AN: Quick note (long version before chapter 2) I've changed Cameron's last name.

Cam walked home with his feelings in turmoil, and the cold air felt good after the smoky, warm restaurant and all the sake he'd consumed.

WTF was up with that silly woman, anyway? All he'd done was compliment her eyes and complexion and she'd wonked right out of her tree, throwing it all back in his face, twisting his words and making it seem as though he were somehow trying to insult her.

He grew more and more angry as he walked, fuming over everything she'd said over the course of the afternoon.

Who gave a shit if he dated models? Who the hell else was he supposed to date? He'd been working his bollocks off on a runway and doing print work for the past five years, and his circle of acquaintances was very small. He didn't know anyone else to date, for crying out loud.

And as far as his acting ability, he'd been at the front of his class at NYU, with agents clamoring to represent him the day after he graduated. He could've been working on the stage straight out of college had he so chosen. He just couldn't have made enough money to pay for Genevieve to go to school.

He cut through Madison Square Park on his way to his Tribeca loft, savoring the cold air on his face. It was a bit of a walk, but he supposed he should try to save money until he started earning a steady paycheck.

Most people found it amusing that he, a bona fide prince with ties to most of the royal families of Europe, had any financial troubles at all. They just didn't understand that nobility didn't necessarily mean financial liquidity. There were royals who were rolling in it, of course, or titled families who raised horses and raced cars and boats or designed clothes or whatever, just because they could.

The von Schellenburgs weren't one of those families, unfortunately. They had fallen on hard times a few generations ago, and really had nothing left but the castle and their name, and a little bit of money which was held in trust. Interest from the trust was used to pay for the education of the children of the various branches of the family, and that was about it.

He and Genevieve had been in school in Switzerland when their parents had been killed in a car accident in France. He had been sixteen, Vivi had been only eleven when it happened. He could still remember how she'd cried when he'd told her, the sound of her weeping echoing in the corridor of their school because he'd had to go and pull her out of her classroom to give her the news.

"What will we do now, Cameron? What will become of us?" he remembered Vivi asking, brown eyes huge as they stood together in the deserted corridor of the school.

"Don't worry, I'll take care of us," he assured her. "There's enough money in the trust for us to finish school here until we're eighteen, and then I'll pay for us to go to university, I promise."

And he had.

He'd never been afraid of hard work, unlike some who'd inherited a title, and he resented the assumptions that Penelope had made, without even knowing anything about him!

He reached his small but comfortable Tribeca loft after nearly an hour of walking, and took the elevator up to the top floor. He'd used up most of what was left of his modeling money after paying Vivi's uni fees to buy the place, figuring that it was an investment more than anything. After all, land in Manhattan was the one thing they weren't making more of. He'd left himself a monthly allowance to get through the next six months until the play opened and he started earning a steady income. It was a generous allowance, true, but it wasn't unlimited, like what he was used to, either.

He thought about calling his girlfriend in England just to vent some more about the stupid uptight cow Penelope, but it was well after one AM there, and he knew she'd be sleeping, so he decided against it.

Cam decided to exercise instead, hoping it would relax him enough so he could sleep. It usually helped him. He put in his earbuds and began listening to the recording of the play that he'd made with his sister. He read his part, and she read all the other parts. He knew the play so well that he could actually turn on the recording at any point and usually find his place within seconds and just pick it up from memory.

He loved working out, the discipline of it, the routine, how he could see the improvement in his body within a few days, feel himself growing stronger. He'd been a skinny child, and relished the addition of pounds and muscles, and enjoyed the feeling of confidence it gave him to be able to wear clothes better and be able to finally model clothes that didn't cover so much of his body.

To finish, he ran a few miles on his treadmill, really pushing himself, so that when he stopped he was sopping wet and out of breath. He knew he would never be one of those muscle bound, body builder, weight lifting types, nor did he want to be. Cam was just happy that when things came up, like Vivi moving into her new apartment, he could help her lift heavy boxes and things and not have to hire a handyman to do those things for her.

