CHAPTER 28

Monday, The 6th of January

Princess Carolynn Schreave

"Are you coming, Your Highness?" George asks, having already exited the limousine. He pauses, extending a hand to help me out, which I appreciate, to be fair, but it still felt as if he was sorely missing the mark as to why I was hesitating.

I didn't mind volunteering in the true sense of the word. There was something almost pleasant about doing charity work, helping the less fortunate. I just mostly preferred my contributions to be in the form of a large check, something that would actually help. And where I wouldn't have to get my hands dirty.

But it was a new year. And I was trying to be a better person. A person who actually makes an effort to help others. World peace and all that jazz.

So, in addition to presenting a large grant to the Angeles Public School District Two to promote healthier meals, I would be… serving the food as well.

Gross.

Swallowing back my reservations, I nod at him, "Of course, I was just fixing my shoe." There's no reason for him to think that I'm not altruistic and kind-hearted, and all the stuff that princesses are supposed to be.

George smiles, "Okay."

I pretend to fix the clasp on the bottom of my silver heels, before taking George's outstretched hand and accompanying him into the brick building.

The large room is clean enough, though judging on the shininess of the tables, I'd wager that they made an effort to clean it specifically for me. That was nice of them. There was nothing that was outright wrong with the room, it's bland and the walls are painted a rather ugly cream color, but the whole thing is just bland. I guess whoever was in charge decided to use the funds for the actual function of the school cafeteria -providing food- instead of the decor.

George seems to echo my thoughts, "It's very...sizable."

"Yeah. That way they can seat as many people as possible," I answer, biting the inside of my lip to keep from grimacing.

"That's considerate."

I give him a smile, not sure what else to say. I guess in retrospect serving strangers food isn't exactly the best date that I could have asked him on, especially considering what others received, but George is really in no position to complain. If I, the Crown Princess of Illéa, can serve some deserving children a nice meal, then I would expect him to do the same. Even if it is begrudgingly.

A woman, her red hair tied in a bun, comes over to us to explain how to serve the food, as if we didn't previously know how spatulas work. She then directs us to the large kitchen area, where several other people stand around, pulling trays out of ovens even larger than the ones in the palace. That's something I'd never thought I'd see.

"What are you cooking?" George asks, glancing down at the menu pasted to the wall.

"Today is ravioli with baked carrots and broccoli," the redhead answered.

"That sounds nice," I interject, before George has a chance to remark on it.

"Would you like to try some, Your Highness?" She asks, gesturing towards a tray of the ravioli.

It takes most of my self-control not to have a gag reflex at the thought of eating ravioli that was mass produced, and, if the documents I had read before we left we're correct, ravioli that was previously frozen and shipped halfway across the country.

"I'll see if there's any left at the end, I wouldn't want to take someone's lunch," I answer, smiling.

"There's always food left," George adds rather unhelpfully, "My school always made far too much food for everyone who ate it."

"Well, you went to a different school," I say, "I don't want to make assumptions on how much food is left at the end."

"He's right," the woman tells me, "Of course we're going to have leftovers."

"Lovely. Well, it would probably be better to have them after, wouldn't you agree?" I ask, knowing full well that this woman wasn't about to disagree with a princess.

"Sure."

The woman takes us on a brief tour of the kitchens, showing us the gigantic freezers, the preparation area and the...metal trays that the food was poured into to be served. Thank God I never went to actual school, public or not. She then directs us behind the glass partitioners, where we would actually serve the food.

The school bell is a piercing noise, and I cover my ears until it passes causing George to chuckle lightly.

"Stop it," I mutter, swatting his arm.

"My apologies, Your Highness."

"Is that what all school bells sound like?" I ask.

"Every school bell in the world sounds like that," George assures me, "Though some do have music instead of actual bells, but it's the most obnoxious music that you've ever heard, I can promise you that."

"Lovely," I mutter, making a mental note to introduce a proposal to change school bells the next time I need to work on a philanthropy project.

"You get used to it."

"So you say."

