I can hear Chloe on the phone with someone when I stop outside the door to her suite. Her murmurs are muffled by the thick oak panel, but I can still pick out a few choice words.
I know.
Okay.
I’ll take care of her.
I promise.
Love you too, brother.
I wait until I’m sure she’s hung up before I venture a knock.
“Come in, E.”
She knows it’s me.
Of course she does.
My stomach is a pit of anxiety as I step inside. Our eyes meet, holding for an uncharacteristically long moment of total silence. I don’t know quite what to say to her; I’m sure she feels the same.
After all, I’ve just learned her mother attempted to kill me, and had her thrown in jail.
Just a normal day as a Lancaster.
There’s no question that Chloe already knows — in the time it took Galizia to drive me back to the palace, the news broke on social media. Pictures of Lady Octavia Thorne, the former Consort of Germania, being led out of Easter Sunday services at Windsor Abbey in handcuffs by the Queen’s Guard went instantly viral.
The irony of my social media manager seeing her mother trending on Twitter is not lost on me.
I don’t know what to say — whether to apologize or try to explain. Chloe and her mother were not close. And yet… she was still her mother. She might never forgive me for this. She might hate me for the rest of her life.
“I’m so fucking sorry, E,” Chloe blurts, before I can say a word.
“You’re sorry?” I blink. “Why the hell are you sorry?”
“How could I not be? My mother tried to murder you. I’m ashamed to call myself a Thorne. I’m ashamed to even look you in the eyes. God, you must hate me…”
“Chloe, stop! Stop. I could never hate you.” I shake my head. “In fact, I thought you might hate me.”
Her eyes go wide. “Why would I hate you?”
“I did just have your mother arrested…”
“And..?”
“She’s your family.”
“E.” She crosses to me and grabs me by the shoulders, shaking lightly. “You are my family. That woman was never more than a birthing vessel to me.”
Tears gloss over my eyes as I step forward and throw my arms around my sister. I’m so relieved, I could sob.
“I thought—” I choke. “I thought maybe this was going to drive a wedge between us.”
“I thought you might not want me around, anymore. Daughter of a traitor and all.”
“Don’t be an idiot. You are nothing like Octavia.”
She hugs me tighter. “Thank god for that.”
We cling to each other for a while, taking comfort in the embrace. The anxiety stirring inside me slowly dissipates. Eventually, we move to sit on Chloe’s bed, each processing our own thoughts in silence.
I keep replaying the coronation over and over in my mind.
Linus, taking a sip of his champagne. Toasting to the future. Falling to the platform, froth forming at the corner of his mouth as poison hijacked his system.
It was the scariest moment of my life — at least, at that point in time: holding my father in my arms. Thinking he was about to die.
Now, looking back with all the facts, it’s strange to realize he was not the intended target. That, if not for a mix-up with the champagne flutes, I would’ve been the one dying on that platform.
One bloody sip.
“At least now, we finally have some answers,” Chloe says after a while, breaking the silence. “We know who’s been killing off the royal family.”
“You can’t possibly mean…” My brows lift. “You think Octavia started the fire last fall? Intentionally? To kill get Leopold, Abigail, and Henry out of the way?”
“Who else had the motive?” Chloe mutters darkly. “Octavia was the one to benefit most from that fire. With the royals out of the way, she knew her husband was next in line for the throne. And what has she wanted, more than anything else?”
“To be queen.”
“Exactly. To be queen.” She expels a sharp breath. “I don’t relish the thought that my mother is a mass murderer but… facts are facts.”
“There will be a trial,” I murmur. “I suppose the truth will come out then.”
We fall silent again, both trying to digest the enormous implications of this information.
Octavia.
It’s no secret she has never been my favorite person. She is malicious and calculated and plainly awful. And yet… I never in a million years would’ve thought her capable of something like this. The magnitude of her atrocities far outweighs any possibility I considered in the past.
“What did Carter say about it?”
Chloe glances over at me. “Eavesdropping, were you?”
I shrug. There’s no point lying.
She sighs. “He was typical Carter. Man of few words, you know him.”
“I do.” My heart pangs painfully.
“He wasn’t exactly doing cartwheels over the news, but he wasn’t totally flabbergasted by it, either. We’ve seen Octavia’s true colors since we were kids. She wasn’t mother-of-the-year.”
“Fair enough.”
