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“He’s a peon,” Nick says, frowning. “Don’t insult him by not allowing him to do his chores.” He nods over at Danner. “Plus, shouldn’t he be the one wiping your ass—” Lavinia sharply clears her throat and Nick’s mouth clicks shut. “I mean… mouth?”

Remy jerks his chin. “He’s just here to make sure the Princess doesn’t fall on some premium West End dick and get knocked up by the wrong frat.” He says this casually, like my cheeks aren’t flaming red.

“I’m pretty sure he’s making sure we adhere to the rules of the negotiations,” Sy says, giving me a kind smile. “Porterfield, take the Princess’ plate.”

“I’ve got it.” I say, jumping up and stacking his plate on top of mine. I could use some space. That’s the thing about DKS. There’s no filter with them. Ever. Normally, I’m used to it. What I’m not used to is being the focus of the talk. I walk toward the massive tub for dirty dishes, but halfway there, I’m blocked by a guy, his frame wiry but muscular. Startled, I look up into Ballsack’s eyes.

“Hey,” he says, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I just wanted to thank you for helping me out.” He looks like he took eight rounds in the ring with Nick. It makes it hard to hold his gaze, knowing that the men responsible have touched me. Been inside. Left parts of themselves there.

And that I’ve let them.

I look away. “I didn’t do much.” And it certainly wasn’t intentional. No one even knew he was missing, least of all me.

Shrugging, he offers, “You opened the door. God knows how much longer they would have kept me there.” He holds up his hand, fingers still taped together. “Or how many nails I would’ve had left.”

“I’m glad I was able to help provide the opportunity.” I give him a smile that feels forced, realizing I’d missed the sounds of his own laughter during dinner. “How are you doing?”

“Okay.” His gaze darts around the room behind me, and I notice his eyes are a little haunted. “Those Princes… they’re more than what they seem, aren’t they?”

“They’re… complicated,” I admit, and maybe my eyes are a little haunted too, because his mouth twists at the word.Complicated. Understatement. “Just like any Royal, right?”

His eyes dart over my shoulder where I know Danner is waiting. “Are you safe there, Ver?”

It’s strange to hear the question from a guy like Ballsack. If the Dukes are like big brothers to me, then Ballsack is our wily nephew, always a little too eager to serve the frat. I thought the worst part of this visit would be facing the people who don’t care about me anymore, but I was wrong.

The worst part, by far, is facing the people who still do.

“Nothing I can’t handle.” The assurance feels a little more natural here than it did with Lavinia. I guess that’s how it goes. Lies take practice. Unfortunately, Ballsack doesn’t look convinced, so I swiftly change the subject. “Everything still good with you and Laura? I was looking for her earlier but haven’t seen her.”

“Eh,” he rubs the back of his neck. “Not sure.”

I frown. “What does that mean?”

He shrugs. “When I got back from my… uh, trip? She was gone.”

“What do you mean gone?”

“Like, she ghosted me. Hard. Haven’t seen her around here either.” His shoulder lifts again. “Maybe she’s mad about me taking off? Or just used it as an excuse to bolt. Who knows? Chicks are crazy.” He makes a face. “Present company excluded.”

I can’t help but laugh. “I’m sure she’ll be back. Maybe she just went on a trip or something. Or back home to her parents.”

“Yeah, maybe.” He looks a little sad, so I let the topic drop. I feel bad for the guy. It was obvious he really liked her, and I’m not sure how to tell him that Laura’s always been kind of a free spirit. Maybe she took his absence as a chance to get some space.

I linger by the kitchen for a minute longer, making small talk with some of the guys. The girls have gone back to their dismissive, icy demeanor, which isn’t a surprise. Although Lavinia has some sway with the cutsluts, there’s only one person who truly leads them.

My mother.

Taking a deep breath, I cross the room and approach her office. The door is open, but I knock, tapping on the glass window. “Whatcha need?” she asks, not looking up, and I freeze.

What do I need?

I need someone to talk to who won’t feel guilty about how grisly the truth is. I need someone to tell me it gets better. I need to cry and vent and punch out all the rage I’m feeling over having all autonomy over my body stripped from me, day after day. What I need is my mother, but this isn’t something we can sweep under the rug. I know it before I say, “Just checking in.”

“Oh,” she says, glancing up over the top of her glasses. She folds her hands on her desk. “Are you still the Princess?”

And there it is. “Yes.”

“Then we don’t have anything to talk about.”