The loud noises coming from the cafeteria cuts our conversation short, and I resist the urge to cover my ears again as the middle-school children line up to get food. They all seem to know the program, better than I do to say the least, grabbing a cardboard tray and waiting for their food to be placed on it. I watch George carefully to see what he does, before finally grabbing a serving tool that looks as if it's been in use for decades.

I can only think that the kids care more about getting their food than meeting royalty because none of them pay me any mind, except for a girl who says, "Can I just get the ravioli and carrots?"

"Excuse me?" I ask. "I don't think that's possible…" The carrots and broccoli had all been mixed together, and this girl could have been God in human form, but there was no way I was picking around the broccoli to give her only carrots.

"I don't want the broccoli," she repeats, turning to her friend to show the other girl something on her phone.

I take a deep breath to refrain from telling off a literal twelve year old, "If you don't want to eat the broccoli then you can separate it when you get back to your table. Unfortunately I cannot do that for you."

"Whatever."

What an absolutely lovely, well-mannered girl. I hope no one thinks that about me. Though, if I'm being honest with myself, they probably did. I know that I wasn't always the most...pleasant person to be around in the past. But that's in the past. Clearly this girl didn't work on her new year's resolutions.

"So how many lunch periods are there?" I ask, when the room clears out. It was January, but the room had become muggy and I was aware of my dress starting to stick to my body.

"There are four," the redhead answers.

"Okay." I answer, "That's nice." It's a good thing, so that the cafeteria isn't too full...and oh who am I kidding? I'm miserable.

I am a princess though, so pasting a smile on my face is a special skill of mine. Working not to let the displeasure show on my face, I served the children their food. Thankfully, most of them didn't seem to have any desire to meet me and just took their food with minimal complaining. I never thought I would be so happy to go unrecognized. I was planning on exchanging words and posing for pictures, but honestly, this is much better. I'm much happier to just nod and give out the food to the students.

As much as I would like to tell myself that this was due to me actually enjoying doing charity work, I know that it's just that I was happier putting out minimal effort.

It's definitely a start though.

Yeah, I'm on my road to being a better person.

I clear my throat as the last students file out of the room three hours later. "I had a lovely time, thank you so much for hosting us," I say, preparing to leave before I can be forced to eat any of the disgusting-looking food.

"Thank you for coming, Your Highness," the redhead says, "We do have some food leftover if you would like to try it."

"Great," I mutter, smiling. "Why not."

I take one of the cardboard trays, and motion for George to follow me to an empty table in the corner of the cafeteria. "Okay," I say, mostly to myself. "Here goes nothing."

It's...not great. Based on it's appearance, I was imagining something barely edible, but it's definitely food. It's not very tasty and obviously overly processed, but it's not as bad as I was envisioning it to be. Maybe I need to give those cooks in the cafeteria more credit.

"You know, that could be a lot worse," I tell George.

"School food is never particularly good," he tells me. "You eat it though, it's not as if you have any other options."

"Can't you bring lunch from home?" I ask, surveying the cafeteria where at least half of the kids had lunch boxes propped up in front of them.

"You can," George agrees, "But everyone forgets their lunch one time or another. It's never a happy day when that happens."

"Yeah. I guess not." I say, pushing the food away. As much as I didn't hate the food, I wasn't planning on actually finishing it. "Do you want to go get some actual food?"

"Sure. I don't see any reason why not."

The restaurant we end up at is mostly empty, given that it's early afternoon on a Monday. I didn't even have to mention my last name in order to get a reservation when I called.

George sits across from me, tapping his hand against the hardwoods table rhythmically. "So that was fun."

I nod slightly, "I know it wasn't the most exciting date, but I figured you would be a good person to take on it." Plus the fact that I hadn't been on an actual date with him yet, but he doesn't need to know that particular fact went into my decision making process. I was trying to be fair, not hurt people's feelings.

"It's nice of you to think of me," he answers simply.

I stare at the menu for the next few minutes, not sure of what to say. George likewise makes no such effort to start a conversation, or maybe he's just intimidated….actually probably not. There's no way he would be intimidated by me.