“He told me, if there’s a public trial, he doesn’t want anything to do with it. He doesn’t want to come back. To see her. To testify on her behalf.” Chloe shakes her head. “Neither do I, to be honest.”
“I doubt you will need to. She’s already confessed most of it. I’m guessing she’ll throw Ramsey Bane and any other coconspirators under the bus the minute Riggs leans on her for more information. We know she’ll do just about anything to save herself from spending the rest of her life in federal prison.”
“When will it happen? The trial?”
“Soon, I think. According to Simms, justice must be served with speed in order for the country to move on.” I snort. “And there’s a royal wedding to focus on, of course! Can’t have a pesky thing like treason interfering with my nuptials!”
Chloe lays her head on my shoulder. “You’ve had a hell of a week.”
“Hell of a year, actually.”
“God, I could really go for a Xanax right now,” Chloe murmurs.
I look over at her, alarmed.
“Don’t worry — I’m not going to take anything. I’ll call Dr. Hess over, have an emergency session. Talk out my feelings and all that shit.” She blows out a sharp breath. “But damn, I’d be lying if I told you the craving wasn’t there. It’s like a conditioned response. For a long time, when bad shit happened… especially bad shit stirred up by my mother… Drugs were my coping mechanism.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Just sit with me. I’ll be okay.” She smiles softly. “I finally feel stronger than my addiction. It’s a nice change.”
“I’m proud of you, Chloe.”
She closes her eyes, still smiling. “Truth be told? I’m pretty fucking proud of me, too.”
In mid May, Lady Octavia Thorne — former Duchess of Hightower, Dowager Queen Consort of Germania — adds several more monikers to her long list of titles.
Traitor to the Crown.
Felon in the First Degree.
Conspirator to Commit Murder.
She waves her right to a trail by a jury of her peers, perhaps realizing the evidence stacked against her is not going to fall in her favor. The plea bargain her lawyers agree upon — a full confession in return for life in prison without the possibility of parole — takes the death penalty off the table. It also ensures a speedy end to a very public spectacle.
For weeks, the Thorne name has been dragged through the mud. Not just Octavia’s but Chloe and Carter’s as well. They are painted in almost every publication as social-climbing scoundrels — clinging to the royal family for prestige, clawing their way to the top of Germanian polite society by any means necessary.
I bet my former press advisor Ursula Caulfield is already hard at work on the movie rights.
A Thorne in the Royal Rose Garden: The Octavia Story
For over a month, Chloe refuses to leave the castle, unwilling to face either the mob of press gathered at the gates or the gossiping aristocrats at social functions. I assure her things will blow over, now that justice has been served. With Octavia and Ramsey behind bars, the pendulum of public attention will soon swing back to more pleasant diversions.
Namely: the rapidly approaching royal wedding.
In the wake of the trial, weeks pass in a monotonous blur of meetings and wedding preparations. It all feels quite trivial to me, but the country seems to need a happy occasion around which to rally. And so, I put on a smile and act the picture-perfect bride-to-be whenever I’m in public.
Why yes, I’m so excited!
I can’t wait to marry Alden.
Thank you for your blessings.
There are photo ops and dress fittings, cake tastings and menu selections. Alden is a far better sport than I am — ever-pleasant, exceedingly positive. I try to muster enthusiasm as Simms and Lady Morrell meticulously lay out all the details for our big day.
The most important day of my life, as I’m frequently reminded. A day that will go down in history.
May rushes by, June close on its heels. As spring breaks slowly into summer, balmy mornings turn bright and warm. Flowers burst into bloom everywhere I look. The castle grounds have never been so full of beauty… and yet so stained by my own gloomy disposition. A raincloud seems to follow wherever I go, no matter how sunny the day.
Construction on the East Wing is in full swing, now. I watch new walls rise from the ashes of scorched earth and wonder about the fire that set all of this into motion. Despite confessing to my attempted assassination, Octavia refused to take responsibility for the blaze that claimed so many lives.
Perhaps she was lying… though there was no reason to do so. Her life, for all intents and purposes, was already over.
Why own up to one crime while denying another?
The question nags at me, gnawing my stomach lining like a cancer. I try to talk to Chloe about it, but she institutes a ‘No Octavia’ rule in the castle. As far as she’s concerned, the case is open and shut.
Who cares if she admitted it or not? She obviously started the fire. She’s evil. End of discussion.
