It’s hard to say I would not want to be an average 15-year-old girl; a stranger to the blinding flashes of the paparazzi and the hummed whispers of the crowd. It’s hard to say I would not like to be named Mary Jones or Chloe Brown, as opposed to Charlotte Hippolyte-Hapsburg, the heiress to the Hapsburg Empire and second in line to the throne of Emeraud au Rouge. However life, dearest friends, is simply hard.
As I woke up this morning and swiftly glanced at my calendar, I had an uncanny realization. But three weeks had gone by since the tragedy. The tragedy that will mark me forever; an event that has crushed and stabbed the deepest of my being: my grandmother’s murder, on January 2nd 2010. I could have sworn at least two months had gone by... Two grueling months, delightfully marked by hourly visits by the Secret Services and the ever so charming presence of hundreds of men in black carrying 1 meter sniper raids around the palace. But there was nothing I dreaded most than what came next, one warm yet cloudy afternoon: “Charlie”, my mother began, her deep blue eyes disguised by their new-found redness, “I’m afraid I cannot endanger my daughter like this anymore – I want your safety more than anything, you know that… That is why I have no other alternative but to send you to Richard”. “Mother, no please! I’m fine here, I’m perfectly safe! I must stay here with you!”, I said. As I looked at my mother I saw two crystalline tears run down the pearl-like skin of her perfect face: “I can tell you one thing, Charlotte – as the second in line to the throne you are safe nowhere! You are my child, for goodness sake! I will do everything it takes… And now, unfortunately, that means staying with your father”.
And so, on the cold and rainy morning of January 24th 2010, I embarked on Air-Emeraud flight 41, at 6:00 am. Destination: Northridge.
As I woke up this morning and swiftly glanced at my calendar, I had an uncanny realization. But three weeks had gone by since the tragedy. The tragedy that will mark me forever; an event that has crushed and stabbed the deepest of my being: my grandmother’s murder, on January 2nd 2010. I could have sworn at least two months had gone by... Two grueling months, delightfully marked by hourly visits by the Secret Services and the ever so charming presence of hundreds of men in black carrying 1 meter sniper raids around the palace. But there was nothing I dreaded most than what came next, one warm yet cloudy afternoon: “Charlie”, my mother began, her deep blue eyes disguised by their new-found redness, “I’m afraid I cannot endanger my daughter like this anymore – I want your safety more than anything, you know that… That is why I have no other alternative but to send you to Richard”. “Mother, no please! I’m fine here, I’m perfectly safe! I must stay here with you!”, I said. As I looked at my mother I saw two crystalline tears run down the pearl-like skin of her perfect face: “I can tell you one thing, Charlotte – as the second in line to the throne you are safe nowhere! You are my child, for goodness sake! I will do everything it takes… And now, unfortunately, that means staying with your father”.
And so, on the cold and rainy morning of January 24th 2010, I embarked on Air-Emeraud flight 41, at 6:00 am. Destination: Northridge.
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