Page 2 of Coronation (Royally Forbidden #1)

One

Zelda

O nce upon a time, I definitely knew how to masturbate.

I thought I did, anyway. Considering the hopelessly meh status of my love life and the blah-ness of my previous love interests, figuring out how to get the job done myself was kind of vital. I’ve always looked at it as a self-care thing and refuse to be embarrassed about it.

It was never some sensual exploration of my body, where I ran my fingers over my bare stomach as my breathing grew more labored in the light from the candles I lit for the occasion.

Who even does that? Actually, no. I hope there are women out there who do that.

Good for them. Maybe if I’d exercised some sensual exploration of my body—as in, not jamming a rechargeable rabbit between my thighs every few days and getting myself off while thinking about my upcoming hair appointment—I would know how to look hot in this situation .

Or maybe it’s just the several dozen people watching me do it that are making it awkward.

“Zelda, you’re still very stiff.” To George’s credit, he’s trying to be understanding.

He gets that this might be a tad bit uncomfortable for me, and that he can’t push too hard without seeming like a massive asshole.

Even so, I can sense his patience is beginning to slip, and my embarrassment is so intense it’s making the—already fairly humiliating—situation even worse.

The waistband of these panties is digging into my wrist as I adjust my position on the mattress, offering the woman holding the mic a commiserating smile and pretending I can’t see the subtle judgement in her eyes.

What is wrong with me? Why can’t I do this?

One might suspect that my current wardrobe of an extra-thin white tank top and panties might be the match that lit the proverbial dumpster fire, but this isn’t even the skimpiest thing I’ve worn on camera. Showing my body isn’t the issue; it’s what I’m doing with it.

This has been dragging on for an hour now.

Me, spread out atop crumpled bedding in this intimately lit fake bedroom, trying again and again to take George’s notes and make myself look like one of those hypothetical sensual-body-exploration badasses.

Before today, I thought I was at least a good actor, and my lack of self-worship wasn’t even on my radar, so we’re learning all sorts of new things.

Blowing out a long, determinately steady breath, I will my body to sink back into the mattress.

My eyes fall shut. I can do this. It’s no big deal.

I’m going to nail it and get a whole bunch of awards for this scene being so ridiculously hot.

Then, I’ll laugh about all this in interviews and use it as a case study on how human and relatable I am.

Celebrities: They’re just like us! Zelda Flowers gets nervous being mostly naked in front of her coworkers !

Artfully tapering my bent legs, I tease my breast through the thin white tank top, sighing in pleasure as my other hand slips down my stomach.

I’m getting into it now, focusing on my breath and the familiar rush that comes from performing.

The excitement of becoming someone new is what I’ve always liked best about my job, and I’m good at it, I really am. This is no different.

In the back of the room, someone drops their keys on the floor as my hand falls between my thighs, caressing myself through the cotton of my panties. I let out a long, heavy sigh, dragging the tips of my fingers over my mound to the waistband, and—“CUT.”

My eyes pop open, and my face burns as I whip around to see George getting down from his stool with an apologetic grimace. Oh god.

“Did I…” I trail off, not knowing what to say.

Did I arch my back enough? Were my legs too low?

Did my face look pinched? All are notes he’s already given me, ones that I probably shouldn’t have needed at all.

This isn’t a complicated scene. It was only scheduled to take thirty minutes to shoot, and then I would get to skip off with the new, dubious career achievement of ordering my family members not to go see it.

Not trying to prove anything to anyone, of course. Just doing my job.

George sighs, offering me a tight-lipped smile as he waits for me to scramble off the mattress and don the fluffy white robe a PA hands me before speaking.

“I think we’re going to wrap for the day.

I’ll have a meeting with the production team Monday morning to see what our options are.

A body double might be in the budget. We’ll send your agent an email with what we decide. ”

I nod, numb with embarrassment as people begin moving around me, talking about what they’ll have for dinner back at the hotel, or how glad they are we’re getting a day off.

It all feels a little too casual, like they’re determined to hold back the workplace gossip that is going to explode from this.

God. My stomach drops as I realize it might not stop at the workplace.

