I’m so stunned, I hardly know what to address first — the fact that this woman legitimately thinks it’s appropriate to sell off the tragedy of my life to money-hungry television studios? The creation of multiple unauthorized social media accounts? The hiring of staff members I’ve never even met? The fact that she addressed the world’s longest-reigning British monarch as anold bag of rags?
I decide to start simply, striving to keep my voice level. “How did they even get photographs of me last night? I certainly didn’t post any, Caulfield.”
“Well, of course not, silly. Organic, viral content can never come straight from you — it has to be generated by others to seem authentic.” Her head lifts from the screen long enough to shoot a grin at me. For the first time, I notice there’s a strangely maniacal bent to it. “That’s why I tipped off the paparazzi. They were camped out in the bushes at Westgate, snapping pictures of your arrival.”
I go rigid with tension.
She doesn’t seem to notice. “The rest was easy-peasy — do you have any idea how many people at that party posted photographs and videos of you on their social media pages? I should put them on retainer, they make my job so much easier!”
The strangest feeling is stirring in my chest — a cold front of disbelief colliding with a warm front of rage, condensing to form what can only be described as a storm of absolute fury.
“Caulfield,” I say slowly, teeth clenched.
“Mmm?” She’s smiling down at her phone screen, where video snippet after video snippet of my dance with Alden play out in fifteen second loops. She looks quite pleased with herself; totally unaware of my impending wrath. “What is it, My Queen?”
“You’re fired.”
Her phone, which I thought was permanently affixed to her fingers, clatters to the corridor floor. “What?”
“You. Are. Fired.”
“But, Your Majesty— There must be some kind of misunderstanding—”
“No, I understand perfectly, Caulfield. I understand that you have violated the agreement we made when I hired you to help manage my public image. I understand that, instead of protecting my privacy, you have treated it as a commodity to be sold to the highest bidder.”
“My Queen—”
“I am not done,” I cut her off savagely, leaning in to maintain eye contact. She looks like she wants to sink into the stones and disappear. “But you are. Please take your interns and your social media campaigns and your plans for the TV-movie adaptation of my life andgo. You can turn over the passwords to whatever profiles you’ve created to my personal guard on your way out.”
Caulfield deflates visibly before me, a birthday balloon leaking helium five days after the party’s end. “I apologize if I overstepped. I was only trying to help create a groundswell of support for you, Your Majesty. I know things have been difficult lately; I wanted to minimize that by whatever means possible.” She pushes her glasses slightly higher on the bridge of her nose. “If you give me another chance, I’ll show you I can do this job in a way that better suits your needs.”
I hesitate a beat.
Am I being too harsh, here?
“I mean, we don’t have to do the movie right away,” she tells me in what I’m sure she believes is a diplomatic tone. “We can push the timeframe six months or so. The producers I spoke to were hoping for a Christmas release, to maximize revenue over the holidays… but summer is as good a time as any for a trip to the theater.” Her voice drops dramatically, mimicking a movie trailer voiceover. “Hidden Lion: The Untold Story of a Secret Queen.That’s just a working title, for now, but I think it reallysizzles. Don’t you agree?”
I take a deep breath, summoning calm. Then another — in through my nose, out through my mouth. Once more. And once more after that. Unfortunately, this exercise does very little to tame my temper.
“Caulfield?”
“Y-yes?” she stammers, eyes going wide behind her thick frames when she hears the wrath plain-as-day in my voice.
“See yourself out.Now.”
I turn and walk away before I can do something rash, like smash my heel down on the screen of her smartphone with all my might.
Rogue Royal: A Queen Without Council
How’s that for a damn working title?
* * *
“Hey.”
“Hey yourself.” Chloe’s smile is wobbly, but at least she’s smiling. I take that as a good sign as I approach her bed, the food tray balanced in my hands. My grip is surprisingly steady, considering an hour ago I was brimming with anger at my former advisor.
Amazing what a full stomach of fresh-baked scones can do for one’s disposition.