Thorne princess l j shen, p.1
THORNE PRINCESS_L.J. Shen, page 1
Thorne Princess Copyright © 2023 by L.J. Shen. All rights reserved.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without prior consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial use permitted by copyright law.
Resemblance to actual persons and things living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright
Epigraph
About This Book
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Stay Connected
List of Books by L.J. Shen
Preview of The Kiss Thief
Prologue
Chapter One
“Hell sent us the most evil disease and we humans called it love.”
—Conny Cernik
L.J. Shen delivers a charged, addictive standalone about a tabloid princess who is desperate to self-destruct…and the grumpy bodyguard who saves her.
I landed in hot water with the tabloids one too many times.
What can I say? My nipple wanted to come out and say hi to the paparazzi.
After that, my father presented me with an ultimatum—either he cuts off the gravy train and stops paying for my lavish lifestyle or I agree to have a live-in bodyguard.
And by bodyguard, I mean a sexy, formidable, out-of-this-world babysitter who just happens to be good at breaking spines.
Ransom Lockwood, ladies and gentlemen.
Now he is forcing me to try all kinds of weird stuff. Stop partying, clean up my act, get a job…
A part of me wants to tell him to get lost. I’m past saving.
But the other part? The other part wants to save him.
For Pang, who asked for this book. And for all the people who didn’t ask for it, but need it.
Author Note
This book contains dark themes and a few upsetting, uncomfortable scenes some may find triggering. Please note that this book deals with the following subjects: rape, non-con, dub-con, and CNC (consensual nonconsent).
Thank you for taking a chance, and I hope you enjoy.
HALLION THORNE CAUGHT IN THE ACT!
By Anna Brooks, Yellow Vault Contributor
She’s kept a high profile since the controversy surrounding her latest boyfriend, baller Kieran Edwards, suddenly coming out of the closet two months ago. Now, Hallie Thorne is letting it all hang loose on a night out on the town. That’s right, my little Vaulters! You’re seeing correctly. Here is Hallie Thorne showing off her nipple. And with none other than cable TV’s most beloved hunk on her arm.
Next station? Has-been Celeb Rehab, if you ask me.
She may be a hit with Hollywood’s men, but whispers on the street are saying Daddy Dearest cannot stand her.
Okay. Wait a minute. Pause. Don’t make a judgment.
I know it looks really bad. Not my nipple—my boobs are awesome, they’re probably my best feature—but I swear I can explain all the other stuff.
So, this is the story of my downfall.
Of how every household in America got to see my nipple.
Go back to a year ago when my nip-slip picture was plastered all over internet websites, magazines, tabloids, and social media accounts. At some point, I wondered if I should get it an agent and a tiny pair of dark film-noir sunglasses. That’s how crazy things got.
Not that I had anything to hide. I was, as the media pointed out, curvylicious. With wide hips, D-cup breasts, and a butt worthy of every one of Lil Wayne’s heart-wrenching poems.
The problem was…my nipple wasn’t just a nipple.
It was the nipple of the first White House baby. I was the First Daughter on a few levels.
America was obsessed with the fact that I, Hallie Margaret Thorne, the first child to be born to a sitting president, was also a royal fuck-up.
The tattoos, cherry-red hair, thick eyeliner, and community college I’d dropped out of one semester into my studies provided a certain easy-to-hate optic…
Everyone thought I had it easy. All I had to do was literally not screw up. But I did. Constantly.
And this last time? I’d taken it one step too far.
Yellow Vault wasn’t lying. My parents had had enough of me. Desperate times called for desperate measures for their pretty, loose cannon in need of protection, a mental slap in the face, and a wake-up call.
Enter Ransom Lockwood.
Formidable, forbidding, frightening, and…excuse me, but fuckable to a fault. My new bodyguard.
Sorry, close protection officer.
The devil who blew up my life and annihilated whatever was left of my self-esteem.
The ornery protector who stole my heart, smashed it into pieces, then handed me back the broken shards with a lopsided smirk.
They called him The Robot, but I didn’t think that’s what he was.
He had a heart, somewhere under all those layers. Dusty and scarred, but still beating.
So all you need to know is that in some ways, that nip slip did destroy my life. But it also saved me. Or at least, one part of me.
The part that was worth saving.
The part that survived.
When Princesses Fall
My corseted little black dress was a mistake.
I knew as soon as I slipped into the back seat of my driver’s Cadillac, my upper face covered by a sequined, red masquerade mask.
My best friend Keller was already perched on the opposite side of the seat, rearranging a stray hair in his perfect blond mane, his phone’s camera serving as a mirror. He had a beautiful, golden Roman mask on.
“Hey, Den! The Chateau Marmont,” I instructed my driver, rearranging the underwire of my dress.
Keller tucked his phone into the pocket of his Prada suit, throwing me a glance. “Honey, the corset looks like it’s about to launch itself out of the Milky Way. What size is this dress?”