He took a quick shower and put on his sweats, grabbing his current book and climbing into bed. Apparently the exercising hadn't been enough, however, because he couldn't get Penelope out of his head and it wasn't her stupid comments, either. It was her pretty eyes, and her tear clotted lashes after he'd made her cry.

Dammit.

He called his friend Simon to see if he was off work yet, and he was. Simon James was his roommate from his NYU days. Simon, too, wanted to be an actor, and had remained in New York to give it a go, but it had never happened for him. He'd done all the right things, worked as a waiter and bartender while going to auditions whenever he could, but nothing ever panned out. His restaurant career, however, had flourished, and he was now head bartender and manager of one of the most successful eateries in Midtown Manhattan.

"Hey, dude, how went the read through? Did you totally knock them on their asses? You need a PA yet? Because I'm available, you know," Simon joked.

Cam heard Simon take a deep breath and hold it, and he knew his friend was smoking weed.

He took a deep breath himself and proceeded to tell Simon about Penelope Patrick and the disastrous meeting and subsequent dinner, and how she'd insulted him to his face, after which he'd made her cry.

"I mean, she pretty much acted as though I'd wandered in off the street and asked for a part in her precious play," he finished indignantly, throwing his free arm out for emphasis, though there was no one to see him do it.

"Well, Prince Cameron, what exactly does she look like in person?" Simon said with a little laugh.

"Would you please not call me that? I'm so not in the mood right now."

"Ah, you love it and you know it," Simon teased. "I mean, I've seen her in a play, I think, and I've seen her head shot in playbills and things, but she's no beauty, is she? Was her response warranted?"

Cam sighed. "I don't know. I suppose not."

"You suppose not?"

"Look, when you do what I do for a living, you stop looking at people like that, you know? Everyone just turns into people who are models and people who aren't. She's a 'not-model,' and for a 'not-model,' she looks fine, I think." Cam shrugged, though, again, there was no one to see him.

"A 'not-model,' hunh?" Simon repeated. "Doesn't sound very nice, dude."

"I don't mean it to be," Cam protested. "In fact, I mean it to be the opposite. I'm just saying that models look a certain way, their faces and bodies look all full of angles and flat places and that, no fat anywhere. And 'not-models' look like normal people, you know, like people you grew up with, people you went to school with. She's one of those. And the eyes on her, man, you could drown in them, like emeralds, they are.

"But that's not the point," Cam continued, getting back to what he wanted to talk about. "She's such a bitch, you've no idea. She acted like I was there to--to pollute the play or something. Like I have no idea what I'm doing, like I'm as shallow as a plate, I can't possibly understand true theatre or whatever." He again sounded indignant. "The Europeans invented theatre, didn't they?"

"Actually, the Greeks invented theatre, I think," Simon corrected drily.

"Whatever, I'm fairly certain it wasn't the ignorant Americans," Cam concluded.

"Wow, she really got under your skin, didn't she?" Simon asked with a laugh.

"If you'd been there, you'd understand," Cam explained. "It was just something about her manner--"

"But you're the one who made her cry," Simon reiterated.

"Well, yes, but only because she was so fucking touchy, and more than a little pissed on sake by that point in time," Cam told his friend.

"I see. So she was drunk."

"Yeah. Pissed, like I said."

"So did you want me to do something about all this, or did you just want to vent to me?"

"I guess I just wanted someone to listen to me," Cam admitted. "All my other friends on this continent are models who've never heard of Penelope Patrick or read-throughs or any of this shit. So thank you for being a friend."

"Hey, that's a line from a really great song from the 70s, dude," Simon said happily.

"You're wasted," Cam accused with a laugh.

"Yeah I guess I am."

"And that's a line from another great song from the 70s," Cam parroted back to his friend.

"Oh, we're going to have so much fun while you're here, aren't we?" Simon crowed into the phone.

"I suppose we are," Cam replied, his good humor restored.

"You think you can sleep now?"

"Yes. Thanks."

"Good night, dude."

"Good night, mate."