LOVE BEYOND MONARCHY

WRITTEN BY SUNNY JOHN

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CHAPTER 1

"London," Ida breathes, grinning wide. I take a seat across from her, leaning over excitedly. The old pink table my aunt has had for the past fifteen years creaks loudly as my elbows dig into the plastic.

"London," I reply, awed myself. London . London is the key to everything. London is where all my studying, all the tireless hours educating myself have lead to. My brand new agent, Joe Howard, informed me just minutes ago that I will be performing a Soprano solo at the Royal Opera House in London, England and all I can do now is shake.

Shake because everything is working out the way I'd always dreamed. The way my mother always dreamed. Ida reaches over, running her hand over my dark waves sweetly.

"I always knew you could do it, Mia."

"It's a good thing they needed to fill a spot."

"I bet they saw the tape of you at the Metro... Gosh, you're going to blow them away. I wish I could be there to see it."

"You can, Ida. I can save up. I'll be there in a month."

"No, absolutely not. You save up every dollar for the trip. Knowing Al, he's probably going to be late paying you."

I smile, sighing. "I actually think I'm going to talk to Al about quitting."

She looks momentarily shocked but after a moment, nods. "If you're sure. I know you hate cleaning for them."

I stand up. "Well, it was only a temporary job. Besides, I have to make sure I get this solo is perfect. My whole career could be based off of this one night. It could change everything for me... for us ."

I rub her shoulders, bending down behind her chair. "You've worked at that dry cleaners way too long. And the reception job. And the other reception job."

"It's paid the bills."

"Yes and I'm grateful." I lean down, kissing her cheek. "But I don't want you to have to work anymore."

"Honey, I'm fifty-six years old. If you want to get famous and take care of me, by all means, I'm not gonna stop you."

I chuckle, shaking my head and straighten. "Well, there's no time to waste then."

...

"I have tonight, Ida. Just tonight left before I leave, and I still feel like I'm not making that note correctly."

"You sound perfect," Ida says, sounding uninterested. She's endured three hours of one song. I lift the kettle of cold water, setting it down onto the warmed stove. "And if you keep landing those notes, you're going to lose your voice."

I massage my throat, rolling my eyes. When the door bell rings, I hold up my hand. "I'll get it."

"Good. This issue of Good Housekeeping is far too good to deter myself from," she utters. I open the door. "I have to figure out how to make this carrot-"

My hand tightens on the knob as I stare at the familiar man in our doorway. My first instinct is to slam the door in his face. However, I know I can't do it.

"John," I breathe.

My ex-boyfriend of five years smiles softly, his young, masculine features stun me momentarily. "Mia."

"What are you doing here?" I turn slightly, looking back at my aunt, who is glaring as if she's seen the devil.

"I need to speak with you," he says, moving to try and get into the apartment. I shake my head, closing the door enough so he can't get past. "We have nothing to talk about. It's been five months. I thought we were done with this."

"Please, Mia. Just give me five minutes," he pleads, looking contrite.

"John."

"Please."

I shake my head, mostly at myself and open the door wider. He walks into our small two-bedroom and I'm transported back to a time when seeing him in here wasn't a foreign anomaly.

"Ida, how are you?"

"Peachy keen, since you've been out of her life."

I don't tell her to stop. He deserves this. She trusted him. I trusted him.

John looks at me, clearing his throat. "I'd like to speak in private, Mia."

My aunt crosses her arms over my chest defiantly. "Whatever you have to say to her, you can say in front of me. Or are you worried you won't find the chance to slam her face into a wall if I'm here?"

I hold up my hand then, pressing my lips together. "Ida, please. I'll be fine."

John's gaze is set squarely on the floor, unmoving as my aunt lifts herself from her seat on the couch, taking her magazine with her to her bedroom.

"You holler if you need me, baby," she says, protectively. I nod, silently, only looking to him when her door closes.

"What the hell are you doing here, John?"

"What do you think I'm here for? I'm here to apologize."

"It's been five months," I state, planting my hands onto my hips. "I know there aren't expiration dates on apologies, but-"

"You hate me and you have every right to."

I nod. "Yes, I do have every right to. You never even showed up to the hospital, not that I wanted you to. But damn, I expected an apology then at least. Now? I kind of just want you away from me."

"I've gotten help, Mia."

"I'm sure your father made you. The son of the mayor of New York involved in a bloody domestic dispute? He made sure both of us stayed quiet, that's for sure."

John shakes his head. "What did he do?"

"What Thomas does best, John! He made it disappear. He told me to sign a non-disclosure agreement and when I said no to that, he threatened to ruin me. Ruin Ida. So, I had to."

"I had no idea. I would have done something if I would have known."

"Like what? What would you have done? Told him to let me talk if I wanted to? Do you honestly think I believe that?"

"You wouldn't talk, I knew that. We loved each other. I made a mistake."

The tea kettle screeches, but I barely hear it. I tear my eyes from John's face, walking over to the stove. Lifting the kettle, I close my eyes angrily.

"A mistake?" I whisper, enraged.

"A mistake," he replies, quietly. "A terrible, terrible mistake. I was fucked up, Mia. I had no clue I could even do that to someone."

"Yeah, well, I had no idea either. And I paid dearly for my obliviousness."

"I need you to forgive me."

