How to Love a Prince

Roselia The night the world changed for me, I wasn’t dressed for fate—I was dressed for survival. My uniform clung to my skin, damp and has the lingering scent of spilled champagne from the liquor a guest poured at me after I bumped into her and spilled her drink on her expensive dress. “I’m sorry, ma’am.” I kept my head low, not meeting any of their gazes that scream hatred for the poor. “That’s why lowlifes are scum.” Throwing the napkin she used to wipe herself clean at me, I heard her heels angrily clicking away, followed by the footsteps of the dissipating crowd as the murmurs from my little accident slowly died down. Sighing, I wiped the tiles clean before picking up my tray, silently leaving the grounds where everyone just basically made fun of me. On my way to the staff room, my phone rang from my pocket, causing me to quicken my pace to reach the door before fishing my phone out. “Hello?” I breathed, softly closing the door where only the rich gathers. “Time’s ticking, little b*tch.” The familiar sound of metal bats swinging on the background made my body tremble. "Give me the money before tomorrow midnight, or else,” his pause made me gulp, practically running back to the staff room so I could do another job for extra p*****t. “…I’ll make use of your body, in every sense of the word instead.” With a sinister chuckle, he ended the call. Shaky, I hid my phone back to my skirt’s pocket—he’s been like that. Every day for past two days, he will call me to remind me of my father’s debt. If I can’t pay, I’m doomed. I only have one day left. Three days was my limit after all the begging I did. “Calm down, Rosie. You still have a couple of hours left.” But I feel like crying—I am MILLIONS short! While I am in the middle of hyperventilating, I was about to turn on a corner when I heard a faint conversation…and then a familiar name: Alistair Deveraux. I froze, holding my tray like it’s my lifeline as I listened. “If he doesn’t find a wife soon, he loses everything.” My grip tightened around the tray. A wife? The country’s most popular soloist, the one who dominated every stage he stepped on, needs to get married? “Bernadette and Damian are already making their move,” the voice continued. “If he doesn’t act now, they’ll take over completely.” …who’s making what? I don’t know any of the names except Alistair’s, but as I stood there like a fool, an idea, reckless and wild, burst to life inside me. I had nothing—no home, no future, no hope. My family’s debts had reduced me to a walking target, a countdown to ruin. But this? This could be my way out. Without thinking, I stepped forward. “I’ll do it.” The conversation snapped into silence. Third pairs of eyes turned to me, all of them gleaming with suspicion and mild amusement. The nearest man, sharp-suited and undoubtedly powerful, raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?” his eyes narrowed a little, but I feel no aggressive hostility from it. “I’ll marry him,” I said, my voice steady despite the hammering of my heart. “You need a bride. I need money. He’s rich, right? It’s a fair trade.” One of them chuckled as he rubbed his nape. “And what makes you think you’re worthy of being Alistair Deveraux’s wife?” “I don’t,” I admitted, lifting my chin. “But I think I’m desperate enough not to care.” The third man studied me for a moment, then smirked. “You boys, look out in case other hamsters heard of it. And as for you,” loosening his tie as he stepped closer to me, he gave me a brief look from head to toe. “Follow me.” *** The corridors of the ship were quieter away from the ballroom, but the energy of the night still thrummed through the walls. My guide—whose name I still didn’t know—walked briskly ahead of me, his footsteps confident. Mine, in contrast, were hesitant, my hands clenched into fists at my sides. “Are you serious?” he asked without turning to look at me. “You don’t even know what you’re signing up for. Hell, we don’t even know each other’s names.” He chuckled. I swallowed. “I don’t need to.” He finally stopped, turning to face me with an appraising look. “You really are desperate.” I held his gaze. “Does that make me any less of a candidate?” For a moment, he said nothing, then he let out a short laugh as he shook his head. “You might be more interesting than I thought.” Before I could ask what that meant, he pushed open a door and gestured