Everyone who signs on for a project of this scale has to sign an NDA, but when has that ever stopped some drunk butthole from spilling every exaggerated detail of the juiciest set drama to a gossipy reporter?

My hands are stiff as I tie the belt on my robe, peering covertly around at my colleagues, as if I’m going to spot one of them taking notes about my shitty masturbatory acting chops.

Numb disbelief that this actually happened has begun to set in, and I’m eager to get out of here before the full-fledged tears erupt.

Crying about how bad that just was in front of the crew and George is pretty much the only way to make this worse, and I know from experience that willing myself not to sob hysterically won’t do a thing to stop it.

Unfortunately for me, escape isn’t as simple as walking across a lot in Los Angeles.

The project I’m working on, The Dark House , is a popular thriller being adapted for film. The book is set in a castle in the Scottish Highlands and involves lots of dramatic scenes of characters standing alone on the bluffs, watching as waves crash onto the rocky shores below.

Scottish castles that matched the desired criteria must have been in short supply, however.

Instead, we ended up in the smaller, neighboring nation of Stelland, occupying the historic Balloch Castle.

Ordinarily, it’s used for weddings and other large events, but the studio has completely taken it over for the entire three months we’re scheduled to be here.

It’s beautiful, and probably the coolest location I’ve ever worked in, but the winding passageways and long, muddy trudge from the castle to the encampment of set trucks across the lawn isn’t ideal for fleeing in humiliation and despair.

I force myself to breathe through my nose, staring straight ahead as I hurry down the sweeping stone staircase that leads to the upper floors.

The entire entranceway is full of big black cases on wheels and a mechanical lift.

There are a few crew members milling about, their voices echoing off the cavernous space as they discuss how best to avoid damaging the castle’s floors with some set installation.

They barely glance my way, which is fortunate because my throat is doing that clogged, tight thing that precedes a lot of crying, and one wrong word would probably set it off.

The enormous wooden door opens easily for me, and I slip outside, not pausing to enjoy the stunning view sprawled out before me, or ask for a ride from the PA sitting beside the entrance in a golf cart.

I need to be alone, and my poorly lit prefab trailer has never felt more appealing than it does at this moment.

I set off. There’s a dirt road that leads from the castle to the only flat section of the grounds, where a staging area and parking for the trailers and equipment have been set up. It’s Friday afternoon, so there are fewer people traipsing back and forth than usual.

Memories of the last few hours are hovering at the edge of my attention, like a storm gathering strength before it rolls in.

I stare straight ahead as I walk, focusing on the feeling of my heart beating and the sun on my face.

The feelings aren’t going away, but safely removed from the castle and the many sets of judgemental eyes, it’s at least easier to breathe.

I can’t believe that just happened. I seriously, seriously can’t believe I choked in such a monumentally humiliating way. Why didn’t I watch some porn or something while preparing for the scene? Did I actually believe that my pragmatic approach to masturbation was good enough?

“Zelda!” I stop short on the side of the lane, looking around for the source of the call and mentally scrambling for an excuse as to why I can’t do whatever it is they want. To my intense relief, however, it isn’t a crew member or producer approaching.

My chest is tight as I attempt a friendly smile at the woman moving toward me, her light brown hair fluttering in the breeze. The costume she wore for our scene earlier today is gone, replaced with a casual sundress and a purse dangling from her arm. “Hey, Davina.”

She slows to a stop, and a worried pinch appears between her brows as she gets her first proper look at me. “You want to talk about it?”

My shoulders drop as the storm of emotions I was trying so hard to keep at bay comes roaring in.

Wordlessly, I bob my head up and down, and a choked little cry escapes when she wraps her arm around my shoulder, guiding me through the row of cast trailers.

If we pass anyone, I don’t notice, too busy staring at the ground with tears streaming down my face.

Finally, when the door to my trailer has closed behind me, I slump onto the fake leather couch.

This isn’t the torrent of emotions I was expecting, but the demoralized exhaustion is somehow worse.

I’m only twenty-five years old, my career is just ramping up, but right now, I feel ready for retirement.