Fake It

"Which dress?" I ask, holding two dresses. One that's mint with rhinestones and a red one that is pretty plain except for fact that it's strapless.
My hair's in this weird bun type-deal-thing and I have on a robe and some matching slippers. I look horrendous. I'm still not sure how I got this comfortable with Zayn to be able to look this bad and not care, but that's not important. I'm supposed to be meeting Noble Nathaniel VI and I really need to pick a dress before 8:00. And it's...7:10. I need to hurry.

"Why does it matter?" Zayn murmurs, trying to tie his tie.

"Zayn, do you not remember who we're meeting today?"

"I've met Mr.Nate 10 years ago and I visit him every year. He's not so special that you have to get flustered." He tells me.

I just shake my head. Obviously, he's not that important to Zayn. He's known him for most of his life. This is my first time even being in his presence. I want it to be perfect. America has the queen, we have Nobel Nathaniel. Or maybe that's Great Britain. I don't know; I have to brush up on my geography.

I sigh, walking over to him. He gives me an inquisitive look as I take his tie in my hand and say, "How does the prince of the great Mirlano not know how to tie a tie?" He huffs out a mumbled reply that sounds a lot like, "Because I'm the prince." I laugh as I tie a Windsor knot into his tie.

I walk back to my dresses, beginning to struggle again as I say, "Zayn, seriously. Which--"

"The red one." He says, cutting me off in the process.

"Why the red?" I ask, inspecting the dress once more.

"It matches my tie." He says simply.

I don't even try to repress my smile as I ask, "And since when did my fashion choices rely on yours?"

He shoots me a look over his shoulder and tells me, "Since we got engaged."

That's what he said. Legit. I'm not making this up. As if us being engaged was a good enough excuse. Which, in hindsight, it is. I'm not sure why. I try not to think about how easily he said that, or the way he said it. Like it was definite, set in stone. I swallow whatever bile that crept up in my throat and push down those thoughts. I'm just gonna focus on getting ready.

--

I wear the plain-jane red dress as we walk into the dinning room. I'm shaking, like manic swaying. And I think I'm going to burst and I don't have the time to be bursting, especially when I'm going to meet the man I wanted to meet ever since I was 12. My mom had this weird thing where she taught me and my sister that royalty was and will always be the highest form of dignity. And for a long time i believed her. I mean, why wouldn't I? After my rebellious teen years where I disregarded any of her teachings, I still, however, held so much respect Noble Nathaniel. He's next to 90 years old and he still mostly has control over his bodily functions.

My hand squeezes Zayn's as he guided me through the corridors. Almost every word out of mouth consists of, "Breathe." and "You're too pretty to be this nervous." I think he just said the second part just so he might get some later. But, it's fine because it's working. With a achingly annoying smile planted on my face, I walk into the main ballroom.
My eyes scan the room for Nobel Nathaniel, finding nothing. I let out a small sigh and try to relax. Zayn just laughs next to me. I shoot him a glare which only makes him laugh more. He motions towards Prince Louis's table. I vote against it, noticing the prince and his assistant are in a heated argument. I point towards Prince Joshua's table just as Anastasia waves us over. She's his fiance. I absolutely adore her. We met the other day in the kitchen at midnight because we were both up late looking for a snack. She works for Nobel Nathaniel as his chef.
The minute we sit down, she excuses herself on the pretense that they've just hired a new pastry chef and she has to make sure the chef doesn't fuck up. Those are her words exactly. She kisses the prince's cheek and leaves. Taking my drink in my hand, I wait for the night to start.
And when today couldn't get possibly grow sour, my mother shows up. Great.

Notes