“Open a window,” I choke out before backing out of the room.

I close the door and open the next one. It’s a wood-paneled study similar to my father’s, but much smaller. A bar cart sits in one corner. Several bottles of expensive liquor are on it, two still sealed. Bingo. The bottle unseals when I yank the cork, making a satisfying pop. I take a long swig from the clear liquid encased in the glass container. I hate vodka, but the burn as it scorches its way to my stomach, followed by the welcoming warmth that begins to pump through my veins, is worth the abhorrent taste. Before I replace the cork, I take several more pulls of the clear alcohol.

Already, I feel looser. Lighter. Numbed.

I open the door. One of my agents is standing in the hallway. He looks behind me into the empty room.

“I can’t find the restroom,” I tell him, glad the burst of liquor coursing through my system hasn’t impacted my improvisation skills yet.

“It’s at the very end of the hall, Your Highness.”

I nod and continue down the hallway until I reach the correct door. Once inside, I walk over to the expansive granite sink and stare into the mirror that covers most of the wall. I grip the edge of the cold, unyielding stone tightly as I study my reflection. I look more put together than I feel. My hair has dried in loose waves, and I’m not wearing any makeup, so my smattering of freckles are clearly visible against my pale skin.

I look calm.

Regal.

Poised.

But there’s an ineffaceable sorrow in my eyes that I study closely, trying to discern the exact flecks conveying woe.

I jump when there’s a knock on the door. I expect it to be one of my agents checking up on me again. Instead, a female voice calls out, “Hey! Can you hurry up?”

I walk over to the bathroom door and pull it open, grateful for the interruption. A brown-haired girl I don’t recognize is standing there. She’s wearing a short silk dress, and has a hip cocked, seemingly waiting to further berate the bathroom’s leisurely occupant.

Her bravado falls away as soon as she sees my face. “Shit—I mean, sorry!” She straightens, wobbling on her heels before dropping into the saddest attempt at a curtsy I’ve ever seen.

“No need for that,” I assure her, stepping through the doorway. “It’s all yours.”

I take my time walking back down the long hallway, but eventually return to the living room aided by a slight buzz. My classmates are standing around in small groupings, chatting politely. Most of them try to subtly stare at me when I enter.

An expensive looking pool table sits in one corner of the room. I walk over to it and pick up a cue stick.

“Anyone want to play?” I call out to the room. It falls silent at my words.

“I’ll play.” Brett Adams steps forward. He’s one of the few members of Marcedenia’s elite willing to incite trouble, since his inner circle status is insulated by the fact his father’s an earl. It hasn’t kept him from being expelled from almost every school in the country, however. I’m surprised he’s lasted at Edgewood this long.