1
Good Day
It was a nice day – certainly. The sun was shining, the sky was clear of any clouds, it was warm, midsummer and what not. Rock would certainly not mind going out, Michael thought when the car he sat in came to stop. The black-coloured windows (black-coloured windows somehow were a thing? Apparently since years too? How? ) hid him from the public eye – fortunately. Quite a few people he knew would kill him if they saw his choice of clothing (t-shirt, jeans, trainers, sunglasses – apparently not 'adequate' for a crown prince). When the chauffeur opened his door, he slipped out of the car quickly.
"This way, sir."
No need the formality or explanation; this wasn't the first time for him to be here. For way too many reasons, Michael did not like the place – he despised hospitals in general – but he (tried to, at least) kept a cool face.
Michael also ignored the note of where to go. This still wasn't the first time for him to be here, the heir apparent wanted to tell the nurse, but he refrained from it. He wasn't that stupid. Not even twenty-four hours since the 'news broke' (aka someone leaked the plans of the Selection) and he already had stopped looking at his phone's newsfeed. He wasn't particularly interested in vanity magazines and the boulevard press discussing his marriage.
He was twenty years old, for God's sake. People didn't marry with twenty anymore!
Not that they cared, apparently. Just like that nurse who had given him the hospital's visitor's pass and giggled with her co-worker afterwards. Frustration. Yes, Michael was frustrated. Twenty years, and he should have gotten over it, but nah – he was still complaining.
"Remind me again, why are you stalking me?"
Silvestre had been by his side since he had left the palace in the morning. He certainly didn't need a babysitter, but if the press caught him, he wouldn't mind being able to push them at her rather than dealing with reporters on his own.
"I am not stalking you, your highness."
"Drop the formality, Silvestre. You're like, literally, my godmother."
"Yes, I know, Michael."
"Thanks."
"No problem." Silvestre paused. "But, to answer, because Emilia is almost a daughter to me. I am worried too."
"I get why you're in the hospital, yeah, but why stalk me the rest of the way?"
Silvestre chuckled. "We both know you're terrible with the press."
"… Point."
* . * . *
Emilia's hospital bedroom was filled with sunlight. The curtains were open and one window was too. Summer air filled the room. Emilia'd love this, Michael though. Said eighteen years old blonde however did not take much notice. Just like the last time, he had been here, Emilia was sleeping.
Or at least it looked like she was.
"Hey ya'." Rihanna turned around. The blonde – who looked almost like Emilia if it wasn't for the features, Emmy had inherited from their father – turned around.
"Anything new?"
Rihanna shook her head slowly. "Unfortunately, not, no."
Silvestre briefly hugged her daughter while Michael kept staring at his sister. Stupid, he thought. That he, Sam and Rihanna often ended up here, visiting her, even though she didn't know that they were here. Rihanna, Emmy's best friend, was here even more often than he, her brother, was. Yes, she worked on the other side of the street in a mall and wasn't working as royal, but it made him feel guilty.
"They say that comatose people can hear you, you know." Silvestre added.
"They also say that it'll be nice weather if you eat up your plate." Michael retorted.
"I read about that too though." Rihanna remarked. "By the way, Mike, how's the Selection going?" From sad and down, Rihanna's voice came back to a typical friendly teasing.
"Good, and your's?" He retorted again.
"Ah, I can't decide how many to take. Already got some applications?"
"Officially, it's not even announced, duh."
"Have you seen mum's workload?"
"Yes." Silvestre laughed. "My phone was ringing the whole afternoon yesterday."
"No, and I don't really care. She's being paid to do that, you know."
"Sovereign grant?" Rihanna laughed. "You're being paid too!"
"Better than a part-time shop clerk."
"I just haven't decided what to do with my life!" Rihanna defended herself laughing.
A stupid, reasonless but funny 'fight' between friends. That was new. Maybe Rihanna, Samuel and Michael should hang out again. Once Emmy was fine, she could join them too. Emmy had to be fine again.
"But, hey, mum? Can you pull some strings so I get in?"