"I'll never forgive you, John," I snap, turning to him. "Never!" I reach up and pull my hair back, revealing the large scar across my hairline. He flinches and looks away from my gaze of hate. "Now, get the hell out! I'm not going to talk. That should make you feel better." "I didn't come here about the damn non-disclosure agreement! That doesn't matter to me! I am in love with you. And I hurt you and I hate myself!"

"Get out," I breathe, awed at his audacity to mention love.

"Mia, please."

"Get OUT!"

The air prickles violently around us as we stare at each other. I finally allow myself a breath when he moves towards the door.

"You have my number if you want to talk."

"Like hell."

The door slams shut.

...

"I'm glad you're leaving, now that John is back in the picture," Ida confesses, setting my bag down onto the generic navy blue airport carpet. The suns not even up, but she insisted on coming with me to see me off. Since I was thirteen, she's raised me solely on her own, sacrificing so many possible relationships and job opportunities. She's a second mother to me, which is why I feel physically sick leaving her here when I know John's poking his head back in through the door.

"He's is still far out of any picture of mine, Ida."

"He wants you back."

"I know."

"He's a good talker, like his dad."

"That he is."

Her weary features conform to what resembles worry. I place my hands on her shoulders. "I am not in love with him anymore, Ida. I do not have battered women syndrome, I promise."

She closes her eyes and nods. "Alright, get on this plane and amaze the hell out of those Brits."

"I will," I answer, confidently, kissing her cheek quickly. "You take care of yourself while I'm gone. Eat your granola."

"You're only going to be gone two weeks. My health isn't going to deteriorate as soon as you go."

I look pointedly at her. "No chips for dinner."

"God, shouldn't I be the one telling you these things?"

I smirk, reaching for my bags. "I'll text you when I land."

"Okay. Love you, pumpkin."

"Love you too."

Placing my bag onto my shoulder, I reach for my other luggage- a worn down tan carry on from the 1930's. It was my father's, handed down by his father. Resourceful as hell, I seem to be able to fit my entire world in here and still manage to fit it onto the overhead cabinets of the plane.

I bend down into my aisle seat, breathing in deeply as I strap my seat belt in.

London.

Okay, yeah, I can do this.

...

I set my items onto the creaky bed, distracted by the view from my window. St. Paul's Cathedral is within eyeshot. I nearly press myself up against the window, smiling slowly.

London is beautiful. I always had imagined it would be, although history books don't do it much justice. I definitely wouldn't have wanted to be here during the 1800's, that's for sure. But today, the sun is surprisingly high. There are clusters of tourists and natives that fill the sidewalks.

I catch sight of a big red double decker bus and hear a sound of excitement escape my throat. I'm here. And tomorrow, I'll be singing at the Royal Opera House. Forever, from tomorrow, I can put on my resume that I sang in London. Mia Tyler from Queens sang at the Royal Opera House.

And even if it's the last performance I ever do, I'll be content.

...

"Your dressing area is in the corner there, Miss Tyler. You have twenty minutes."

Holding my makeup bag and large dress bag, I look from the distracted stage hand to the door for my dressing room. At this point, everything is a blur. Opening the door, I find the room is small and relatively bare, apart from a vanity and couch.

I lay my bags down onto the couch, humming my aria to myself softly. On the vanity is a single piece of paper, scribbled on it is:

Thank you from the Royal Opera House and good luck on your performance tonight, Miss Tyler. Feel free to ask the staff for anything you may need ahead of time.

Best wishes,

CM

P.S. Tea is available upon request

I'm walking to the door immediately. Opening it, I'm greeted by a young man with a clipboard. He's talking into a headpiece. He looks at me, nodding.

"There's a note about tea?" I utter, sounding like an idiot. He nods, turning without a word. Oh, okay, it's that easy I guess. I walk back into the room, glancing at the clock. Fifteen minutes now.

Fifteen-

Holy crap, I'm terrified. My fingers tremble as I bring down the zipper of my dress bag. Thankfully, I only brought one choice of dress and shoes, so I'm not conflicted. If this dress looks like shit, it looks like shit.

I take the black sequined gown from the hanger, quite sure I'm about to be sick. However, I have no time to slow down. London traffic is definitely my enemy right now. I'm zipping up the back when there's a knock on the door.

"Come in," I breathe, clearing my throat. The clipboard guy has a tray in his hands. A silver tea set is on top. He sets it down onto the vanity, pressing his finger to the piece on his ear.

"No, we need that to be centered," he says, already turning for the door.

"Thank you," I say, as he shuts the door again. I stare dubiously at the door, until I hear ten minutes ring loudly over the intercom. Then, I fall into panic mode.

...

My body is completely useless by the time I make my way to the curtains. Two singers have already performed- I am the last. Which means I'll either send the audience into comatose or be the one to leave a lasting mark. It could go either way, really.

I rub my hands over the sequined dress, nervously, watching as a blonde strolls from the stage, looking unbelievably pleased with herself. Man, I wish I could have that kind of confidence. I smile, stupidly to her, expecting camaraderie yet she walks by without so much as a twitch across her lips.

And that's showbiz.

"You're up," clipboard guy whispers, guiding me forward with a strong hand on my back. I nod, flexing my fingers, approaching the curtain. God, I wish Ida were here . I'm going on stage in front of thousands of strangers. I've never performed in front of a crowd this large.