I’m halfway down the National Assembly steps, so close to my waiting Rolls-Royce I can practically smell the vintage leather, when it happens.
Bang!
I know that sound. I’ve heard it before — once in real life, and a thousand times since in my nightmares.
An explosion.
A bomb.
A truck, bursting into flame and leveling a city block, the bodies of my countrymen along with it. A cataclysm of carnage and despair. A million sleepless nights and a hundred gleaming coffins…
The boom catches me off guard, piercing my eardrums like the blade of a knife. There’s no warning. No way to steel myself against it. And certainly no time to use rational thought or logic to counter the reaction it triggers inside me.
In the space between two blinks, I’m flooded with a sense of panic so strong, I can hardly breathe.
Run.
Hide.
It’s happening again.
The next thing I know, I’m on the ground beside the limo, ducking for cover between the wheel-well and the dirty curb. Something’s pressed against my chest.
An anvil, slowly pushing the air from my lungs.
No — it’s only my legs. They’re curled so close to my chest, the heels of my shoes dig sharply into the backs of my thighs. My arms wrap around my shins, hugging them like a child does a teddy bear at night, when monsters creep out of closets and shadows move without warning. My forehead presses against my kneecaps as my eyelids squeeze shut, blocking out everything around me.
Blind terror.
Literally.
I try to breathe, but I can’t seem to drag even a single molecule of oxygen down my throat. My windpipe has effectively sealed itself off. In the distance, there’s the dull sound of many someones yelling my name; a chorus of Emilia! Emilia! Emilia! that makes me want to shrink down until I’ve disappeared completely. A mote of dust on the sidewalk, invisible to whatever danger is about to unfold.
“Emilia, it’s okay!” A detached voice assures me from above. “Everything’s okay. It’s not what you think.”
No, no, no.
Not again.
“E, get up. You have to get up.”
Leave me here.
Let me disappear.
But then, there are arms around me — big hands sliding beneath kneecaps, around shoulders. I’m hoisted up, up, up, until I’m cradled against something very broad and very warm, even through the suit jacket. A chest.
Carter.
He came for me.
“You’re here,” I murmur, pressing my eyes to the fabric of his suit. “You came.” A tear escapes. “I knew you’d come for me.”
“Of course I’m here, My Queen.”
The voice — it’s all wrong. No rasp, none of the faint sarcastic edge, not even a flicker of wry humor.
It’s not him.
My eyes open as I realize I’m not in Carter’s arms at all, but Alden’s. He’s breathing a bit heavily, the strain of holding me in his arms apparent, but his eyes are full of comforting warmth as they peer down into mine.
“It was just one of the press van engines backfiring, Emilia. We are not under attack.”
“Oh,” I say, feeling my panic dissipate. In its wake, embarrassment floods me as I realize my PTSD has just been put on full display for not only the crowds, but also the world. There are dozens of cameras trained on us, recording a scene that is sure to be trending live on Twitter within seconds.
I open my mouth to tell Alden to put me down but before I can, he turns to face the cameras head-on, cradling me more firmly against his body.
“Queen Emilia, are you alright?” one of the reporters yells from a forest of telephoto lenses, her microphone extended toward us. “What happened?”
“Are you all right, Your Majesty?”
“Lord Sterling!” another shouts. “Look over here!”
A stream of other questions are hurled our way, a barrage of curiosity and concern coming at us from all sides. When Alden clears his throat to address them, the reporters fall silent.
“Our queen is feeling a bit faint. We will return to the castle at once.” His grip tightens on me, hauling me closer. “I assure you, she will be looked after with the utmost care and caution. There is no task in the world of greater importance than protecting my Emilia.”
The crowd lets out an audible gasp at his accidental informality. I can practically hear the cameras zooming closer, immortalizing the image of me in Alden Sterling’s arms for all time.
What a sight we must make.
“Queen Emilia, that is,” Alden bleats, practically stuttering, a tinge of red staining his cheeks.