Sitting upright, I shot him an offended look. This garment was the kind of claustrophobically tight that would later need to be surgically removed.
“Balmain only makes stuff up to size twelve,” I mumbled defensively.
“Well, the zipper is probably one hors d’oeuvre away from filing a restraining order against you, so I suggest you go back and change.” Keller smoothed an invisible wrinkle on his cigar pants.
Dennis glanced in the rearview mirror to see if he should turn around and drive back to my house. I shook my head. Absolutely not. I was a size twelve. Sometimes I was even a size ten (though definitely not between Thanksgiving and Christmas. Or Easter. Or while PMSing).
The problem with designer numbers was that they were made exclusively for trim people. I loved my body. Every curve and hard-earned cellulite cell. I knew, logically, designers rarely made true-to-size garments. Their ten was an eight, their twelve was a ten, and their fourteen was…well, nonexistent. But I never bought anything off the rack. To keep it eco-friendly, I always shopped in secondhand stores for gowns, but that limited my options pretty significantly.
“The dress stays,” I announced.
“Not for long, if your tits have anything to say about it,” Keller muttered.
“You’re just bitter because your eyes are baggy.”
“My eyes are baggy?” Keller thundered, ripping his gaze from his phone.
Grinning, I shrugged. “No, but now you know what it feels like to be dissed by your best friend. Doesn’t feel too good, does it?”
Twenty minutes later, Dennis stopped by The Chateau. I squeezed my driver’s shoulder from behind, squishing my cheek against his. “Thanks, Den! You can take tonight off. I’ll Uber it home.”
“I think I’ll stay,” sixty-five-year-old Dennis said wearily. “Your parents aren’t gonna like the Uber idea.” He’d been my driver since I was eight, and knew my parents better than I.
Mr. and Mrs. Thorne did not like it when I left the house—not because they so enjoyed my company. My mere and flawed existence caused them embarrassment by proxy. The nicest thing my mother had ever said about me in an interview was that I added texture to the family. Texture. Like I was a decorative wallpaper. And so, I didn’t particularly care what they’d approve of.
I waved Dennis off. “Keller is going to be right here with me. He’ll keep me out of trouble. Right, Kel?”
“As much as one can.” Keller slipped out of the Cadillac, eyeing the arched entryway eagerly. “Unless whoever attacks you is armed. You know I just cannot with blood.
Or if I get hit on by someone hot. But I’m talking Zac Efron as Ted Bundy hot. If it’s just Zac Efron in High School Musical level, I’ve got your back, girl.”
“If you find your Zac Efron in High School Musical, I won’t be bailing you out for lewd acts with a minor,” I fired back.
Keller raised his thumb. “I’m sure this conversation is totally reassuring to Dennis. He now trusts you not to get into trouble.”
I brought my mini smartphone to my lips. “Siri, remind me to make a voodoo doll of my best friend and use it as a pincushion tomorrow morning.”
“Event added to calendar,” Siri replied primly.
Hopping out of the vehicle, I flashed Dennis an angelic, I’ll-be-good smile and pressed my palms together. “Seriously, Den. I’ll behave. Go home. I’m sure Ethel is waiting with her special gingerbread cookies.”
He stroked his chin. “She did say she’s making a fresh batch this morning…”
In a lot of ways, Dennis and Ethel were more of a family to me than Mom and Dad. I’d spent more holidays with them, they took care of me when I was sick, and showed up for my parent-teacher conferences whenever Mom and Dad had been busy at a climate change summit or grilling a tech bro in Congress.
Dennis swung his gaze from my forced smile to the open jaws of The Chateau. He’d taken me here enough times to know I was bound to get drunk, rack up a bill, and end the night vomiting champagne more expensive than his suit into his back seat.
He didn’t want to deal with me. Who could blame him? I could barely tolerate myself. Which was why I planned to drown myself in alcohol tonight.
He sighed, rubbing at his temple. “Just be careful, all right? And go home early.”
“You’re the best, Den. Send Ethel my love!”
He tilted his cloth hat downward. “How ’bout you pay her a visit sometime soon and tell her yourself?”
Dennis and Ethel only languished in Los Angeles because of me. They longed to go back to the East Coast, to their family. I hated that I was a part of their misery, which was why I never dragged myself to their Encino bungalow and endured weak tea and Jeopardy! on loop while Ethel took out her photo albums to show me pictures of the grandchildren they weren’t able to see…because of me. Too depressing. I hadn’t found a liquor strong enough to counter that guilt. Yet.
“Will do, Den.”
He drove off, leaving us in a cloud of exhaust smoke. Ugh. We had to talk about switching to a Tesla.
Keller laced his arm in mine, gazing at the infamous white stack of bricks with twinkling eyes. “At last, we’re in our natural habitat.”
The masquerade ball was hosted as a fundraiser by a plastic surgery clinic in the valley for veterans who’d suffered burn scars. Keller and I had both put 5k in our envelopes, but neither of us showed up for the pre-ball dinner. Keller didn’t like eating in public (true story) and I didn’t like being bombarded with questions and requests about my family.
