The morning after she wakes up with a headache. Throbbing in the center of her forehead making the lights too bright, sounds too harsh, everything too painful. The night before was a dream, but the morning after is a nightmare of blurs and raucous noises that burn her brain from the inside out.
The night before, a masquerade took place where the most eligible bachelor in all of New England had begun looking for a wife. She had only intended to stay for a few hours, masquerades and rich pretty boys weren’t exactly her scene.
It wasn’t like the so called Prince of the East Coast would be interested in an artist who could barely rub two pennies together. He had more money than he knew what to do with, and she was lucky to pay her bills on time and in full.
Her friend had secured the invitation and brought her along, to enjoy a night on the rich folks dime, if nothing else.
Something else had definitely happened. By pure chance, the prince himself, or a very clever look-alike, had asked her to dance. It had started as one dance, but that bled into many dances and so many more drinks, until she couldn’t remember how she got back to her apartment.
The rest of the night had become a blur, until she woke up with the pounding headache and a mouth as parched as the Sahara.
Her first thought: The biggest glass of water in her kitchen, and—
“Coffeeee,” A voice mumbles next to her, a rustling under the thick fluffy comforter.
She hadn’t remembered going to bed with anyone, considering she lived in a one bedroom apartment, alone. She pulls the comforter away to reveal—
“The Prince of the East Coast!” She shrieks. All logical thought leaves her.
“Hello,” He says, with a smile that was much more intimate than any of the other versions of him plastered all over the tabloids. “I’m Anthony.”