But it is a flimsy recovery for a monumental fumble. A gauze bandage on a gushing wound. The press has exploded once more — this time yelling a new set of questions that make my head spin far worse than the imagined terrorist incident.
Are the two of you engaged?
Can we expect a royal wedding?
When did your romance begin?
Will you make a formal announcement?
They were worked up seeing me fall; they are now practically tripping over each other in their eagerness to get information out of me. The reporters push in like a line of advancing troops on a battlefield, microphones held out like lances, cameras driving forward like battering rams. The Queen’s Guard form a line to keep them at bay, their arms outstretched in a blockade as Alden turns and ushers me to the Rolls-Royce.
We pass Chloe, Simms, and Lady Morrell — all three of whom are wearing identical worried expressions as they take in the sight of me in Alden’s arms. My mind is such a tangled spool of panic and fatigue, I can barely conjure the will to keep my eyes open and my lungs pumping, let alone worry about the scandal we’ve just created on a city sidewalk.
That’s life as a Lancaster, I suppose.
Another day, another international incident.
No one in my entourage seems to know what to say. We sit in the back of the limousine in thick silence, not making eye contact or addressing the elephant in the room — the one sitting on my left ring finger.
We’re halfway back to the castle when I finally take a deep breath and attempt some levity.
“So. That could’ve gone better.”
“You think?” Chloe snorts, scrolling through her phone. “I’m going to have to do some serious damage control to keep #LoonyLancaster from trending.”
I groan. “Was it that bad? The panic attack?”
“No,” Alden insists.
“Yes,” Chloe says at the same time.
“Honestly, you were quite commanding up till that point,” Simms remarks dryly. “However, your speech soundbites may be overshadowed by your rather… untraditional exit.”
“I found you inspiring, Your Majesty,” Lady Morrell chimes in, trying to sound upbeat. “And, may I say, your outfit was simply perfect today — at least, until you got all that dirt and grease on it.”
“Brought down by a car backfiring,” I mutter, laughing dryly. “Sounds about right.”
“Oh, whatever.” Chloe waves away my words. “With any luck, all they’ll remember is what happened after your little meltdown.” Her eyes slide from me to Alden and back again. “You do realize the entire world thinks the two of you are engaged now, don’t you?”
My stomach clenches. “Surely not.”
“Zoom in on our queen, scooped into the arms of a dashing blond hero in a time of great distress! Swept off into a waiting limousine!” Chloe snorts. “It’s practically fairy tale fodder. The press is going to take this and run with it. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re already staking out the castle and speculating over potential wedding venues.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I snap. “We’ll put out a press release later today to clarify that Alden and I are nothing more than friends.”
Alden looks pointedly out his window, jaw clenched tightly. I try not to read too much into that, but my stomach flips once more.
Is he angry I want to correct public perception? Did he truly believe I would go along with a fake engagement, simply to distract the press?
“As I have said before, a royal wedding would do wonders to stabilize your position…” Lady Morrell trails off when I let out an angry grumble.
“Just drop it, please. No one is getting married. Not any time soon. And the press knows better than to assume I’m engaged simply because a friend stepped in to help me during a panic attack.”
I let my eyes wander to Alden. He’s gazing out the window with a curious amount of determination. I can’t decipher the tension in his profile any more than I can decode the unsettled feeling stirring to life inside my chest.
“Right, Alden?” I ask, my voice shakier than intended.
But he says nothing. He simply stares out his window at the world passing outside.
No one says a word for the rest of the ride back to the castle. But in the silence of the limousine, the disquiet of my heart seems to roar at an ever-increasing volume.
“As Germanians across the country head to the polls, the question of Parliamentary reform is on everyone’s minds. And yet, after this morning, there’s another question we all want the answer to: Is there a royal wedding in the near future?”
The newscaster’s bright red lipstick is a garish contrast to her peach blazer. I narrow my eyes at the television in the conference room where I’ve been camped out for the past few hours, wishing I could reach through the screen and smack some sense into her.