Spending too long with my own thoughts soon becomes a dangerous pastime. I lean into anything that serves as a distraction — riding Ginger around the network of trails, touring the construction site with Alden, training with Riggs and Galizia in the Gatehouse, basking in the sunshine with Chloe on the edge of the in-ground swimming pool.
It’s harder at night. There are fewer tasks to keep me occupied, fewer friends around to prevent my mind from meandering places that only cause me distress. More often than not, I find myself unable to sleep, wandering the castle halls like a ghost.
I devour half the library’s contemporary fiction section, losing myself for hours in tales of horror and gore, murder and mystery. Once my favorite genre, I now studiously avoid love stories. My interest in fictional romance and happily-ever-afters seems to have evaporated around the same time I slid the massive sapphire onto my ring finger.
Now that the snows have melted, I can once again access my favorite spot in the castle — the sky-scraping turret. Climbing the hundred or so winding stone steps to the top with a flashlight in hand, I stare out over the slumbering streets of Vasgaard as the night sky lightens in slow degrees, thinking maybe if I squint hard enough, I might be able to see all the way to Switzerland.
All the way to him.
In the clutches of insomnia, I have far too much time to think. I find myself reflecting on what might’ve been with alarming regularity.
My life has changed so much, since I first arrived in the castle. I have changed so much. I bear little resemblance to the girl I once was — that poor, purple haired psychology student who was barely scraping by, struggling to juggle mortgage payments and student loans on minimum wage alone.
If I could go back and warn her of what was to come… if I could somehow intervene in how things would play out…
I don’t think I would.
Despite the pain, despite the loss, despite everything that’s happened to me… I do believe I was meant to wind up here. The youngest monarch in the world. A ruler leading her country into a more progressive future, one tenuous step at a time… alongside the newly established House of Peers, which recently swore in its first ever female Parliamentary Ministers.
That thought brings a rare smile to my face.
Once the wedding is behind me, perhaps there will be time to turn my eyes toward new political pursuits. There are so many causes I could champion — from accessible healthcare to affordable college.
Student loan forgiveness.
Climate change.
Renewable energy.
Options sprawl out before me in a kaleidoscope of moving parts. I merely need to reach out my hand and take one. To add my voice where it is most needed.
Perhaps this is enough for one person. Perhaps the love of my life will not be a man at all, but a country.
My country.
My Germania.
Before this period, I had not allowed myself to give much thought to my future on the throne. I’ve been so consumed in just making it through each day — in keeping my head on straight from daybreak to dusk — that I barely had room to wonder about the rest of my reign.
That’s changing, though.
I have never felt so secure in my queendom. My marriage to Alden has effectively shut down my most vocal naysayers, just as my advisors predicted. The wedding — and the resulting boost to the Germanian economy — has soothed many a ruffled feather amongst the aristocrats.
Money may not be able to buy happiness, but it seems quite capable of purchasing loyalty.
Without the support of the nobility behind him, Ludwig von Strauss fades a bit more into my rearview with each passing day. Octavia and Ramsey were his foremost champions, railing against my reign and calling for me to abdicate; in their absence, those calls have all but ceased.
Evidently, no one wants to be associated with two felons or their feeble political puppet.
Whatever objection to my reign still exists has been effectively eliminated — swept away by the tidal wave of support the royal wedding has unleashed. For if the treason trial stirred a publicity storm, my marriage has produced a full-blown cyclone.
The closer the wedding creeps, the more intense the media frenzy. By early August, it seems the whole world has its eyes on our small nation. Press coverage reaches a crest, with reporters from all over the world camped outside the castle gates twenty-four-seven.
Twelve days.
Eleven.
Ten.
In the week leading up to the ceremony, dignitaries and foreign leaders from all over the world begin to arrive. I’m told citizens have begun pitching tents in a line outside Windsor Abbey, staking out their spots on the sidewalk for a glimpse at the royal processional.
Six days.
Five.
Four.
Time is slipping through my fingers like sand through an hourglass, impossible to keep hold of. I feel like a passerby in my own life, watching events unfold from afar with very little say in the matter.
Stand here.
Sit there.
Smile.
Wave.
Walk.
Talk.
I am a puppet; who exactly is pulling my strings remains to be seen.
Three days.
Two.
One.
Before I know it, the eve of the wedding has arrived.
