I straightened my trench coat, adjusted the heavy leather tote bag I'd bought—now mercifully muffling the crinkle-crunch of my escape fund—and marched toward the main gates. No one could dare question my authority as the Prince's Mate, so maybe it was time I utilized that.
I wasn't the shack girl who had snuck out. I was a Spanish Mate who had gone on a retail therapy bender.
"Shopping, Miss?" the guard asked, his eyes scanning the brand-new, obscenely expensive leather of my bag.
"A woman cannot live on palace drama alone," I said, tilting my chin up in a perfect imitation of Sloane's arrogance. "I needed a bag that didn't look like it was made from the hide of a depressed cow. Move aside."
He moved. Money talks, but a woman who looks like she's about to start a lawsuit talks louder.
I made it as far as the solarium before the viper pit appeared.