“Onlookers tell us it was something of a real-life fairy tale,” the anchor continues, smiling. “Our field reporter is currently with two women who witnessed the incident. Ladies, can you shed a little light on what you saw this morning?”
The broadcast cuts to a pair of women on a street corner, their faces a potent mix of excitement and nervous energy.
“We were walking by the National Assembly, getting a look at the protesters, when we heard a bang. I think it was one of the vans backfiring,” the first woman says breathlessly, one hand clutched to her chest. You’d think she was describing the final five seconds of an Olympic event. “Everyone kind of got startled… I guess Queen Emilia must’ve stumbled on the steps, because she fell.”
“It was hard to see,” the second woman chimes in. “Everyone was yelling for her to get up. Her security team closed in fast and blocked some of our view…”
“Then what happened?” the field reporter prompts.
“It was like a real, honest-to-god fairy tale! That sexy blond guy—”
“Lord Alden Sterling?”
“Right, him. He stepped in to save her. Scooped her right up into his arms!”
“He was so dashing!” Her friend giggles. “Especially when he turned to the cameras and said, I will protect my Emilia no matter the cost.”
The other woman elbows her. “That’s not exactly what he said…”
“Whatever. Close enough. The point is, they’re totally in love. You could just tell, the way he held her and protected her like that…”
“So, ladies, do you think we’ll have a royal wedding this summer?”
“Oh, we hope so!”
The screen cuts back to the anchorwoman at her desk in the studio. She’s grinning ear-to-ear. “There you have it, folks. A royal romance, blossoming right under our noses! I, for one, am thrilled to share a tidbit of good news from Waterford Palace after these past few months of sad tidings. I’m sure all you viewers at home are equally excited by the prospect of our young queen happy and in love!”
I scowl at the screen with fresh anger.
Ah yes.
That’s me.
Happy and in love.
I watch for a few more minutes, scoffing periodically as the details of my supposed romance play out onscreen. News of the referendum has been effectively buried beneath the mountain of speculation concerning my love life.
Who cares about equality, anyway?
I wonder if Alden is at home watching. Perhaps he’s still too upset. He didn’t say a word when we parted earlier, except to bid me a stiff goodbye with promises to reach out after the final votes are tallied tonight.
As if she’s heard my thoughts, the anchorwoman on my television screen says his name again.
“We’ve spent our morning briefing you on the possible romance between Alden Sterling, the heir to Westgate, and Her Royal Majesty Queen Emilia. We’re now learning that this new match may not be warmly embraced by everyone in Germania… the rest of the Sterling family in particular.” She leans in to the camera, her excitement palpable. “A source close to the Sterlings has revealed that Alden is no longer in residence at Westgate. Additionally, Lord and Lady Sterling, the parents of the man in question, have spent weeks actively opposing today’s referendum — a position that puts them directly at odds with Her Royal Majesty. If there is an engagement looming, it seems our queen may find herself contending with some unhappy in-laws.”
Christ.
I contemplate leaving the room and locating a stiff drink, but I can’t bring myself to look away from the mess unfolding before me.
“Not only that,” the anchorwoman continues gleefully. “It appears there may also be some dissension to the match within Her Majesty’s own ranks. We now bring you live to an exclusive interview with someone intimately familiar with the inner workings of Waterford Palace. Former wife to the late King Linus. Former stepmother to the queen.” She pauses a lengthy beat. “Lady Octavia Thorne, Duchess of Hightower, Dowager Queen Consort.”
All the air leaves my lungs in a whoosh as the television cuts to a face I know well — a beautiful, icy mask of composure and condescension. Her auburn hair is styled in a perfect up-do. Her makeup is minimal but flawlessly applied, accentuating her best features. Her vintage Chanel jacket screams inherited wealth. And even through the television screen, her cold blue eyes seem to cut right into me, sharper than a blade.