"So do you have any hobbies?" I finally ask, fiddling with my fork.

"I like to spar," he says promptly.

At that I look him dead in the eye, "You mean like with swords?"

"For the most part, it's fun."

I cringe inwardly. I know that guys like...odd things, but this isn't the middle ages. I might not be a professional historian, but I'm sure that playing with sharp and pointy objects isn't exactly a normal pastime now.

"Is that even safe? Can't you cut someone?" I ask, rubbing a hand over my arm.

"You use dummies usually. Last time I checked, foam doesn't have a low pain tolerance." George says in a weak attempt at a joke. "The swords are pretty dull anyway. It's unlikely that they can cut skin," he assures me.

I nod, trying hard not to wrinkle my nose. "Anything else?" I ask, hoping he names something that doesn't involve stabbing people- well, dummies.

"I like to read," George offers, shrugging. "How about you?"

"I guess I like to read...I don't know," I finally say, shrugging.

"What type of books do you like to read?" George asks, though seemingly out of politeness.

"Books...it's not like there's only one type that I like." I tell him, moving my eyes back down to the menu.

George doesn't say anything else, and I'm grateful when the waiter comes to take our orders, and even more grateful when the waiter comes back with our drinks so I have an excuse to do something with my mouth that doesn't involve talking. The awkward silence is hard to sit through. Cringing, I pick at my food, wishing that the clock would move faster.

Once the check is signed, and George and I make our way back to the limousine, I can't take this anymore. "I had a good time," I hedge.

"I did too."

"Look, George, this was fun, but…" Okay, what's the kindest way I could do this? "I don't think that we're meant for each other."

"Oh."

He's really not helping me here. "You're a really great person, and I wish you the best in the future," I say, pressing my lips together.

"Thank you," he says simply, not looking happy in the slightest.

"Your butler will be able to organize a flight back to your province for tomorrow, or later today. Whichever you'd rather do." I finish, twisting a strand of hair between my fingers.

"Okay."

Maybe I was wrong to eliminate George like that. On a date. It is the selection, and let's be honest here, that date was awful. He had to know that it was coming. Still, his face was so sad, I don't want to be the reason why he's sad. I already have enough people mad at me. I don't want to add George to the list. What if he decides he-

"Ow," I cry, stumbling backwards.

"Oh, Your Highness, are...are you okay? I'm so sorry, I wasn't looking where I was going," Divesh says, apologizing profusely as he steadies me.

"Evidently," I mutter under my breath, "It's fine, I wasn't looking either."

Divesh breathes an audible sigh of relief, "Okay. I don't want to get executed today."

I genuinely laugh at that, though I get the feeling that it wasn't entirely a joke. "I wouldn't worry about that. I really don't think that's legal, besides, I wouldn't want to execute you."

"Thank you...I think," Divesh says, smiling. "Is that a compliment?"

I giggle slightly, "What do you think?"

"I think it's a compliment," Divesh answers unsurely.

"We have a winner," I say, patting him on the shoulder. He's much closer to my height than the rest of the guys, and it's nice not to have to strain my arm trying to reach someone's shoulder.

"Do I win something?" He asks, knitting his brow.

"Do you want to win something?" I counter.

Divesh pauses, "If you want to give me a prize? I don't know, this is a lot of pressure."

"I'll tell you what, do you want to go on a date tomorrow? We can call that your prize," I offer, hoping he'll take me up on it. I mean, I know he will, it's the selection. His sole goal here is to please me, but there's always a moment where I don't know if I'm going to be horribly embarrassed or not.

Divesh's face visibly brightens, "Sure. if you want to. That sounds great."

"Great. Well, what do you want to do?"

Divesh shrugs, "I'm not sure."

Finally I laugh, swatting my hand. "I don't feel like standing in the middle of the hallway anymore. Let's go to your room, see if there's anything you like."

"Uh, I'm not sure if that's a good idea," he stutters.

I look at him, tilting my head, "Why not?"

"It's...messy," Divesh finally says.

"Messy?" I repeat. "Don't you have a butler meant to clean up after you. There's no way that it's messy."