for me to enter. The room beyond was dimly lit, its walls lined with dark wood and bookshelves. It looked more like a private lounge than a place for entertainment. And at the center of it sat Alistair Deveraux. I had seen him before, of course—on television, in magazines, on the billboards that loomed over the city. But in person, he was something else entirely. He sat in an armchair with a glass of amber liquid in hand, dressed in a black suit that only emphasized the sharp cut of his features. Dark hair, piercing blue eyes, a mouth that looked as though it had never known anything but cynicism. He barely glanced at me. “Who is this?” “She says she’ll marry you.” His gaze flickered to me then, assessing, unreadable. “Does she?” I lifted my chin, forcing myself not to shift under his scrutiny. “I do.” He exhaled, swirling his drink before setting it aside. Then, slowly, he leaned forward. “You’re serious.” His voice held no contempt, but for some reason, the emptiness on his tone simply made me feel much smaller than I already am. “Yes, I am.” I stepped closer, trying to muster up my courage as I kept my hazel eyes on his cold gaze. “I know this is sudden, but I really need money.” “Money?” he repeated. “Yes. Pay me 25 million, and I’ll do whatever you want.” He stared at me with his eyes widening slightly, and soon, a ghost of a smirk played at his lips. “You don’t waste time, huh?” Standing up, he finished his liquor and walked over, swiftly placing the empty glass on a nearby counter before stopping in front of me. For a long moment, he said nothing. The weight of his gaze was crushing, as if he could see straight through me, unraveling every fear, every c***k in my armor. Then, with a slow nod, he leaned back and tilted his head toward the man who had brought me here. “Leave us.” It was just two words, but I felt all optimism leave my body when the door clicked shut behind me. Once we were alone, he casted me one more look before turning, hooking my waist with his arm as he guided me to a long, velvet couch. I swallowed hard, determined to hold my ground, though my pulse drummed wildly against my ribs. “Hmm,” pulling me down to sit on his lap, I gasped when he nuzzled his face on my neck. “Dom Pérignon.” “W-what?” “You smell like it.” he pulled away, grinning as he looked assessed me all over. “Making expensive champagne as a perfume isn’t something I’ll see every day.” Remembering I’m soaked with liquor, I frowned, hiding my embarrassment as I pulled away and sat on the couch across him. “Tell me what you consider a ‘wife’.” I spoke, bracing myself for whatever’s about to happen. “You think you can handle this?” he finally asked, voice low, measured. “I think I don’t have a choice. Do you have one?” His lips curled in a sarcastic smile. “Everyone has a choice.” “Not when their life is on the line.” Alistair tilted his head slightly, as if weighing my words. Then, with an air of disinterest, he leaned back in the couch and spread his arms on the couch’s headrest, followed by his man spreading—if I am not in a position like this, I would’ve found him incredibly attractive. “A spy.” I nearly choked. He must have a knack for catching people off guard with just two words. Smirking, he cockily tilted his head. “I need a wife who’ll keep my family in check, report to me, and keep her mouth shut of whatever she’ll learn about my life.” When I found no word to say in return, a humorless chuckle escaped him. “30 million if you agree. 10 million to pretend you know nothing if you don’t.” When he brought money up, I gulped. “I-wait!” I fiddled with my fingers. “I will do it. I-I can do it.” His gaze darkened slightly. “Again.” My breath hitched at his tone, but I know I can’t risk him pushing me away. “I will do it. I will spy for your family for you.” Another silence. Then, slowly, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Very well. But if we do this, you belong to me for a year, wife.” My throat tightened. “And in return?” “You’ll secure 30 million, and I’ll protect you from whatever keeps you desperate.” His voice dipped lower. “But make no mistake, Perignon—you may be stepping into my world, but you can’t and will never belong here.” I should’ve run. “I-I have a name.” He grinned. “Oh?” “It’s Roselia Maribella.” Unable to keep my gaze on him, I looked away. “…sir.” Just like that, I signed myself up for a twisted fairytale.