“It’s an honor to have you here with us today, Dowager,” the news anchor says.
“A pleasure.” Octavia’s lips thin into a severe frown. “Though I must say, the circumstances of my visit are dire indeed.”
“Can you elaborate on that?”
Her chin jerks upward, a haughty move I remember well. “Perhaps if you were less absorbed by the romantic implications of Alden Sterling’s heroism, you would be more fixated on why it was necessary in the first place.”
The anchorwoman’s mouth drops. “Well, we certainly didn’t mean to give the impression—”
“Is it or is it not true that the queen collapsed on the steps of a National Assembly?” Octavia asks, eyes narrowing. “From all firsthand accounts, it appears that collapse was triggered by the boom of a car backfiring.”
“Well, yes.” The anchor nervously shuffles the stack of papers on her desk. “We have heard reports that Queen Emilia was startled—”
“Startled is a kinder word than I would use. Paralyzed is a more fitting descriptor, is it not?”
“I suppose that isn’t entirely inaccurate—”
“Then I ask you plainly: is this the kind of ruler fit to reign over our country? One who cowers at the first sign of danger? One so fragile she crumbles to pieces at the slightest of pressure?”
The anchorwoman’s brows pull inward. “Her Royal Majesty has never before been accused of being timid, Lady Thorne. She kicked off a referendum, flying directly in the face of the established order. She is a bold public speaker. She has broken eons-old dress codes and propelled our monarchy into the modern age. She even stayed behind to help victims during the Vasgaard Square bombing, saving countless lives.”
Octavia’s lips purse with displeasure. “And yet, that same attack seems to have rendered her an emotional wreck. Her post-traumatic-stress has long been whispered about behind closed doors, but now we have irrefutable confirmation of it. Video evidence of a breakdown. That simply cannot be ignored.”
“But, Dowager, I’m not certain—”
“It’s a shame, really. Much as I loathe to question the competence of a girl so close to my heart—” Sniffling, Octavia presses a hand to her heart in faux concern. “ —Truly, I always saw her as my own daughter—” She wipes a nonexistent tear from the corner of one eye with a silk handkerchief she just-so-happens to have on hand. “I am too worried about the future of our country not to question it.”
As if this woman is capable of even the smallest smidgen of compassion. As if she is capable of anything at all besides manipulation and malevolence for her own selfish aims.
The anchorwoman, clearly flustered, seems to have lost control of the interview. Her mouth keeps opening and closing like a fish out of water as she searches for a suitable question or counterpoint.
As she flounders, Octavia continues her well-rehearsed diatribe — directly to the watching world. “Are the people of Germania not deserving of a leader who is actually able to lead us into the future? A girl too fragile to endure the backfiring of a car engine is surely unequipped to steer us through far greater terrors: wars and trade negotiations and political alliances. It has become glaringly obvious that Emilia is too scarred by the trauma of her past to continue on as our queen.”
“Lady Thorne, those remarks border on treason—”
“I do not care,” Octavia snarls, a bit of her venom seeping through the facade of motherly concern. “Not when the entire monarchy hangs in the balance, one loud bang away from utter dissolution.”
The anchorwoman gathers the fraying remnants of her composure, clearing her throat lightly. “Dowager, validity of your remarks non-withstanding… you talk as though we have another option readily available. Her Royal Majesty is the last remaining Lancaster. With Crown Prince Henry still comatose and seemingly unlikely to recover, we are without any viable heirs until the queen marries and produces one. Unless you are advocating for abolition of the monarchy altogether…”
Octavia’s eyes gleam. The anchorwoman has perfectly positioned her to introduce her plans. A power-coup, couched in false mercy.
“I am not suggesting we sink the ship which has borne us steadily onward for hundreds of years. I am merely suggesting that we adjust our sails to a course that will not dash us fatally upon the rocks… In part, by changing the captain at our helm.”
