Dmitry's Royal Flush: Rise of the Queen by Nelson, S. (classic reads .txt) 📕

With a doll in her hand, the small girl nestled her head down on his chest to listen to his massive heartbeat and closed her eyes.

There was an unspoken and spoken love between the two. Father and Daughter. Even with the drama of a broken home, he sheltered her and gave her materialistically and emotionally all that he could in the world.

However, unlike most children who would have spoiled because of the attention, Anya was not. She was wise for her age with a cool disposition that made most people nervous when they met her.

Kissing the crown of her head, Dmitry wrapped his arms around his daughter and sighed. At least he had her.

* * *

Morning came early for Royal. She was met by a door knock and her devoted young maid, who brought in her breakfast and set it on the nightstand beside her.

The French woman greeted her mistress only to receive a groan in response but that was typical. Dutifully, she then went to the large windows to pull the drapes open to receive the foggy, half-sunny day and raised the mechanical blinds that unveiled the breathtaking view of acres and acres of unspoiled, mountainous green land.

Wrapped in sweat-stained sheets, Royal rose from her slumber in a daze. Vision blurred and hair wild, she rested her feet on the side of the bed and stared blankly at the oversized fireplace in front of her.

If she had any balls at all, she would simply jump into the large fire pit and meet her miserable end, but she didn't have balls at all so she settled for grabbing the remote and turning on the flat screen hoisted above the mantle.

"Madame, would you like for me to run your bath?" the young maid asked in a thick French accent, picking up dirty clothes off the bedroom floor.

"No," Royal said absently. "And put those clothes back. I'll clean up my own mess."

"Yes, Madame," she said, dropping the clothes. "Is there anything else I can do for you this morning?"

Royal sighed. "Where's my daughter?" She scratched her head.

"Having breakfast downstairs with Master Medlov."

"Of course, she is," Royal stood up. "Tell me, Brigitte, how's your mom these days?"

"I'm afraid that she is not doing so well, Madame."

"The treatments didn't help, huh?"

"No, not enough to make it go away," the woman lamented.

"You have… bags under your eyes," Royal observed lazily. "You look like shit." She yawned and stretched.

"Forgive my presentation, Madame. I have acquired another job at night to help with the bills. Keeping it all together has been most difficult."

"Another job?" Royal shook her head. "Does Dmitry not pay you enough?"

"It's the best paying job I've ever had, Madame. I am very grateful for your family and your gracious… "

"Save it. Dmitry could pay you more. He knows your situation," Royal grabbed her bottle of valium by the bed. "But I'm afraid you'd have to give him something in return." She smirked. "You're a pretty girl, so it's probably something you don't even have anymore."

"Excuse me, Mistress Medlov?"

"Nothing. I'm being hateful, Brigitte. Do you know this term, hateful?"

"Yes."

"Well, you'll have to excuse me for it." Dropping pills in her hand, she put them in her mouth quickly and drank the last of the scotch sitting in the glass by her nightstand. "You didn't see that," she snapped at Brigitte. "I know Dmitry will ask you questions as soon as you leave out of here. He always does. Makes you spy for him." She cut her eyes at the woman.

"He is just concerned," Brigitte explained.

"Concerned my overpriced ass. He's just bored."

Royal walked into her large, adjoining dressing room with her long satin gown trailing behind her. Quickly, she turned on the lights and sat down at her hand-carved wooden vanity. Pulling out a small drawer, she flipped open the velvet Velcro box and pulled out a new necklace from Tiffanys that Dmitry had recently purchased for her.

"Money is so hard to come by these days," she said, running her finger over the diamonds. "Had it not been for my cursed womb, I might be cleaning rooms just like you. Don't ever be ashamed of what you do. It's a respectable job."

"Yes, Madame," the maid said, standing up straighter.

Brigitte walked curiously to the door opening and waited with her hands clasped together in front of her.

Mistress Medlov was a strange woman. Her eyes were cold, her stare blank, her words laced with vicious meaning. One never knew what to expect from her. She was mostly tongue and cheek with all her statements, but if one were to look very, very carefully, they could see that once she had to have been a good woman. Why else would a man as gracious as Master Medlov have married her, besides her stunning beauty and her exotic dark features?

In Prague, her beauty stuck out everywhere that she went. She was the la belle femme de couleur. The mistress dressed in very expensive clothes and jewelry and stomped around town chauffeured in the most luxurious cars. She had a strange American accent. Southern is what Dmitry had once called it. And all of the officials, politicians and businessmen who visited the Medlov chateau, swooned over her, even though she treated them callously also.

But there was something else. All the help talked about it. Royal had presence, not stage presence, a dark, mischievous presence like she was capable of just about anything. She was far from helpless, very quick and too observant. Some said she was even more dangerous than Master Medlov.

She stared at the back of her lady's wild hair now as Royal fumbled around, probably looking for more valium.

"Oui, it is very hard for everyone, but… " she finally continued the conversation, realizing that