"I just…" Divesh trails off, "I don't… Maybe we should just-"

I shake my head, tired of his nervousness. He's probably just uncomfortable that I'm asking for his opinion on a date instead of figuring it out myself. Or with the assistance of a public relations agent. Whichever I'm in the mood for. "Come on," I say tugging on his arm, "Lead the way."

"Uh...sure. Okay," Divesh says. I follow him up the stairs to the second floor where Divesh lingers in front of a door close to the end of the main hallway. "This is it."

"Great," I open the door, Divesh lingering behind, "What are you talking about?" I ask, laughing. "This isn't messy at all."

"Oh," Divesh says quietly. "I guess I was wrong."

I sit down in the desk chair, in front of his laptop. "So, what do you like to do? For a date I mean, not in a philosophical way." I'm not about to get this deep with Divesh. I don't need to hear about his hopes and dreams.

"I like soccer," Divesh says, his eyes moving from between me and his desk.

I frown, "Soccer? Like the sport?"

"Like the sport," Divesh confirms, letting out a nervous laugh.

"Oh, I don't know the rules to that." Finally, I follow Divesh's gaze to the desk, tired of him only partly paying attention. "What are you looking at?"

"Nothing."

"You know," I say, "I think you might have one of the clunkiest laptop cases I've ever seen. What, is it bullet-proof too?"

"I don't know, I've never tried."

I turn back to his laptop, narrowing my eyes. I can't explain it, but something about it is just wrong. There's no way a person actually chose that to put their laptop in. "So, no offense, but that's a really ugly case."

"I get that a lot," Divesh answers me.

"Why'd you choose it?" I ask bluntly.

"So if I drop my laptop it won't break…" Divesh stammers, forcing a smile at the end. "It's not that...big of a deal. Really."

"Huh." I look closer at his laptop, there's a number stamped at the bottom. "So what's with the number? Was that so it wouldn't break too?"

"I think it's a serial number," Divesh offers unsurely.

"Laptop cases don't come with serial numbers," I tell him.

"Oh. I don't know then." Divesh says, not meeting my gaze. "I don't think it's that important anyway."

"Hmm," I hum lightly. "This might be an invasion of privacy, but can I see your laptop?" I ask, anticipating Divesh to say no.

"I...I mean, I don't know…" Divesh stammers, his hand twisting the cover of his bed.

I don't wait for his approval, opening the laptop. The background is a plain black screen, prompting me for a password. "What's the login for the laptop?" I ask.

"I don't really remember," Divesh says, almost as if he's asking a question- searching for my approval.

"You don't remember the password to your own computer?" I challenge, "How do you even use it?"

"I…," Dicesh shakes his head, saying something to himself. I can't hear what it is. "I'll log in for you." I walk over to Divesh, sitting next to him on the bed. He takes the laptop from me, typing in his password and...answering security questions? I've never heard of that before. Even my mother's computer uses a fingerprint scan, not asking multiple security questions.

"Here you go," he says, looking away once he hands me the computer.

The computer displays an alarming amount of files, and a ridiculous amount of emails and notifications. I look at Divesh. He keeps looking down, trying desperately to avoid my eyes. Okay… That's weird. I click on his email, opening the most recent one- "Oh my god," I gasp before I can stop myself.

Dvesh doesn't say anything, turning farther away from me.

"Divesh," I say, trying to keep my voice even, "Would you like to explain to me why this email is from the British Secret Service?"

"I just-"

I stand up, "I know that made it sound like a question, but it really isn't one."

"Okay," Divesh says softly. "I'm not a medical student. I don't even go to the University of Allens, I've never been there. I work in the National Security Agency, for England," he says, waiting for me to give him some reaction. I don't. "They wanted me to enter the selection, to monitor Henri, make sure that he was okay. And, I did that. It wasn't because I don't like you, I do. I think you're a great person and I'm really sorry. I just...it was my job. I couldn't back out."

Pushing back the absolute betrayal, I focus on questions that I need answers to. "How did you manage to even get in? That's what, a one in a hundred thousand chance?"