“Change our captain — you mean the queen?” The anchorwoman’s brows are arched high on her forehead. “How, exactly, would that happen?”
I listen, heart pounding like a drum inside my chest, as Octavia nails the final stakes into my political coffin.
“It is true that my late husband King Linus produced no heirs other than Emilia; nor did his elder brother King Leopold, discounting Henry. But their uncle, the honorable Duke Lionel — younger brother of King Leonard — did indeed have a daughter… and a grandson after that.”
“You are referring to the von Strauss lineage, are you not?” The interviewer’s head cants in curiosity. “If my Germanian history lessons serve me, Lionel’s daughter Helga Lancaster married out of the Lancaster line — relinquishing any claims to the throne when she wed a Norwegian businessman named Carl von Strauss.” The anchorwoman pauses. “Their son, Ludwig von Strauss, has never lived in Germania. He has never had any association with the royal family.”
“Nor did our current monarch, until quite recently. Was she not raised as a commoner? How is a girl born as Emilia Lennox any more qualified to rule than Ludwig von Strauss — a young man with exceptional potential and unquestionable emotional stability?”
“Are you—” The anchor swallows hard. “Dowager, are you suggesting—”
Octavia stares straight into the camera lens, her every word intent. “I am not suggesting anything. I am urging, with every ounce of gravity I possess, that we do not discount viable alternatives when they present themselves. We, as a nation, have an obligation to explore the option of new leadership on the throne.” Octavia smiles so coldly, it chills me to the bone. “Perhaps this illegitimate girl, who was forced upon us by a series of tragedies, need not be our downfall. Perhaps what Germania needs most is not a queen at all… but a king. King Ludwig von Strauss. Direct descendant of Crown Prince Lionel… and rightful heir to the throne.”
The next few hours pass in a blur.
I sit in the conference room in a daze, feeling detached from my own life. Emotionless. Unmoored. As if the events of the last few hours are happening to someone else.
The television is muted. Or perhaps I’ve simply ceased hearing it, unable to process any more strangers’ commentary on my love life.
My mental state.
My fitness to rule.
My qualifications.
My future.
My throne.
I watch them dissect my strengths and weaknesses like a fictional character being analyzed in a college literature class.
What qualities make Emilia suitable to lead more than any other candidate? Is she the heroine or the villain of our country’s story? Should we entertain a change in scene or point-of-view?
I hear knocks at the door — concerned friends have come to check on me. And yet, I cannot bring myself to unlock it. I do not have the strength to put on a brave face. To pretend I am not unravelling at the seams.
“Emilia?” A deep male voice calls through the heavy oak panel. “It’s Alden. Let me in. We must talk about this. About… our next step.”
I press my eyes closed and shut out his words.
I can’t think about our next step.
Not yet.
I need more time.
“Your Majesty? It’s Lady Morrell, dear. Should I have Patricia send in some lunch? Please unlock the door…”
“E!” Chloe calls, sounding annoyed. “Don’t make me have Riggs break this door down!”
My phone rings and rings, over and over, the screen flashing many different names — Simms, Lady Morrell, Alden, Chloe — until I’m forced to shut it off entirely, for the sake of my sanity.
I don’t want to talk to anyone. Not now. I feel a strange mix of shame and foreboding. My once-bright future has slipped from my grip. Instead, I find myself clutching at threads. They fray rapidly beneath my fingertips, impossible to stitch back together into a cohesive string on which I can hang even the slightest of hopes.
In the quiet of the conference room, as polling results roll in across the screen and royal ‘experts’ discuss my worth, I allow myself to face a possibility that, until recently, seemed impossible: reclaiming the autonomy the monarchy took from me. Reclaiming… my life.
I could step away.
From this castle, from this throne, from this responsibility.
I could give it all up.
Let Ludwig have his shot at ruling.
I could have the life I always planned.
Be plain old Emilia Lennox again.
I could be with the man for whom my heart beats.
Out of the public eye, with Carter at my side, in my arms, under my sheets.
