush of his life. But what was he supposed to do? The men already proved they would keep coming back.
Alaric stepped aside and they entered his tiny flat. Their gazes roamed around his bedroom slash living room, the tiny kitchenette, the pile of graphic novels from the library, the comic books he’d bought at cheap secondhand stores, the mound of dirty clothes, and the door that led to the water closet.
It was clear these men came from money, but their looks didn’t seem judgmental, more… appraising. Taking stock.
“All right, lads. What’s the craic?”
“‘Craic?’” the second guy muttered.
“Irish slang. What’s the situation,” the rugby-man said to his partner.
Alaric rolled his eyes. “Christ. What do yeh want?”
“Have you been receiving your mail?”
Pointedly, Alaric looked at the pile of junk mail and bills sitting on the slim counter not a foot away from them. It was right next to his schoolbooks left untouched since the end of the term a month ago. Clearly these men loved rhetorical questions.
“Yeh lads from the electric company?” Alaric said following their silence. “I pay on time.”
The rugby-man slipped his hand into his suit pocket and Alaric tensed, but all he withdrew was an envelope.
An envelope Alaric had seen more than once. It was an expensive off-white paper with a wax seal and some fancy crest on the front. The missive was addressed to him, Alaric Durham, with his flat number and everything, in loopy calligraphy.
Four times now Alaric had found that same letter in his PO box. He’d read the first one, then thrown the rest out, because there was no way the content was meant for him. Or it was some kind of weird scam.
“And have you been receiving this letter?” the man asked.
Alaric collapsed into his kitchen chair. “Yeh sure yeh have the right Alaric Durham?”
The two men exchanged glances.
“I mean, there’s got to be another one out there better fit to go to yer fancy wee school. That’s for sure.” Alaric gestured at the envelope in the man’s hand, then took another swig of his Gatorade. The ibuprofen and electrolytes were slowly making their way through his system, but not nearly fast enough for this conversation.
The rugby-man cleared his throat. “We’re quite certain of your invitation to Almus Terra Academy, Mr. Durham. We’re here to make sure you matriculate.”
The school’s name made the hairs on the back of Alaric’s neck stand up. When he’d received this letter the first time, he’d been curious and done some googling. But there wasn’t much about the school online. All he could really tell was that it was an insanely rich boarding school. There were no news articles, no admissions website with photos and curriculum listed—just brief mentions in certain famous people’s education histories. Like, important public figures. The president of France. The CEO of a global billion-dollar green energy corporation.
“We’re also here to ensure you get your uniform, schoolbooks, and travel accommodations prepared before the start of the term,” the man continued.
Alaric stared at him while the absurdity of those words sunk in. After a moment, he let out a snort of laughter. “Is this some Harry Potter hoax? Are yeh about to tell me I’m a wizard?”
The men shared a loaded look, and Alaric’s annoyance shot up ten more notches. He was used to adults diminishing him, but never in his own home.
Alaric nodded toward the door. “Not interested, lads. See yerselves out. Cheers.”
The men didn’t move, and Alaric’s head gave a painful throb. The ache in his jaw was nearly to the point of needing a strong shot of whiskey. He didn’t usually drink, because it guaranteed more trouble, but he found it to be an effective painkiller.
“I’m afraid that’s not an acceptable answer, Mr. Durham. We have very specific instructions to secure your arrival at the Academy by September first,” the leaner man replied.
Alaric raised his head, pain momentarily forgotten. The man’s words didn’t make sense. They barely registered in Alaric’s foggy mind, but enough for him to grasp something important.
Alaric squinted at them. “Whose instructions?”
“Your family’s.”
Alaric exploded in laughter, his aching jaw almost bringing tears to his eyes. But the statement was so absurd—so inherently wrong—it was all he could do.
When his chuckles subsided, Alaric slouched fully in his chair, the suspense melting away. The men were here by mistake. Alaric had no family. He never had.
“I told yeh, I’m not yer guy,” Alaric said, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. His independence and isolation had become a rigid second skin over the years, protecting him from any false hopes. There was no emotion in his voice when he continued. “Do yeh see a Mr. and Mrs. Durham anywhere? Yeh’ve got it wrong.”
There was a moment of silence where even though Alaric couldn’t see them, he was sure they were exchanging another weighty look.
“Seventeen years ago you were born. May sixteenth. Nine pounds, fifteen ounces, blood type AB positive.”
Alaric froze, making his muscles lock and pain ripple through his body enough to nauseate him. That was his birthday. And his blood type.
“If you’re concerned about the tuition, your family has taken care of it.”
