CHAPTER 2: The Royal Decree
1371 Words
The Gilbert household operated on a very strict, unwritten caste system.
At the absolute top of the pyramid was my mother, the weary commander-in-chief whose entire mood depended on how many back-to-back nursing shifts she was pulling at the county hospital. Right below her was my sixteen-year-old sister, Lizzy, the reigning princess of social climbing who spent her allowance on lip gloss and her energy trying to get Allie Grace to notice her existence in the high school hallways.
And then, at the very bottom, buried under the rug, was me.
"Eloise, if you took my white knit top from the laundry, I will literally end your life," Lizzy yelled, her voice piercing through the thin drywall of our cramped bathroom. She didn't wait for an answer before bursting in, her hair already perfectly styled for a summer party I hadn't been invited to. She stopped, looking down at my oversized hoodie and the worn-out sneakers I was currently scrubbing over the sink. "Gross. Why do you always smell like a barn?"
"Because I work at a barn, Sherlock," I said without looking up, my voice deadpan as I rinsed a patch of dried mud off my shoe. "It’s this wild concept where you exchange labor for currency. I know it’s a foreign language to you."
Lizzy let out a dramatic groan, rolling her eyes so hard I thought they’d get stuck. "Whatever. Mom said you have to drive me to the mall later to get the denim skirt Allie posted on her story. And don't park your trash car anywhere near the entrance. If people see me getting out of that dented bucket, my life is over."
I didn't flinch. I didn't feel a sudden swell of tears or wish my family loved me more. I was seventeen; the window for teenage angst over family favoritism had closed about three years ago. I was thoroughly used to it.
"Consider it done," I muttered, shaking the water off my shoe. "I'll make sure to drop you off in the delivery alley with the rest of the garbage."
"Mom!" Lizzy shrieked, stomping out of the bathroom.
Ten minutes later, I was out the door before my mother could officially command me to do anything else. My safe haven was the Gable Stables, even if it currently felt like a financial death trap after what happened forty-eight hours ago.
I spent the next three hours in a state of blissful isolation, helping the vet tech clean the ears of a gorgeous, half-blind golden retriever rescue named Barnaby. I was leaning against the grooming table, quietly humming a low, bluesy melody under my breath—a song I’d been messing around with in my notebook for weeks—when the sudden, sharp sound of a basketball bouncing against the gravel outside ruined the vibe.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
My stomach did a violent, involuntary flip.
The stable doors swung open, and the afternoon sun flooded the corridor, framing two figures like a pair of high-society catalog models. Mike Weller walked in first, his blonde hair slightly damp from whatever varsity workout he’d just finished, his blue-and-gold jacket slung carelessly over one shoulder. Behind him was Jake Bill, rocking an expensive designer tee, tossing a basketball from hand to hand with a bored, lazy grin.
Mike’s blue eyes scanned the room, completely ignoring the older stable hands who were practically bowing to him, until his gaze locked directly onto me. There was no explosive anger on his face. Just that same effortless, terribly attractive arrogance that made you want to punch him and look at him at the exact same time.
He walked over, stopping right in front of my grooming station. He didn't say hi. Instead, he dropped a heavy, mud-splattered leather gym bag right onto my freshly swept floor.
"You're late, ginger," Mike said smoothly, his voice low and completely unapologetic.
I slowly stopped brushing Barnaby, lowering the tool to the table, and looked down at the bag, then up at his face. "Late for what, exactly? Our shared delusion? Because last time I checked, I don't work for you."
"Yo, she's got claws, Mike," Jake chuckled from behind him, leaning against a wooden pillar with an amused grin, looking exactly like a guy who had front-row tickets to his favorite comedy show. "I told you the ginger wasn't going to be easy."
Mike didn't even look back at his friend. He just tilted his head, a cold, devastating little smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "You do work for me. Until my passenger door doesn't look like it survived a bear attack, you're on my payroll. Which currently sits at zero dollars an hour."
"Right. The six-thousand-dollar hostage situation," I deadpan, crossing my arms over my green hoodie. "What do you want, varsity? Because I actually have real work to do that doesn't involve stroke-ing your massive ego."
"I need an errand run," Mike said carelessly, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a set of keys, tossing them in the air and catching them effortlessly. "There’s a highly specific, custom-blended leather oil that the country club pro-shop keeps in their back storage for my family's saddles. It takes forty-five minutes to get there, the guy who runs the desk is a prick who will only give it to someone who insists it's for the Weller estate, and I need it back here before the sun goes down."
My jaw nearly unhinged. "Are you insane? The country club is on the entirely opposite side of town! I don't have gas money for a ninety-minute round trip just because your leather needs to be shinier!"
"Take my car," Mike said simply, dangling the keys to the midnight-black sports car right in front of my face.
Jake let out a low whistle, his eyes widening. "Whoa, hold up. You're letting the rake-wielder drive the spaceship? Bold move, Weller."
"If she scratches it again, she just works for me for the rest of her life. It’s a win-win," Mike replied, his blue eyes locking onto mine with a sudden, sharp glint of amusement. He stepped an inch closer, his clean, expensive cologne completely overriding the smell of hay and horse manure. "Go get the oil, ginger. Don't speed. The radar detectors are on the dash."
I snatched the keys out of his hand, my inner drama queen screaming at the sheer absurdity of the task, but my Millie-style survival instinct knew I had zero leverage.
"Fine," I snapped, turning on my heel. "But if I accidentally drive this thing into a lake, I’m not diving down to get your leather oil."
"Hey," Mike’s voice called out, stopping me right at the threshold of the stable door.
I paused, looking over my shoulder, expecting another ridiculous demand. Mike was leaning against the grooming table, looking at me with a lazy, calculating expression.
"What's your name anyway?" he asked carelessly.
I blinked, a sudden, sharp laugh escaping my lips. The sheer, unadulterated arrogance of this guy was almost breathtaking.
"You don't even know my name?" I asked, my voice dripping with disbelief. "We are literally in the same year. We’ve been in the same building for three years."
Mike’s smirk didn't fade. He just shrugged his broad shoulders, his tone completely effortless as he delivered the ultimate reality check.
"You go to my school?"
He asked it without a single hint of malice—just pure, genuine indifference. To Mike Weller, if you weren't on the varsity scoreboard or sitting at the elite table with Allie Grace, you simply didn't exist in the space-time continuum.
I stared at him for a beat, letting out a dry, amused huff.
"Eloise," I said flatly. "My name is Eloise. Try not to forget it while I’m fetching your royal oil, varsity."
"Right. Eloise," Mike repeated, the name sounding foreign but strangely heavy on his tongue. He gave me a lazy nod of dismissal. "Forty-five minutes, ginger. The clock is ticking."
- Writer