“You know…” I flipped my dyed burgundy tresses as we made our way to the bar, bypassing masked up bellboys, concierges, and maître d’s. “The Chateau Marmont is known for being populated by people either on their way up or on their way down. Which category do you think we fall into?”
“Neither.” Keller led me to the oaky, red bar of the hotel, with the familiar maroon stools and matching overhead chandeliers. “We’re just beautiful spawns-of. Born into high society and low expectations. We’re going nowhere.”
Keller was the son of Asa Nelson, front man of the band She Wolf and the biggest rock n’ roll legend still alive. Both our last names opened doors—not all good.
We settled at the bar. Wordlessly, the bartender Frederik, slid a Marmont Mule cocktail my way, fixing Keller his regular, Bleu Velvet. Frederik wore an all-white rabbit mask that highlighted his piercing blue eyes.
“I should take him home,” Keller muttered, elbowing me.
“He seems like a bad idea.”
“My favorite type,” my best friend retorted. “Yours, too.”
I didn’t acknowledge that last part. It wasn’t Keller’s fault he thought I slept with everything with a pulse—a common general vibe I gave people. But it never felt good to be reminded that I was lying to my best friend.
Before we even made it to our first sip, we were surrounded by two wannabe actresses, one reality TV star, and a life coach I was certain also moonlit as a waitress at The Ivy. Everyone stood around, preening, while trying to convince the people they mingled with that their big break was just around the corner. This was how Keller and I spent our nights. Every single one of them. Partying, drinking, mingling, pretending like the world was a big, fat piñata, ready to burst and rain fat fashion contracts, Vogue covers, and Oscars over our heads.
We were socialites. Young, rich, and bored.
We answered to no one and were sought after by everyone.
Technically, Keller and I both had jobs.
At twenty-seven, Keller was the owner of Main Squeeze, an upscale juicery in West Hollywood known for its detox bundle, favored by Victoria’s Secret models and Real Housewives.
I was an Instagram persona, meaning I got paid in luxury products and compliments, advertising products to my eight hundred thousand followers. Anything from clothes and handbags to tampons. My so-called “work” took two hours a week, but I was oddly protective of it. Maybe because I knew it was the only piece of me no one was allowed to invade or shape. It was all mine. My doing, my responsibility, my little, small win in this world.
“Isn’t it funny,” I mused aloud, swirling the swizzle stick in my drink. “How we can pretend like we’re productive members of society and the tabloids just run with it?”
The two actresses, reality star, and the life coach evaporated from our place at the bar the minute they spotted a Netflix star who’d entered the room wearing a medieval plague doctor mask.
That was the catch about L.A. It was a great place to accumulate people, as long as it wasn’t true friendship you were after.
Keller shot me a frown. “Speak for yourself. I do have a job. I own a juicery. I source all the ingredients myself.”
“Oh, Keller.” I patted his hand on the bar and held up my drink. “I’m ‘sourcing local ingredients’ right now. Don’t get me wrong, it’s an amazing hobby, but neither of us needs the money.”
We never spoke of it, but I’d always assumed Keller, too, got a hefty sum of allowance each month from his dad.
“No, Hal, you don’t understand. I have a job.” He frowned, rearing his head back. “With people on my payroll, quarterly meetings with my CPA, budgets, the entire shebang. If I don’t do things, they don’t get done.”
He was deep in denial. We were both counting on our parents to pay our rent, car leases, and life expenses. At least I had the dignity to admit it.
I took a sip of my drink, struggling to breathe in the tight dress. “I mean, sure. What I meant was, we have really fun jobs, so they don’t feel like jobs.”
Keller rolled his eyes. “That’s not what you meant.”
He was right. It wasn’t. But I was too exhausted from my deep-cleanse facial earlier to pick a fight.
“I just noticed Perry Cowen’s here.” Keller tilted his head behind my shoulder. “Her new balayage is fierce.”
I didn’t turn around to look. “Not sure a good balayage is going to fix the ugly that’s her soul.”
“Aww. When God made you pretty, he forgot the R.” Keller hopped off his stool. “I’m gonna go say hi.”
“But she is so basic, Kel.” I scrunched my nose.
“Behave while I’m gone.” Keller’s eyes flicked toward his own reflection dancing along a stainless-steel wine bowl before he headed toward his target.
Perry Cowen was an up-and-coming fashion designer and a woman I didn’t like. Mainly because she was designing my sister Hera’s rehearsal dinner dress. And anyone who was a friend of my sister’s was an enemy to me.
Perry had also sold a story about me to The Mail, after an unfortunate incident involving me, a bridesmaid dress, and an unexpectedly spicy pizza sauce. I knew it was her, because no one else in the room would leak it. My mother was horrified we were even related, Dad wasn’t an ass, and Hera…well, she hated how I always made headlines for the wrong reasons.