Truthfully, the tuition had never crossed Alaric’s mind, positive as he was that it had all been a mistake. But now that they brought it up, a school that educated prime ministers and CEOs—it certainly wasn’t cheap. And if his family was loaded enough for boarding school, where the hell had they been for the last seventeen years?
Back when Alaric was quite small, he remembered someone watching over him. This guardian changed every few months. At some point, one person left, but no one came to take their place. He was moved into government care. Eventually he’d gotten old enough to get a job, and he’d been looking out for himself ever since. Just last year he’d earned enough to pay for his own flat. His life had been one long lesson in survival. An endless stream of disappointments.
Was there really some rich family out there that had simply ignored him all these years?
His right hand slowly curled into a fist. The skin across his knuckles, broken and bleeding, stretched painfully across bruised bone. For years, he’d hated his parents for abandoning him before they even gave him a chance to be a person worth sticking around for.
But what tormented Alaric the most was how little his life mattered. All he knew was boring school with teachers who thought he was a lost cause, inane classes that never challenged him, tedious part-time jobs, hanging with his friends, watching videos on his phone, reading comics, and occasionally ending fights. It was tolerable for now, but his future was scary. He’d seen the men stumbling out of pubs every night after soulless work drove them to pints.
Sure, university might be an option, but could he ever get a respectable job? Would people take a chance on him? No one had yet. Not even his own family… until now.
But why now? If they were going to abandon their kid, may as well commit for life. If this letter was real… he could trace his past and remake his future all at once. There really wasn’t much of a choice to make.
“This school…,” Alaric muttered, staring at the grimy floor of his flat, feeling his stomach churn with nerves and his blood burn with resentment, an emotion he thought he’d long since overcome. “Yeh sure it’s free?”
A FRESH WAVE OF TURBULENCE ROCKED THROUGH THE PASSENGER jet, making Emmeline white-knuckle her armrest. Not for the first time, she was glad she had declined any tea or coffee. It would be all over her Dolce dress and cropped blazer by now.
Imagine: her first appearance at Almus Terra Academy, covered in faded beige stains. At that point, she wouldn’t leave the airstrip. She’d rather return to Manhattan as the city’s most beautiful—albeit lonely—society girl than appear sloppy on her first day at the most prestigious school on the planet.
Butterflies fluttered in her stomach at the thought of the academy. Flying across the Atlantic over the last six hours, she’d been trying not to hyper-fixate. Because she wanted her head clear when they landed, she’d avoided Dramamine or any other anti-nausea pills. Her poise, her attitude, her wit—all hinged on a sharp mind. She had to be at the top of her game.
“Another sparkling water, miss?” a flight attendant asked above her.
Emmeline had barely even touched her first glass, which was now well past flat.
“I’m fine, thank you,” Emmeline replied. She didn’t need to factor in potential burping from the carbonation.
“You should eat something,” Heather said once the flight attendant had moved on, not even glancing up from a novel she was reading—likely a Brontë sister. Heather never read anything from this century, and the Victorian classics were her comfort reads. Which was telling since Heather, like Emmeline, had been a wreck of nerves for days.
Hardly surprising, as this happened to be the biggest moment of both their lives.
“Not hungry.” Emmeline glanced out the window hoping to see their destination in the distance. No southern coast of France, not yet.
If she checked the plane’s trajectory, she would see they were still a couple hours out. No different from when she checked it eleven minutes ago. Get a grip, Emmeline.
“It’s not about hunger. It’s about having energy for the day. Would you rather be sluggish when you meet your peers?” Heather asked, tapping the digital reader screen to turn the page.
Emmeline hated when Heather did that. Question her with something so obvious it bordered on moronic. But that had been Heather’s method for raising Emmeline since she was nine. Do you want to watch shows that will rot your brain? Do you want to inevitably grow out bangs? Do you really want nails that garish?
Over time, Emmeline understood the psychological game in each of those questions, and she slowly began to overcome them. But it took her many years, given how deeply the expectation of perfection was ingrained in her subconscious. From Emmeline’s rough calculations, her victory rate against Heather’s manipulative barbs was about 45 percent.
“I’ll have a protein bar later,” Emmeline acquiesced. Forty-four-point-six percent.
As usual, Heather showed no signs of approval. Emmeline was used to it. In fact, it would be somewhat disturbing if Heather suddenly became a loving, doting parent. She would never be what Emmeline wanted, because Heather was her… guardian? Governess seemed more applicable, if also extremely dated.
But just as Heather had manipulated Emmeline over the years, Emmeline had learned to do the same.
“This is a private charter, am I right?”
Heather still didn’t look up. “Correct.”
Another bout of
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