I savor the delicious nectar of that alternative plot-line, my tastebuds singing with its sweetness. That life… it would be wonderful. And I… I would be happy. So incandescently, immeasurably happy I think my ribs might explode.
That ending — the one of my own making — is the true fairy tale.
And she lived happily ever after…
But if I have learned anything these past few months, it’s that life as a royal rarely resembles a storybook fantasy. True kings and queens do not have the luxury of penning their own endings. For they do not prioritize their own happiness over that of their people.
I have a choice.
Yet, there is no choice at all.
It is the grandest of ironies — finally finding the loophole I spent weeks looking for, praying for, when I was backed into this world against my will… and no longer having any use for it. Locating an escape hatch just when you have grown to love your prison.
Human nature is a fickle thing. You do not value that which you possess until it is about to be yanked from your grasp. You take for granted the supposed certainties of your existence. The things you consider untouchable.
Until I learned I might lose this crown atop my head, I did not fear its absence. I did not understand that I have been changed irrevocably by its glittering weight. That, without it, I will no longer recognize the woman staring back at me in the mirror.
For I cannot go back to the girl I was before, nor do I wish to. What I once saw as a burden, I now recognize is an invaluable gift.
A destiny.
My destiny.
I am Her Royal Majesty Emilia Victoria Lancaster, daughter of King Linus, granddaughter of King Leonard, great-granddaughter of King Lewis.
I am the Queen of Germania.
I am a Lancaster lion.
And I pity any enemy foolish enough not to fear my mighty roar.
“You know, you’re a real pain in the ass.”
I jolt at the sound of Chloe’s voice, looking away from the television screen where an endless loop of poll numbers and political commentary stream by in a soundless flood. She’s leaning in the doorjamb, twirling a silver key and eyeing me with exasperation.
“How did you get in here?”
“Housekeepers finally tracked down the spare key. Only took three full hours.”
I roll my eyes. “Did the locked door and radio silence not clue you in to my desire for solitude?”
“Screw that. You shouldn’t be alone right now. Certainly not locked away in here, staring at the TV so intently. You’re going to fry your retinas if you keep it up.”
I roll my eyes. “I’ll risk it.”
“I’m serious.” She steps into the room, grabs the remote from the coffee table, and clicks off the television.
“Hey! I was watching that.”
“Enough already. The referendum will pass. Or it won’t. You’ll either marry Alden. Or you won’t. The dreaded Ludwig will either take your crown. Or he won’t.” She shrugs. “There’s nothing you can do about any of that for the time being.”
“So I’m just expected to sit here and wait? To ignore the fact that every single television channel is broadcasting the facets of my life to the public at this exact moment? That your mother has staged a political coup to take my crown by force? That my friend is, as we speak, picking out diamond rings to perpetuate this charade of an engagement?”
“I doubt he’s picking out a ring.” She pauses. “Surely you’ll wear something from the royal vault. There’s that stunning sapphire Queen Helena wore… a gift from your great, great grandfather, King Lewis, I believe… That thing is so big, it makes the Hope Diamond look like a hunk of worthless rock.”
“Chloe. Please focus.”
“Sorry.”
“I don’t care about the damn ring, okay? I’m more concerned with the fact that Alden seems intent on proposing to me at the next possible opportunity. He was at the door earlier, whispering about our next steps. He’s called me three times. Texted on repeat. What am I supposed to do?”
“You could avoid him forever.”
“Thanks, that’s so helpful.”
“You could banish him from the kingdom.”
“Suggest a real solution, please.”
“You could… marry him.”
“Chloe! I’m serious.”
“So am I.” She pins me with a look. “I know better than anyone that you have your reasons for not wanting any romantic entanglements. But this isn’t about romance. Accepting a proposal from Alden is about political stability. It may be the only way to keep your throne.”
“I don’t believe that. I can’t believe that.”
