The camera flashed as it took pictures of me from every angle, the incessant reporters trying to crack my already fragile demeanor. My eyes blurred over with black spots as the reporters inched closer and closer, their questions enveloping me, leaving me no room to breathe. Finally, my publicist grabbed my arm and led me over to the couch where the interview was to take place. I sat down, smoothed my hands over my dress, feeling the satin brush under the pads of my fingertips, trying to calm myself down. I knew how important this interview was. It could easily be the one thing to completely destroy what was left of my reputation. Instantly, a reporter leaned into my face, his foul breath enveloping my airways, “So princess, it’s obvious from the photos and stories that you like to have a fun time out on the town. Why don’t you just be honest with us and admit that it was you who was disgracing the family name and not your so-called ‘doppelgänger.’”
I took a deep breath, attempting to control the pressure I felt building in my stomach. His words ran through my head in a loop, and I felt the telltale signs of my temper beginning to arise. The nerves were lighting up in the balls of my feet and rushing through my body to my head where a pounding sound had emerged. I glanced around the room, looking for anything to focus on that would draw my attention away from the cruel words. As I searched, I felt the reporter lean back in, eager for whatever response I was willing to give. I quickly composed myself and bitterly spat, “I have been very honest about my whereabouts, and there are several factors that coincide with the fact that I was in the United States and wasn’t present in France when those scandalous photos were taken.” The reporter smirked, his yellow teeth inches from my face, “Sweetheart, everyone knows of your drug abuse before you left for college. So just even with me here. Were you going back to your drug whore ways or did you decide that alcohol would be the next thing you embarrass your family with?” My patience snapped as my vision went white, and I felt myself biting my tongue to the point where I tasted blood. I felt my breath shorten as my entire body tightened up, like a rubber band about to snap. I stood up shaking, tears of anger rushing to my eyes as I felt my face turning red and hot. I looked at the reporter through my rage, and slapped him as hard as I could, leaving a handprint on his face. I towered over him as I spoke to him in an eerily soft voice, “I would hope you remember who you are speaking to before you make another comment like that. Next time, a slap in the face will feel like a blessing.”
He held a hand to his cheek as he stood up and began to stalk towards me. I grabbed his face in my manicured hand, watching my nails bring dots of blood to his cheeks. His eyes went wide as he glanced around the cavernous room, hoping that anyone would save him from my grip. This reporter had gone beyond what was acceptable in a royal interview, and I had no interest in giving him a second chance. I looked down on him and spoke in a calm, controlled tone, “Get out of this castle and do not come back. If I see you on these grounds again, there will be consequences.” He stood up, his beady eyes glaring at me through the tears that had arisen through the pain from my nails. He began to walk out of the room, until he whipped around and screamed, “Screw you, Princess. You might not have been the one in the photos, but you sure as hell aren’t worthy enough to wear the royal title.” My anger disappeared, as I realized that the chance to fix my previous wrongdoings had been destroyed. What the hell was I supposed to do now?