The seamstresses come for one final fitting, making infinitesimal tweaks to what, in my eyes, appears to be an already perfect dress. It’s got so much fabric, it makes the gold gown I wore to my coronation look like a handkerchief. The train is ten feet long; the veil is double that. When Chloe walks into my chambers and sees me in it, she bursts into actual tears.
“Oh, E!” she sobs. “Look at you!”
I, on the other hand, feel completely numb as I examine the beautiful bride in the mirror.
Twenty-four hours.
I will be married in twenty-four hours.
I’m told to relax. Everything else is prepped and ready to go. The royal cooks have baked and iced a six-tier white cake — enough to feed five-hundred guests at the reception. The Great Hall floors shine like never before, buffed and polished to perfection for the formal ball. Every surface and side table in the castle boasts a flower arrangement, artfully coordinated with blooms in our official color palette: gold and navy blue.
Eighteen hours.
Seventeen.
Sixteen.
After a quick walkthrough of the ceremony in the throne room, Alden and I wander through the castle courtyard arm in arm. It’s a lovely evening — a warm wind stirs the tree boughs overhead, blows strands of hair across my shoulders like a playful lover’s kiss. The sun is setting over the mountains, basking the world in ombre hues of orange.
A beautiful nightmare.
“I can’t believe this time tomorrow, we’ll be married,” Alden marvels lowly.
I glance over at him. “Want to make a run for it?”
“No. You?”
“In these shoes?” I show off a stiletto heel. “I wouldn’t make it past the castle gates.”
Chuckling, he squeezes my arm. “I suppose we’re stuck with one another, then.”
“Seems that way.”
“Are you nervous?”
“Should I be?”
“I’m not sure. I’ve never been married before; I don’t have a baseline for the proper amount of pre-wedding jitters.” He tilts his head, bemused. “Though the prospect of fumbling my vows in front of the entire world does stir a certain amount of anxiety.”
“I’m sure you’ll be fine. You’re one of the calmest public speakers I’ve ever seen. Without you by my side — not just during this wedding press junket, but through the entire referendum campaign and the treason trial — I would’ve been lost.”
“Not true, but kind of you to say, My Queen.”
“Alden. We’re getting married tomorrow. I think it’s time you dropped my formal title.”
“But you’ll always be My Queen.” He pauses. His voice drops lower. “My wife. My love.”
We come to a stop under a towering oak tree, its canopy bursting with life. Alden pivots me around so I’m facing him properly. I feel like an actress in a movie — trying to muster up emotions that do not belong to me for the sake of someone else.
What’s my line?
“Emilia,” he says, quite seriously.
“Yes?”
“I know for you, this wedding — this marriage — was born from a sense of duty. But… for me… it is about something quite different.” His hazel eyes are brimming with emotion. “Since we first met, I have admired you. Your strength, your courage. Your beauty. Your determination.”
“Alden—”
“Allow me to finish. Please.”
I bite my lip to contain my objections.
“Tomorrow, when I become your husband… I want you to know, I do it not out of duty or obligation, but as a man deeply under your spell.” His fingers lace with mine, tightening gently to underscore his declaration. “I am in love with you, Emilia.”
I feel my mouth gape open, shock reverberating through me like I’ve been electrocuted. “Alden, I… I don’t know what to say…”
“You don’t have to say anything. I just wanted you to know. Before we take our vows before God and our countrymen. Before we move into this castle as man and wife. Before we consummate this marriage… I do love you. And I will be here, loving you, until your heart is ready to reciprocate.”
I look into his eyes, wishing I could offer him assurance of my affections without it being a fabrication. Wishing I was capable of returning the feelings he so eloquently expressed.
But I will not lie to him.
And, the truth is, my heart… it is no longer mine to give away. Not when it already beats for someone else.
It will forever beat for someone else.
Pulse pounding, I reach up and lay one hand against Alden’s cheek. “Thank you for telling me. I value your honesty and your friendship more than you will ever know.”
Something flashes in his eyes when I say the word friendship, but he hides it away too quickly for me to decipher. Clearing his throat, he forces a bright smile.
“They say when a woman gets married, she needs something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a slim velvet box. Inside, there’s a stunning sapphire bracelet. It glitters like starlight as he pulls it from the bed of satin and clasps it around my wrist. “Here is your something blue, my dear.”
“Oh, Alden,” I murmur. “This is too generous.”
“Nonsense.”
“It must’ve cost a fortune.”