“If you marry into the wealthiest family in the country, you’ll appease the nobility. It will completely undercut my mother’s plans to usurp you. Her support system — which, lets face it, seems to be financed by Sterling pursestrings — will evaporate. The Sterlings may be brazen, but they would not campaign against their own son if he were king. That’s social suicide.”
I stare at her. “You’re actually serious.”
She sits down in the chair beside mine, her expression grave. “I just think… if you do not have the freedom to marry for love, you might as well marry a friend. Someone who won’t hurt you. Someone whose company you enjoy. Someone kind and stable and ever-so-conveniently rich.” She pauses. “When you look at it that way… I can’t think of a man better suited for you than Alden Sterling.”
A pang goes through me.
Because she’s right. There’s no man more perfect for me than Alden. Not even the one I would choose for myself.
Carter Thorne is not suited for me.
He does not possess any of the qualities Chloe just listed.
He does not radiate kindness, nor stability.
He pushes my buttons. He tests my boundaries. He makes me question every viewpoint I’ve ever held.
He engages my mind along with my heart, my soul along with my body.
He is the most challenging, stubborn, headstrong man I have ever encountered.
Life with him would not be easy.
Not simple or uncomplicated.
So why do I want it so desperately?
Why can’t I let him go?
As if she’s heard my thoughts, Chloe murmurs, “You have to move on sometime, E. Might as well be sooner than later, if you ask me.”
I look at her sharply. “Move on from what?”
“From Carter.”
I flinch.
“I know…” Her tone softens. “I know you care for him. I know things between you two are… complex. But I also know, just as you do, that there’s no way the two of you can be together. Especially not now that Ludwig has emerged as a royal alternate.” Her head shakes sadly. “An affair with your stepbrother would be just what your enemies need to justify their calls for your abdication.”
My lips press together, containing angry words I don’t dare speak. I know she’s right, but that doesn’t take the sting out of what she’s saying. The truth falls across my back like a lash, drawing blood.
“I say this not as your sister, but as your official social media advisor,” Chloe continues gently. “I say it because I can see, as much as you might pretend to be fine, you’re still devastated by him leaving.”
“It’s only… I didn’t get to say goodbye,” I whisper, my voice catching. “He just left. It was so abrupt. There was no closure. So, now, he’s become this… this… this wound that will not heal. And I hate myself for being so weak, but I can barely fucking breathe some days, I miss him so badly.” I scoff with self-loathing. “How pathetic is that?”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself. Maybe you just need more time, E…”
“Maybe.” I press a hand to my heart, as if that might stop its aching. “Or maybe this will just be my life. Forever. Perhaps anguish is my new constant.”
“Do you think, if you had a chance to say goodbye to him properly… To tell him all the things you didn’t get the opportunity to before… Would it make it easier on you? Would you be able to move on for real?”
“I don’t know, Chloe. And I can’t think about it, because it’s never going to happen. He’s in Switzerland, moving on with his life. And I’m here. Keeping calm and carrying on, no matter the cost. That’s just… the way it has to be.”
We’re both silent for a long time. My mind is reeling a million different directions at once. Zinging back and forth between two extremely different futures that play out in my mind in a diametrical daydream.
Alden, Carter, Alden, Carter.
They say love is a battlefield. If that’s the case, my heart has become the bloodiest of war zones, where two very different men fight for purchase without reprieve.
The one I should want.
And the one I can’t claim.
Alden.
Carter.
Alden.
Carter.
Chloe has no reason to lie to me. She, more than anyone else, has my best interests at heart.
So, perhaps she’s right.
I have to move on eventually. Why put off the inevitable? Why wait to accept Alden’s proposal, when the end result will be the same?
Everything in this world worth having comes at a price. Marrying Alden Sterling may well be the one I’m forced to pay to keep my kingdom.
Chloe’s deep sigh brings me out of my reverie. “Boy drama aside… If I know my mother, and I think I do, the interview she gave today is only the beginning of her blitzkrieg. She’s going to be on every nightly broadcast and morning talk show, spreading the Ludwig gospel.”