Divesh shrugs. "I don't know. I really don't. They didn't tell me. I'm assuming they paid someone off to switch the applications."

"And you were in my selection to monitor him?" I ask, not able to say his name out loud.

"Yeah. I think they knew something bad was going to happen." Divesh answers me with what I assume is honesty.

"They were right about that." I concede. "But why, why did you do it?"

"I don't know. You don't really ask questions. When they tell you to do something, you do it. Especially when it involves a member of the royal family." Divesh stutters, still playing with the cover on his bed.

I should go tell someone. I should go tell my mother or the head of the guard, or someone from the Security Bureau. Someone who would handle the situation. Who would do the right thing and make sure my selection can continue without a hitch. But where has that ever gotten me? Where has doing the right thing taken me in life? Down the dark road of a selection where I was not only dumped by my boyfriend, but had to deal with jealous little boys and spies for other countries. I'm done doing the right thing.

"I guess our date for tomorrow is canceled?" Divesh says nervously, his voice tinged with...sadness.

I like Divesh. He's nice, and he agrees with me. I feel comfortable around him. I don't know how he feels about me, given that he never actually intended to marry me, but I can hope that he likes me too. I have no need for this to turn into a giant fiasco.

"You don't mention this to anyone, do you understand me?" I ask.

"What?"

With the risk of sounding like a stalker and having a screw or two loose, I ask, "Do you still have access to the reports on him?"

"Henri, you mean?" I nod. "yeah..I do." Divesh stammers.

"Good. Pull them up for me." I say, hoping he doesn't think too deeply into it.

Divsh complies, going through a ridiculously complicated program to pull up a spreadsheet that has all of Henri's activity on it. That's actually really creepy. I guess there must be one like this for me, and everyone in my family, but it's weird to think about. "Here you go," he says, handing me the laptop.

I look through the spreadsheet, pausing on one box in particular. "Why did he tour Larmond University?"

"I think that he's finishing his degree there." Divesh answers me quietly. "The King got his credits transferred for him." I wonder how that phone call went down. Actually, I wish I could hear about it. If we were still together he would have told me, trying his best to make it seem like a thing of little importance. I doubt he would answer my call now. And even if he did, how would I explain how I knew he was not only transferring his credit, but where he was going?

"Oh," I say softly, giving Divesh the laptop back and sitting next to him. "Look, Divesh, I'll make you a deal."

"A deal?" he repeats.

"Well, if we're being technical it's probably blackmail," I admit, not very bothered by it.

"Okay."

"So, Divesh. What you're doing is majorly illegal here." I tell him, well aware that he already knows. "And I should probably go tell someone but I'm not going to. You can stay in the selection, you can keep doing whatever it is you do, but I want you to provide me with updates of what he's doing. Two pages, eleven point font, Times New Roman, single spaced. Do you understand me?"

"I...I think so." Divesh answers.

"Good." I say. He wouldn't challenge me, he's smarter than that. Besides, I see the way he looks at me, the longing in his eyes. I'm not an idiot. He's not going to betray me.

I turn my head, pressing my lips onto his. Divesh jerks back surprised, "Are you sure you want to kiss me? I just told you that..."

I cut him off, "Of course. We're partners in crime now, aren't we?" I ask, kissing him again before he has a chance to answer. Sure, this is a way to make sure he won't tell anyone. An insurance that he'll cooperate with my plan.

But, this is something I've wanted to do for a long time. His lips are nice, and I can pretend all I want, but I've thought about kissing him before. When we went down to the laundry room, and in the car ride back from the bakery. I can finally do it.

It feels nice.

No, it feels more than nice.

It's something I've thought about for longer then I want to admit, and it's certainly living up to it's expectations

A/N: Okay, so I know I said weekly updates, but if you think about it, this is within the week that it would have been updated, just on Friday. So really, I didn't break my promise. Anywho, this chapter says goodbye to George. Let's be real here, the not liking shopping was probably the final straw for Carrie. And Divesh, who happens to be a spy. Never thought that would be a sentence I use. Anyway, brilliant stuff really.