So, thank you to those who reviewed. It is much appreciated. This first chapter is short, but I'm starting out slowly, just establishing where Jasper is in his life. No Eleanor in this chapter yet. The chapters will gradually get longer. Also, I apologize in advance for any mistakes: English is not my native language, so bear with me, please.
Chapter 1. A bloody eternity.
It had been nine months and twenty-seven days. Not even a year yet a bloody eternity. An eternity since King Simon had died, since his killer, Ted Pryce, had been brutally lynched by a mob in the Wembley stadium, an eternity since Prince Robert had returned to the living and his rightful throne after been falsely presumed dead.
He'd gotten a new apartment, just off of Shoreditch High Street. It housed only the bare essentials and the odd flower here and there, some pictures - not placed there by him - but nothing too fancy. He had never needed much and that wasn't about to change. He had a new job which in all honesty was beneath him, but it paid the bills. His colleagues weren't too bad either. He might even like them. Not that he wanted them to know.
He had moved on, because it had been an eternity. A fucking eternity, yet it felt like only yesterday.
Only yesterday since he had left.
And now this.
He slid the envelope over the table, towards the girl sitting across from him. The café was packed, despite the early hour, but they had managed to secure a spot next to the window. Her coffee – 'black, please – and his – 'add a shot of whisky, Scotch' – stood still steaming in between them. His mug was already considerably emptier than hers though.
She arched an eyebrow, looking scathingly at his drink.
'A bit early, isn't it,' she said, fingering the golden envelope.
'Came last week,' he muttered, ignoring her. 'Delivered by a fucking monkey in a suit.'
He scoffed, recalling the young boy ringing his doorbell several days before. He hadn't been expecting any visitors, had stopped expecting her to show up a long time ago, and had at first ignored the ringing as he always did when someone came at his door unannounced. This time, though, the ringing was insistent. When he eventually pulled open the door with more force than was necessary, he was greeted with the sight of a rosy-cheeked, good-looking lad dressed like a nineteenth century house steward, complete with a topper. It had taken everything to not slam the door back shut in his face.
'What?' he had grunted. The lad had just smiled, showing perfectly aligned, white teeth and dimples that made him look even more obnoxiously handsome, and had held out an envelope to him. It had sparkled in the morning sun, causing him to eye it disdainfully.
'Jasper Frost?' the boy had inquired, to which he had reluctantly nodded.
'Good,' the boy had said. 'Prince Liam wanted me to personally deliver this to you.'
He had bowed – bowed! – and had wished Jasper a pleasant day. He had then proceeded to turn on his heels, leaving Jasper without any time to respond. Jasper chose to slam the door as a reply, regretting he hadn't done so sooner, and had walked back into the house.
It had taken him three days to open the envelope and another two before he read the accompanying letter. The contents of the first card had been simple: an invitation to the upcoming birthday party of Their Royal Highnesses Prince and Princess Liam and Eleanor Henstridge. He had been ready to toss it in the trash. Had actually done so. But then he had read the letter.
Dear Jasper, it had read and for a moment he had let himself believe it came from her.
It has been too long, my friend. I never had the chance to properly thank you and so much time has gone by, that I do not know if I can find the right words. But do know this. I love you dearly and miss you. You have always and will always be important to me and I hope so am I to you.
Come to my birthday. Let us catch up. The palace has settled down. All has fallen into its rightful place. I need your advice on girls, introduce you to Robbie, perhaps practice my American accent some more – even though we all know mine is better than yours. So much has happened that I wish to share with you.
Come to the party.
Liam
P.S. You could bring a friend if you don't want to come by yourself
At first he had scoffed at the incredible effeminacy of the letter. But then again, this was Liam. No matter how he might have worded it, Jasper knew the man meant every word of it. He had decided to not go – he wouldn't, truly, he didn't want to go, but he might text Liam, or send him a letter back, he'd bet the Prince would like that far more than was expected from a twenty-two-year-old – but after re-reading the letter once, twice, maybe even thrice though he would never admit to that, doubt had started to set in. He had no clue what to do.
Liam had been his friend. Liam was his friend. Perhaps even his only friend.
