Royal academy -2
1015 Words
CELIA
“Oh my god! YOU AGAIN?! Where the hell have you been?!”
I shout, hands on my waist as I glare at the ceiling.
That's when reality slaps me in the face because—
My father is standing right here before me.
And he staggers back, face twisting like he just watched me lick dirt.
His brows raise, his voice dropping, low and horrified as he says,
“You…” He whispers, pointing at me as he shakes his head. “.... You’re not my daughter.”
Aishhh. s**t.
My mouth parts speechlessly, my brain moving in 5g as panic sprints through me.
What should I do? What should I do?
Okay. Slip into pampered daughter mode—GO.
“Papa!” I gasp dramatically, grabbing his sleeve like a spoiled Victorian princess whose corset is too tight. “Why would you say that?”
He squints down at me like, eye brows furrowed in suspicion.
“You shouted at the ceiling. My Celia is regal and does not raise her voice at anything.”
I gulp dryly, hand fisting his cloth as I pout. “But I… uh… I saw a bug.”
He narrows his eyes.
“A bug,” he repeats as if I just confessed to murder.
“Yes!” I nod too fast, my brain scammering to think. “A… bug.”
“A bug?” he echoes flatly, head darting up to check where I'd started at.
“But nothing is there though.” He whispers more to himself than to me before shifting his attention back to me. “Is it a celestial bug?”
Celestial bug? What the hell is that?
But I smile sweetly, cheeks aching. “Of course it's a celestial bug.”
Then, I double down because why stop now?
“It was… very territorial.”
He stares at me for so long I start checking if he is breathing.
Finally—
His shoulders stiffen.
“You are not my daughter,” he declares, voice a bit wobbly as he starts to peel my fingers away from his cloth. “I'll have the physician check you. You seem sick.”
“Oh come on!” I wail. “I scream once and suddenly I’m not only an imposter but a sick one?”
He points at me like a dramatic prosecutor.
“Celia does not scream. My princess is as gentle as a dove. Her footsteps are light and she does not try to take up space. She even apologizes to furniture if she bumps into them.”
I blink.
“That sounds like someone who needs therapy, not someone regal.”
His jaw drops.
“Celia would never say that.”
I throw my hands up. “Maybe Celia grew a backbone!”
His nostrils flare.
“Celia never defies me.”
“Well—maybe she should!”
Father’s face contorts like I slapped him with a fish.
“Celia does not yell,” he hisses.
“She does not argue. She writes poetry.” He waves a hand up and down at me. “THIS is not her.”
Shit s**t s**t. He's getting angry.
I gasp dramatically, stepping forward and clinging to his arm again.
“Papa, people change!”
“Not in the span of four hours!”
“I’m just evolving quickly!” Then, I whisper under my breath, “like a Pokémon…”
He frowns. “A what?”
“Never mind!” I snap, waving it away. “The point is—I’m still your daughter, okay?”
His brows draw low, his face softening just a bit.
“What happened to you?” he demands. “What changed?”
I stare at him.
Then sigh as I pull away from him.
“Me,” I say quietly. “I changed.”
He opens his mouth but I raise a finger.
“And the changed me doesn’t want Ke—Sir Keiran.”
Silence.
Wave after waves of silence.
Then, to my pure shock, Father’s expression fully cracks with relief flooding it.
He exhales so deeply his shoulders drop, eyes softening even more.
“Thank the Goddess,” he whispers. “I am glad you finally saw sense.”
WHAT?!
“Wait—what?”
He rubs his forehead like I just cured world hunger.
“Keiran is a good man,” he mutters, “but he is not good for you. I only entertained your insistence because you seemed convinced. Foolish, but convinced.”
I stare.
Did… did Past here-Celia set herself up so badly she was trying to marry medieval Kevin against her father’s wishes?
Good lord, she really needed me sooner.
“So,” I ask slowly, “you’ll tell him?”
“Yes.”
He straightens proudly. “I shall inform him after dinner.”
I nearly collapse in relief.
THANK YOU, FATE.
THANK YOU, ME.
THANK YOU, GOOD BRAIN.
He steps forward and pats my cheek, thumb brushing where it was slapped earlier which strangely doesn't hurt at all anymore.
“You are growing,” he murmurs, staring at me lovingly. “Perhaps a little strangely, but growing.”
I beam, because I’ll take that.
“Yes, Papa.”
“Come,” he says, looping my arm in his. “Let us return. I shall inform the martial tutor.”
Well…
We walk back toward the dining hall, his stride regal, mine like a runway model’s because that's all I've known in my twenty years of real corporate world exposure but my current dressing is downgrading it.
And inside me, I am gloating.
I actually did it.
I cancelled this sudden marriage arc.
I saved myself from Kevin 2.0.
I lift my chin proudly—
…and then I remember the cosmic voice and the Royal Academy mission waiting to slap me again.
And… wait. There's,
Moon goddess oath. Wolf. Train or mate.
Oh s**t.
And the soul crushing thought that martial training here might not be romanticised at all and can be a total contrast to gym or taekwondo.
- Writer
