The Princess Games: A young adult dystopian romance (The Princess Trials Book 2)

got to launch from a ten-foot drop, while the producers made the Harvesters and Artisans drop from hundreds of feet with one of the gliders malfunctioning.”
“Right.” I nod and wonder if journalists are Artisans offended by the mistreatment of their Echelon.
“And the new video clips show that you’re Prince Kevon’s favorite.”
I clap a hand over my mouth. “No.”
She flashes me a grin. “Isn’t that wonderful? Next time there’s a vote, they’ll know who to choose and help His Highness find true love.”
A wave of nausea crashes through my insides, and I step back. If Queen Damascena discovered I was in any way connected to this leaked information, her vengeance would strike where I was most vulnerable. Worst of all, I can’t risk my family’s lives on a second-hand assurance that no one can hear us through the sounds of running water.
I tell Georgette that I’m too hungry and tired to think about the gossip rags, and she offers to fetch me a snack.
“Are you alright?” she asks.
I shake my head. “It’s been ages since I last ate.”
Georgette places the cloth on the side and heads for the door. “I’ll order you something.”
I pick up the cloth and dip it into the cream. Each swipe of the cloth removes another layer of grime, but nothing can wash away the thoughts of the girls who will never get another chance to see their families.
One of them would have shot pellets into my eye, which would have gone straight to my brain and struck me dead. I can’t fault Vitelotte. She panicked, overcompensated for not siding with me against the Nobles, and was desperate to protect a fellow Harvester.
We might have avoided the second killing, but I didn’t believe that Minnie wouldn’t attack us the moment she got the opportunity.
I peel off my jumpsuit, step into the shower, and let the hot spray cleanse my mind of these roiling thoughts. If it wasn’t for Vitelotte, I would have died yesterday.
Ingrid and the Guardians hadn’t considered that anyone would come to my aid, so their assassination turned to my advantage. I should be celebrating my new ally, not wallowing in guilt and dread.
Colored water slides down my body, and the spray feels like tiny fists massaging my skin, tiny fists admonishing me to be grateful for my survival. Vitelotte won’t be like Berta, who saved me from being hung or thrown out of the window, only to try to kill me the following day. Red Runners or those who sympathize with our cause do not betray Harvesters.
As soon as the water runs clear, I dry off and change into a jumpsuit Georgette hung on the bathroom door. I squeeze my eyes shut and suck in several deep breaths. When I step out into my suite, I’ve got to look ready for a snack and for the next challenge of the Princess Trials.
But the suite is empty save for two covered dishes waiting on the table... and Prince Kevon. He wears the same navy jacket from his interview with Montana with matching pants. Instead of slicked back, tendrils of dark hair slide across his forehead, making him look heroic.
A tight fist clutches at my heart as he rises from his seat and strides across the room. What will Queen Damascena do when she discovers we’ve spent time alone?
“I wanted to apologize,” he says. “They told me you would go on a treasure hunt. By the time I saw the footage of you and the gliders—”
“It’s alright.” After hearing about how he tried to save us, interrupting him feels rude, but I couldn’t bear it if he repeated his offer to become engaged. “We saw you on the Lifestyle Channel, declaring that the trials become more about diplomacy than dangerous challenges. Thank you.”
His eyes soften, and the corner of his full lips rise into a smile. “It took a lot of wrangling with the Chamber of Ministers. They’re loath to forfeit Ambassador Pascale’s Amstraad health monitors, but you come first.”
My heart stutters, sending heat to my cheeks. I lower my gaze to the marble floor and I tell myself that Prince Kevon wasn’t talking about me in particular but all the contestants. When he places his large hand on the small of my back, tingles shoot up and down my spine. It takes a lot of steady breathing and concentration to walk in a straight line to the dining table.
He pulls out my seat, pushes it in as I sit, and removes the dome. My nostrils fill with scent of saffron accompanied by the rich aroma of seafood. A plate heaped with golden rice, whole shrimp, lobster tails, and mussels and clams still in their shells.
A surprised breath hisses through my teeth. “Is that—”
“Paella,” he says with a smile. “Your mother told me it was your favorite.”
“You spoke to her?” my voice cracks.
“Only via a guard who contacted the mayor’s wife.” He settles into his seat and frowns. “Was this the correct choice?”
I give him an eager nod, even though a dish like paella is something a Harvester would never get the chance to eat. Firstly, rice grows in shallow water, something that’s in very short supply in our region. And cooking the grains requires large quantities of water no Harvester can afford.
Dad and I know a patch of land outside Rugosa where we can find a handful of saffron tulips growing at the base of a gnarled olive tree that no longer produces fruit.
In the years when we catch the plant early enough to capture its crimson stigmas, we can barter small quantities for enough food and necessities to last for months. At times like this, Dad can even afford seafood, but never in such quantities or variety on my plate.
“This is such a rare treat.” I pick up my fork and try not to dribble. “Thank you.”
“Enjoy.” He places a forkful in his mouth and smiles.
My next few mouthfuls are an explosion of flavors. The rice is infused with garlic, paprika, cilantro, and pepper