Of course he had his colleagues. They were nosy, entirely too curious and meddlesome, but they were also fun, perhaps slightly bacchanal. They didn't care when Jasper just drank impassively during their many nights out. They chattered and danced anyway, sometimes managing to pull him down to the dance floor as well. Other times they shared with him their own versions of his previous life. He hadn't been forthcoming about where he had been working before, what he had been doing, who he'd been doing, so they loved to speculate. It was annoying and tiresome, but also somewhat entertaining. The most far-fetched shit they'd come up with was when Jonathan, only two months after Jasper had been initiated into their little merry band of sponges, had exclaimed Jasper must've been the illicit lover of some President's daughter, who, after he cheated on her with her mother, had kicked him out of her bed and country. He had choked on his drink then and had proceeded to get them shamefully drunk, so none of them would've remembered that moment the day after. It had taken a while, though, to calm his racing heart.
They were a close-knit bunch, always wanting to hang out – and drink, they always wanted to drink – before and after their shifts, Jasper suspected at times even during, but though he joined them more often than had been his original plan, it was nothing compared to the bond he'd had with Liam.
Rummaging through the trash cans outside hadn't been his finest moment, but the relief he had felt after finding the invitation again had been more than worth it. Not that he had decided to go, not that he wanted to, but at least he'd be considering it.
'How the hell did he find me anyway?' he grumbled. He looked accusatory at the girl, but she held up her hands in an unnecessary gesture of innocence. He knew she had nothing to do with this. She didn't even know the Prince, none of them did. Had never bothered to tell them. It was none of their business. But out of all of them, she knew the most. Knew him best. Knew him maybe even good enough to convince him to go. He did not want to go, he kept telling himself, but every time he repeated the mantra it sounded more like a lie.
'God damn it, Frost,' she grinned. 'I knew you had a secret you weren't telling me.'
She took a sip from her coffee, hissed when it burned her, and sent another scathing look Jasper's way. His mug was empty.
He snorted lightly. 'I have many secrets, Poppy. And almost all of them I do not wish to tell you.'
And almost all of them she somehow knew. Just not this. Not about her nor Liam.
'Touched,' she replied, a hand on her heart. 'Really touching. But back to this letter slash invitation. Is this a secret hint that you want me to come with?'
'You think I should go?' he asked.
'The more important question,' she replied, 'is why you seem to not want to go.'
She slid the envelope back to him and leaned back in her chair. As she crossed her legs, she accidentally – or purposefully, with Poppy he could never be too sure – brushed against his. She smirked; he arched an eyebrow.
'Really, Frost,' she said. 'If I got an invitation to attend His Royal Highness Prince Liam's birthday I'd be out purchasing all of fucking Regent and Oxford Street to make sure I had something to wear and no one else was wearing the same.'
'I doubt anyone at that party gets their clothes from neither Oxford nor Regent.'
She waved him off.
'Shut it, you.'
She playfully slapped him in the face with the letter, having grabbed it again before he could put it away, and was surprised when he showed no response. He simply watched her stoically, one eyebrow arched. She grinned and stuck out her tongue.
'This,' she continued. 'This is practically a love letter from said Royal Highness that should have gotten your penis erect for at least twelve days. I know my fanny is sopping and it wasn't even addressed to me.'
Amusement briefly flickered in his eyes, but the expression on his face stayed as stony as ever. He was used to it by now. She had an entirely unhealthy crush on the Prince. She had confessed this to him, one of those rare mornings they had spent in bed together, after he had told her he used to work at the palace. Another secret she had somehow pried from him, without even having to try. She had that effect on him.
'I love you dearly and miss you,' she gushed. 'You will always be important to me.'
Again, she waved the letter at him, this time missing his face.
'He misses you,' she cried. 'Wants to share stuff with you. The bloody prince of England. My future husband!'
She looked at him, suddenly suspicious and he's already afraid of what she could possibly be thinking.
'Did you have an affair with the Prince while you worked at the palace?'
This is exactly why he keeps secrets. Why he doesn't share every goddamn aspect of his life with the people he knows. The bloody stupidity of it all. She had the audacity to leer at him, whether with jealousy or contempt, after he did not reply. If only she knew.
He wasn't even sure their thing could have been called an affair. He had named it a relationship, but she hadn't agreed. He had wanted to stay, but she hadn't agreed. There hadn't been an awful lot they had agreed upon.
He snatched the letter back from Poppy and stuffed it in his jacket pocket. When he glared at her, she simply shrugged.
'Well, you are an exceptionally good lover, so it would only be logical for you to have practised on both sexes. The slightly sullen, incredibly stubborn, mysterious guy thing works for me, so I'm guessing it will work on guys as well. You know, Fifty Shades of Frost.'
She winked at him cheekily, blowing him a kiss, and for a minute he was transported back to another time, at this same café, some months ago. She had been sitting in his lap, studiously ignoring their other colleagues nearby as she purred into his ear, one hand in his hair and the other rubbing his leg obscenely close to his crotch. The feeling of her warm breath in his neck, her long hair in his face and her hands…
Those hands.