Silvestre was visibly surprised. "Pardon me? Rihanna?"
"That is an interesting way of confession your love for me, Rihanna…?" Michael, equally confused, spoke slowly.
"Dude, no!" Rihanna laughed out. "You're not my type. Sam's much more handsome, and he isn't my type either."
"Thanks, you too."
"I just want in for the bitch fights. I mean, hello?" She jokily pointed to herself. "I have insider knowledge!"
Silvestre was, nonetheless, against it. "No, Rihanna you will not apply."
"Why not?" Rihanna shrugged. "It's just for fun, mum."
"It's… wrong. You and Michael are childhood friends!"
"Last time I checked, that's not a no-no to hang out with some wanna be princesses."
"Yes, but-"
"You know, Rihanna?" Michael interrupted Silvestre. "You're in."
"Wait, what?" Rihanna laughed. Silvestre was negatively surprised.
"Do you have a crush on me?" Rihanna challenged him.
"No, but that's one less name to learn, one less girl to pretend to care about, and I'm sure," He turned to Silvestre. "Your mum could sell that as a sweet love story for the moment so I get rid of reporters claiming I just want to sleep with thirty-five girls."
"You are a virgin!"
"Hey, I'm not! But going by the press?" He laughed out. "Going by them, there are forty women and two guys who claim I slept with them, four that claim I assaulted them and two who claim I raped them."
"Which are false." Silvestre nodded – more wanting to convince herself.
"You've never even had a girlfriend." Rihanna added. "I got best sources."
"You don't say." Michael sighed. "But, either way, Silvestre – please make it happen. Sam has lectures to attend, and I won't go through this sane otherwise. It's not like Rihanna and I will end up together."
"Exactly!"
It took more than just "Please?" to convince Silvestre of letting that happen, but eventually, she gave in. Rihanna was going to be in, no matter what. Poor Angeles girls, Michael had joked. Rihanna had retorted that they could always try their luck when they were partying.
It was funny that Rihanna was fine with clubbing even though her best friend (on whose side she usually was!) always warned them about the dangers. But well, now, Rihanna'd have to survive until Michael'd find a way out. Maybe the government (or whoever was in charge) would end up finding and arresting The Red Herring and he could end the whole thing with the statement that "I just didn't find the right one." – no one'd expect him to find the love of his life in thirty-five girls, right?
* . * . *
Nonetheless, the afternoon came – and with that the press conference, Silvestre had warned him about yesterday evening. He had successfully missed a meeting about the criteria of the Selected, but he didn't really care either.
What he did care about was getting this press conference behind him. It was stupid alone.
"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen." He spoke, in a "I care" voice towards the journalists that had been assembled in one of the uncountable rooms of the royal palace. He was already getting off script. Great. What was he meant to start with again?
Screw it. Screw this goddamn thing.
"As you might now, because some dude took the surprise moment from me, I – Crown Prince Michael of Illéa – am going to hold a Selection. For these who slept through history like I did and missed the little remark; that means that a young woman aged eighteen to twenty-two from every province will be selected, provided that she finished school and has applied, to come here, to the royal palace in Angeles. I am meant to find a wife through this, and I am going to leave it to fate – I honestly don't want to think about the aspect of having thirty-five guests whose name I gotta learn. The application form will be released online tomorrow morning at nine o'clock, and a duration of three weeks will stand to allow applications." Yeah, apparently, people thought it was a nice idea to rush it. He added further information he could remember, but presumably missed half of it. Michael hated press conferences. He grew annoyed, wanting to finish this thing.
Eventually, he did get over it, and passed Silvestre and his father who were standing in the hallway – presumably previous talking.
"That was," Silvestre started.
"Terrible. I know.."
"Michael." Richard sighed. "I just want the best for you and the country. You could simply embrace this chance to meet friendly and nice young ladies, son."
"The country?" Michael asked annoyed. "They'd be better off if I locked myself in a closet."