“And illustrating the merits of my forced abdication,” I grumble. “Bitch is just bitter I took her crown.”
“But you look so much better in it.”
“I don’t know. Maybe all of this is a sign.”
“A sign of what?”
“That I’m not meant to be queen. That I’m supposed to step away from this role. That I was never meant to have it in the first place.”
“Okay, first of all, that’s bullshit. You are a kick-ass queen — and I don’t just say that because I love you. Secondly, the only sign I see here is the one that says my mother is a terrible person who must be stopped.”
“I’ve been a bit busy organizing the referendum. Haven’t had time to plot your mother’s destruction lately.”
“Don’t you have an entire Queen’s Guard at your disposal for just such tasks?” She arches her brows. “Delegate.”
“I suppose I could have Riggs look into Octavia’s recent dealings…”
Chloe nods. “If you find enough dirt on her, you might be able to get her to back off. The woman does not understand the term compromise. Mutually assured destruction is the only language she speaks.”
I laugh a bit darkly. “And here I thought things were going to slow down after the vote was done.”
“Things never slow down. Life is like a game of musical chairs — the older you get, the faster the music plays.”
“Comforting.”
She merely shrugs.
I press my fingers to my temples, where a migraine has begun to pound. “God, my head feels like it’s going to explode.”
Chloe extends a hand toward me, waggling her fingers. “I have a fix for that.”
In the past, she would’ve pulled a baggie of pills out of her pocket and tried to shove one down my throat. But her newfound sobriety means no self-medication.
I narrow curious eyes at her. “What kind of fix?”
“A break from the television screen, for starters. That stuff will rot your brain.”
“Did you know one channel is actually circulating a composite image of my face morphed with Alden’s, to illustrate what our potential children might look like?”
“Were they cute?”
“Not really the point here, Chloe.”
“I don’t know… his blond hair and your green eyes… Could be a killer combo…”
“You’re really going to tease me? Today? Of all days? When my whole damn life is crumbling around me?”
“I actually came to help, believe it or not.” She winks and rises to her feet. “Come with me.”
“Where?”
“Anywhere. Just… away from here. Away from the castle, out of this city.”
“We can’t just leave! The results of the vote will be announced in a few hours!”
“Exactly. A few hours. That gives us plenty of time for a quick diversion.”
“Chloe… I can’t.”
“Give me one good reason why not.”
I open my mouth to do exactly that, but… In truth, I don’t have a good reason why we can’t leave the castle. I don’t have any justification at all for sitting here dwelling on all the things that could possibly go wrong today, listening to talking heads on a television screen dissect my life from afar.
Noting my reticence, Chloe grabs my hand and pulls me reluctantly out of my seat. “You’ve been working so hard, these past few weeks. Running yourself ragged. Now, as if the vote wasn’t enough to deal with, you’ve got Octavia making her move. Alden making his. It’s too much for one person to deal with all at once.”
“I’m fine.”
“You aren’t fine. You’re exhausted and overwhelmed and in need of a serious break.” She shakes her head disapprovingly. “Do you think I haven’t noticed how drained you are? Do you think it isn’t clear you’re barely holding it together?”
“But—”
“No buts.” She tugs me toward the door, her tone brooking no argument. “Now, we’re leaving. I already told Galizia to bring around the car.”
I’m smart enough to realize this is a battle I am not going to win… and self-aware enough to recognize the truth in Chloe’s words.
It’s been ages since I spent time doing something besides campaign for this vote. I’ve almost forgotten what it’s like to spend a day without schmoozing nobles at a fundraiser or orchestrating a touching photo-op for the nightly news or going over talking points for a press conference.
Loosing a martyred sigh, I leave the television screen behind — and, with it, all my worries about referendum results and distant heirs and scheming stepmothers.
Chloe is right.
At this point, the future is out of my hands.