He hadn't been able to stop himself, hadn't cared enough to try. The alcohol had muddled his senses and it had been a month since he had left. A fucking month. He had grabbed her by the sides, pulling her deeper into his lap, while grinding his hips into hers. His lips had found hers and their first kiss had been searing and needy and overbearing and somehow seedy and suddenly all he had wanted to do was fuck her senseless over the table top. They had waved a quick goodbye to their colleagues, or maybe not, they both couldn't remember, and had ended up on her kitchen counter. The bed had seemed too far away.
The sex had been good and if he had closed his eyes he could've almost pretended she was the Pr–
No. He wasn't going there.
'Poppy,' he sighed. 'Forget I showed you.'
He made to get up, but her hand shot out and landed on his. The sudden contact startled him. He didn't like people touching him. Never had. Might have had something to do with his step-dad. Easy to blame it all on the old man. His usual way of physical contact had been blows and kicks, preferably to Jasper's head. He rolled his eyes, mostly at the distant memory, but Poppy retracted her hand anyway and mumbled a quick apology, before urging him to sit down again.
'All right, Frost,' she said. 'Stop being so frosty and tell me what this is all about.'
Even she had to grimace at her wordplay but she seemed genuinely curious. She watched him patiently, eyes soft, body leaning slightly towards him. He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. She was the closest thing he had to a friend outside of the palace and for a moment he wanted to tell her all his secrets. Wanted to tell her about Samantha and the Koh-i-Noor. The Queen Mother and their betrayal. The blackmail, the Olympic swimmer, Beck. Every single mistake he had made, but mostly, in that fleeting moment, vanishing almost as quickly as it had come upon him, he wanted to tell Poppy about her.
But then he looked at her, staring at him from the other side of the table, and it was ephemeral. He was almost surprised. Almost, but not really.
Because the long, brown hair falling into her face... The dark eyeliner – not as heavy as hers, but still there. The willowy build and slightly upturned nose. They were so similar. So fucking similar. There was no one like her, there couldn't be, not to him at least. But this girl he had been fucking for the past months and her. How could he not have noticed?
'You look so much like her,' he whispered in a sudden spell of vulnerability. It lasted only a second and by the time his words had registered, he had already gotten up, almost knocking down his chair, leaving Poppy and rushing outside to smoke a cigarette. She craved one herself, but knew better than to follow him, not when he was like this. Instead she ordered another coffee. Extra strong with a shot of whisky, Scotch. Never mind that she hadn't finished her first coffee yet.
She watched him through the window. He was leaning against the low fence of the terrace outside, took a long and deep drag from his fag as she regarded him. One hand rested against his face, thumb rubbing his temple soothingly. She fleetingly wondered whether he and the Prince had been lovers, but had to laugh almost as soon as the thought crossed her mind. From the way he had been fucking her, she couldn't imagine Jasper with a guy. And she certainly didn't want to ruin any future Royal marriage dreams by imagining him with her Prince. Still, it was completely out of character for him to show this much dejection. The man consistently proved to have the emotional range of a rock, and perhaps that was even pushing it. His usual gloom almost seemed cheerful compared to this.
She took a thoughtful sip of her coffee. She winced, it was still hot, and focused back on Jasper. He looked back at her now, holding up his cigarette and beckoning her to join him. She signalled the waiter that she was going out as well. When he gave her a thumbs up, she slipped out of the chair, shrugging into Jasper's coat, and went outside.
He watched her walk towards him, one corner of his mouth slightly upturned, making him resemble a lost, apologetic puppy. She patted him on the head, rubbing her cheek against his shoulder.
'You know,' she began. 'I'm not even going to ask what got your panties in a twist. All I'm saying is 'yes, Frost, I would love to go to the Prince's birthday party with you'. I do, however, expect you to buy me a new dress because I have absolutely nothing to wear.'
He looked down at her, grateful, but said nothing.
The fucking similarities.
'Nothing from Oxford or Regent,' she added quickly. 'I'm not a pleb.'
He had been telling himself all week he wasn't going. He hadn't set foot in the palace for too long. But this wasn't the palace. This was a night club. And this wasn't her. This was Liam.
Liam had been his friend, was his friend. He owed it to him to show up to his birthday party. Their birthday party. Besides, so many things had happened in the meantime. He was over it. She was over it. Nine fucking months and twenty-seven days.
It had been an eternity. Not yesterday, but an eternity.
A bloody eternity.