Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 82317 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 412(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82317 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 412(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
But no … he won’t. He’d never. I’m sure of it.
Regardless, the jolt of adrenaline that nearly propelled me off despite the consequences fizzles, and my spine becomes boneless. With a sigh, I turn away from my adventurous free fall and stomp back to my clothes.
Marius gives me a sad smile, knowing that this little shenanigan we’ve shared through the years is done. He makes no move to put his tank on, and I’m sure he’s going to take a dip after I leave.
I pull my shorts and T-shirt on, shove my feet into my sandals, and turn toward Dmitri. His gun is again holstered, and he makes a sweeping motion toward the path that will lead us back to the door. He doesn’t bother looking at Marius but merely inclines his head for me to precede him.
I do so, and I don’t look back at my friend. I know it will be too painful to get that one last look at the freedom I’ve just lost forever.
It’s with a pissy attitude that I lead us back to the steel door. I step aside and make Dmitri punch in the code. Arms crossed over my chest, I demand irritably, “How did you know I was out there?”
“I went looking for you, and you weren’t in your suite like you told Netty you would be. It was a simple review of the security cameras to find you.”
We move through the door, into the palace through the servants’ quarters, and I assume he’s going to escort me either to my father’s office where I can face his ire or to my suite.
He does neither, though, instead turning down a hall that leads to the security offices.
“Where are we going?” I ask suspiciously.
“Some people you need to meet,” he replies curtly, not bothering to slow his pace or look over his shoulder at me.
“Who?” I demand.
“The members of the security agency your father hired to accompany you to London for the wedding and then on your trip to the States.”
I stop mid-stride, stunned by his revelation. “But why? I assumed you’d be heading up the trips with our own men.”
His tone is clipped. “Some of our men will be involved, but I cannot attend to you, and your father felt better with this American company to help us.”
“What do you mean you cannot attend to me?” I ask, scrambling to catch up with him. “You’re the head of our security. It’s your job.”
“It’s not my only job,” he mutters in annoyance as he comes to a closed door that leads into a conference room.
“Stop,” I command imperiously, and to my surprise, Dmitri faces me. In my haughtiest tone, I declare, “I am Princess Camille of House Winterbourne. I demand you look at me when I’m talking to you. I also demand that you give me the full details about what the hell is going on. You answer to me as much as to my father.”
Dmitri’s eyes flash again, not with anger like out on the cliff side, but with amusement.
He finds me funny.
And it’s humiliating that I don’t even get the respect my weighted title should afford me.
He reaches out and turns the knob, pushing open the door. He sweeps a hand and says, “Why don’t you see for yourself? All the answers to your questions wait in there.”
CHAPTER 3
Jackson
“I’ve seen worse places to have a home,” Ladd comments as he stands before a pair of opened French balcony doors. The view is of the city center with the Coral Sea beyond. While Bretaria is only about as old as the United States, the wealth blanketing the island means that all the buildings are pristine, the roads new, and there are no obvious signs of poverty.
From the dossier I read at least ten times during the long flight, I learned that King Thomas uses his ridiculous wealth to manage upkeep of everything. There are no taxes on the people who live here, but then again, their money isn’t needed for the sovereign state. The citizens—which number close to a hundred thousand between the main island and the outliers with mines—fall into two classes: middle working class and the überwealthy.
The working class are those who work the mines, work for the royal family, or those who work to maintain the city-state itself. They are paid a minimum of four times the minimum wage of the closest country of Australia, and that amount goes up depending on job skill and experience.
Privately owned small businesses, including bakeries, restaurants, and retail stores, operate at full capacity at all times of the year. Between private business success and a well-paid workforce, there is virtually no poverty, no slums, and no lack of education. King Thomas even provides private schooling for every single child on the island. If you are lucky enough to have citizenship here, you never want to leave. Truly, the working class is the middle class and the concept of lower class has no standing in Bretaria.