“Don’t you know by now that there is nothing I would not give you?” he whispers ardently, leaning in until our faces are a hairsbreadth apart. “That there is nothing I would not do for you? If you asked, I would die for you. I would kill for you. I would protect you from anyone who seeks to hurt you. What else must I do to prove that?”
For the love of God…
What’s my damn line?
But there is no one there to tell me what to say and I have no words of my own to offer him. So there, beneath a three-hundred-year-old oak tree, in the fading light of a perfect August day, I arch my head back and allow my future husband to kiss me for the first time.
His lips move over mine — a light, lovely exploration. And it’s undoubtedly nice. Unquestionably pleasant.
The perfect kiss from the perfect man at the perfect moment.
If only my broken heart agreed.
For weeks, meteorologists predicted a sun-drenched forecast for my wedding day. All of August, we’ve enjoyed miraculously fair climes. And yet, I wake to torrential rain and cloudy skies. It seems an unexpected front moved in overnight, drenching the streets in relentless drizzle, basking the world in monochrome.
If my sense of humor was still intact, I’d see a certain sort of irony in that.
My morning is spent with a fleet of seamstresses and beauticians, who assist me into my gown under the careful supervision of Lady Morrell. My hair is styled artfully in a low bun to accommodate my veil, industrial strength spray insuring not a single strand will fall out of place. A makeup artist clucks over my dark circles as she applies what feels like a pound of powder to my face.
Four hours later, I am deemed presentable. There’s not a dry eye amongst the beauty prep team as they stare at me in my dress — a voluminous silk monstrosity with a square neckline, tapered waist, and dainty cap sleeves.
I’m told twelve designers worked night and day to get the fit right, hand-sewing the pearls that trail down my spine. The veil’s edge is laced with Germanian crystals, twenty feet of pure glitter dragging in my wake — as if the diamond-encrusted crown atop my head wasn’t already heavy enough to induce a migraine.
“Oh, Your Majesty!” Lady Morrell wipes a tear with an embroidered handkerchief. “You are an absolute vision!”
“The world will come to a stop when they see you in this dress,” one of the makeup artists murmurs, staring at me in awe. “Kate Middleton will be a distant memory.”
Chloe comes up behind me in the mirror, catching my eyes in the reflection. “E, it’s true. You look amazing.”
The smile on my lips is as stiff as my tone. “We should go now. Wouldn’t want to be late to my own wedding.”
Chloe stares at me with worried eyes as I turn to leave my chambers for the last time, each step robotic. Tonight, when I return, I will sleep in the new East Wing… with my new husband.
I make my way slowly down the corridor. With this much fabric on my body, I can’t move much faster than a crawl. I need three assistants just to carry my train.
Using the bathroom is going to be an adventure.
“E…” Chloe is chewing her bottom lip worriedly — half her pink lipstick is already ruined. Otherwise, she’s a vision; her maid-of-honor dress, a shimmering gold sheath, looks amazing with her pale skin, slim build, and red locks. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I respond automatically, eyes fixed on the floor in front of me. We’re approaching the stairs, which will require all my attention to navigate.
Don’t think about anything else.
Just focus on the path directly in front of you.
One step at a time.
“E…”
“I said I’m fine.”
“Sure. If you say so…”
She doesn’t sound convinced, but I keep walking anyway, hoping she’ll drop the subject. With a sigh, she falls into step beside me, offering her arm in support when we reach the stairs. I can hear Lady Morrell and her assistants behind us, dealing with my train as we descend. Their excited chit-chat grates on my nerves like nails against a chalkboard.
The household staff has gathered in the Great Hall to watch me go. I spot Simms at the front of the group, along with a dozen other faces I’ve come to know well. Patricia the Head Cook. Hans, the Master of Stables. Derrick, the pageboy.
Most of the women are wiping tears as they watch me walk by. Even the men look a bit red around the eyes, taking in the sight of me in my dress.
Galizia and Riggs are posted at the front exit, clad in their formal dress uniforms — navy with double-breasted gold buttons, hilted swords strapped to their sides.
They pull open the doors to reveal a line of Queen’s Guard standing at attention in the pouring rain, their spines stiff as rods, their faces fixed straight ahead. They form a path down the steps, straight into the waiting limousine.