* . * . *
This wasn't the first time that more people were crammed into the student flat, Sam lived in. All of the them were pretty sure that the landlord had lied about the size, but never come to checking the actual size.
Rihanna had occupied the couch, Sam the floor and Michael a floor – four weeks after the Selection was announced. Four weeks in which practically nothing had changed, except that Samuel was studying heaps again and Rihanna had ended her job.
"When's the announcement of the Selected?" Sam looked up from his pile of folders.
"Tomorrow." Rihanna answered. "Mum's doing it after Mike screwed up the last press conference.
"Thanks for the confidence."
"I have yours here, Rihanna." Sam waved one of the folders – filled with information on the Selected. "Miss Rihanna Lorde. Nineteen years old. Saint J. Hunton-Vanderbilt Academy graduate, employed as part-time shop clerk."
"Wrong." Rihanna called out.
"This information was made four weeks ago though." Michael remarked before open his can of beer and taking a sip.
"Average student, no future plans known. A few cases of driving too fast. Hobbies are art and movies."
"I thought we knew each other longer than five minutes?" Rihanna joked. "Why do you need to read my file?"
"I've read all. You got a whole rainbow of options here, Mike."
"Great, and I don't care."
"Damn, I couldn't think straight if I had a thirty-five girls in my house." Rihanna laughed.
"You are living in a penthouse. I'd be worried about the floor breaking if that happened." Mike complained.
"But, seriously, besides Rihanna – the group isn't random, is it? I can see multiple themes."
"There are criteria, yeah. I didn't read them though."
"Or attend the meetings." Rihanna added.
"Shut it."
"No, thanks."
"But why? I mean, they don't seriously expect you to marry one of these, do they?"
"God knows what goes on in Greene's head." Michael shrugged. "Apparently, we need money to handle the German federation's new export policies, and to work out the Red Herring situation, and somehow… these girls are going to help with that?"
"Most of them don't seem poor."
"Greene does expect you to marry someone." Rihanna clarified. "I mean, how else would the Selection help? Sure, the advertisement's gonna bring money in, but otherwise? That's heaps of money."
"What's up with the Herring guys though? Online info is pretty much nothing." Sam remarked. "They did attack some hospital somewhere, I heard. But that's the only thing I know."
"No one tells me something." Michael took another slip. "Hey, Sam, how do you make girls fall for you?"
"Half of the university has a crush on you." Rihanna added. "How."
"You know, the reason I'm so beautiful is that I live in a glorified closet." Sam casually pointed to his small living space.
"So, basically, you don't have any tips."
"Yeah." Sam shrugged. "I dunno what these girls want from me. But, seriously, why do you suddenly care about what they think of you?"
"Gotta play my role or I get in trouble."
"With whom?"
"Greene. 'Just do your job, boy.' – he says that every time we meet."
"I don't like Greene." Sam stated.
"Who does?" Michael shrugged. "I feel like he's just as disliked as the whole country."
"Hey, it's not Emmy's fault."
He knew what Rihanna was referring to. The fact that the whole country preferred Miss Perfect, Princess Emilia. He knew that she was referring to the time where there had been a rivalry between them. She didn't know what else she was referring to.
"Hey, Sam? Wanna stay the night over and try help me with learning these girls' names?"
"Now he suddenly cares." Rihanna laughed. "Power of the boner."
It took Sam more time to realise what was going on. "Yeah, sure."
Author's Note
It's been a while since I last worked with and Genius!Me forgot how to edit chapters. Yay. That's going to be fun.
Few notices:
Samuel Jones (name wrongly states, oops – I messed up) is doing a Bachelor of Health in Psychology for story purposes. There is a link to a Google Slides file on my profile that will lead you to the information about the main characters, including images. I've written a bit about the Selected, but feel free to message me if you would like anything to be changed.
In other news, Paloma, Honduras, Dominica and Angeles are taken. I have two further Selected whose province doesn't matter and will be decided once I close the SYOC (which will presumably happen once I upload chapter three?).
Also, here's me quietly hoping that I got through that Michael is emotionally struggling with stuff.