Riggs whistles and, without adieu, every guard in the gauntlet reaches for his hilt and pulls out a sword. Except, I quickly realize they aren’t swords at all — they’re umbrellas. They open in unison, instantly creating a rain shield for my walk to the car.
I glance at Riggs and manage to smile properly for the first time all day. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure, Your Majesty.” He winks. “And congratulations on your wedding.”
The smile falls off my face.
I turn and start walking, barely bothering to avoid the worst of the puddles. Behind me, Lady Morrell is screeching about my dress, but she sounds about a million miles away. The numbness inside my chest cavity is radiating outward, hijacking all my senses until the whole world seems quite far removed.
Just keep moving.
Just don’t think.
“Emilia,” Chloe says, once we’re settled in the car — a rare use of my first name. “You’re freaking me out.”
“I’m fine,” I respond, on auto-pilot.
“You aren’t fine. You’re like… a pod person.” She waves a hand in front of my eyes. “Hello? Is anyone in there? Anyone home?”
Ignoring her antics, I turn and look out the window.
I thought the inclement weather might deter the crowds, but as we ride through Vasgaard in my white Rolls-Royce, the streets are lined with millions of Germanians in plastic ponchos and waterproof slickers.
“They say it’s good luck if it rains on your wedding day,” Lady Morrell titters from the seat across from mine. “When one is tying the knot, so to speak… a wet rope is far harder to untangle than a perfectly dry one.”
Chloe scoffs. “That’s just a bullshit cliché made up to soothe Bridezillas.”
“Miss Thorne, your attitude is not helping matters…”
I promptly tune them out.
Don’t think.
Don’t think.
Don’t think.
We soon arrive at Windsor Abbey. The crowds here are twice as thick and ten times as loud, cheering uproariously when my limousine rolls into view.
Between the press cameras, reporters, and bystanders, the streets are at capacity — a roiling ocean of sodden hats and umbrellas. The surrounding buildings are equally mobbed. People are peering out from every available window, leaning over balcony railings, huddling on rooftops in the driving rain.
All hoping for just one glimpse at me.
All waiting with joy in their hearts, thrilled by the prospect of this royal union.
We pull to a stop at the curb and I steel my shoulders against the inevitable. A page bounds to the door and pulls it open, letting in a wave of sound. It crashes into me, vibrating my very bones.
Lady Morrell and her minions get out first, poised by the door to assist with my exit. Through the water-beaded glass window, I see the gauntlet of Queen’s Guard forming once again on the steps. Waiting for me.
It’s time to go.
“E.” Chloe grabs my arm, stilling me. “I don’t care what anyone says — you do not have to do this if you don’t want to.”
Lady Morrell makes a sound of deep distress, audible through the door gap. “Miss Thorne! How could you say such a thing? And now, of all times?”
“Ignore her.” Chloe stares into my eyes, her expression intent. “I mean it. We can make a run for it. The keys are in the ignition. Say the word — I’ll hop the partition, fire up the engine, and get us the hell out of here.”
I take a deep breath, allowing the air to fill up my lungs, then slowly expelling it out through my nose. For one insane instant, I close my eyes and allow myself to picture it — two sisters on the open road. The runaway bride and the recovering addict, getting the hell out of dodge. Skipping out on all the shit that’s been thrown at us, these past few months. Starting over somewhere new. Living our lives however the hell we choose to, without any input from our families or political pundits or social advisors.
It’s a nice fantasy.
I turn it over in my mind, savoring its sweetness. But as soon as my eyes open, the fantasy evaporates like mist.
Chloe squeezes my bicep again. “Well? What’ll it be?”
Placing my hand over hers, I squeeze back, once… then slowly pull her grip from my arm.
“Chloe. If I’ve learned one thing in the past few months, it’s that you can’t outrun fate. It always catches up to you eventually.” I force a smile onto my lips and hope it looks more convincing than it feels. “Look at them all out there. Waiting for me. For their queen. I cannot let them down. I will not let them down.”
“But, E…”
“I love you, sister.” I blink away my tears. “I love that you have my back, no matter what. But right now… I need you to stand by my side, as my maid-of-honor. I need you to carry my veil, and hold my hand, and support me when I stumble.” Panic is creeping into my voice; I do my best to tamp it down. “Because if you don’t… I don’t think I’ll be able to go through with this. And I have to go through with this, Chloe. I have to.”
Chloe holds my eyes for a long moment, then nods. “Let’s go get you hitched.”