by Kiera Cass
“But why?” one of the girls asked, so sweetly that it actually, physically pained me. It was Daphne all over again.
I missed who said it, but I turned to see them all wearing similar expressions of dejection, their hopes dashed, it seemed. We’d only met twenty minutes ago. How was this possible?
“I’m sorry,” I said, truly feeling bad. “I just didn’t feel anything.”
Mia stepped forward, her face barely giving away that she was on the edge of tears. Part of me admired her for her self-control. “What about how we feel? Doesn’t that matter?”
She tilted her head, her brown eyes demanding an answer.
“Of course it does. . . .” Maybe I should cave. I didn’t have to eliminate anyone the first day. But what kind of relationship would that create? I make a decision, she says I’m hasty, and then I give in?
No. This was my choice. I had to follow through.
“I’m very sorry to have caused you pain, but it’s quite a challenge to cut thirty-five talented, charming, beautiful women down to one that I’m meant to marry.” I spoke honestly, humbly. “I have to go with my gut. This is as much for the sake of your happiness as it is mine. I hope we can part from our short time together as friends.”
Mia, unimpressed with my speech, gave me a cold glare before walking past me and out the doors. Nearly all of the girls followed her; it appeared we would not be leaving on good terms.
Ashley, who seemed the most upset, came up and quietly embraced me. I awkwardly put my arms around her, as she sort of pinned them down.
“I can’t believe it’s over so quickly. I really thought I had a chance.” Her words came out in a stunned monotone. It sounded like she was talking to herself.
“I’m sorry,” I repeated.
She stepped back, wiped her eyes, and once she was composed, gave me a very ladylike curtsy. “Good luck, Your Majesty.”
She raised her head and walked away.
“Ashley,” I called just before she reached the door.
She paused, hopeful.
No. I couldn’t. I had to be firm.
“Good luck to you, too.”
She smiled at me and left.
After a moment of silence, I looked to the guards in the room. “You can go,” I ordered, desperate for a moment of privacy. I walked over to the couch I’d used to interview the girls and put my head in my hands.
You can only marry one of them anyway. It had to be done. Maybe it seemed hasty, but it wasn’t. It was deliberate. You need to be deliberate.
I couldn’t help doubting myself. Ashley had been sweet at the end. Had I already made a mistake? But I felt nothing when she sat in front of me, not even a tiny hint of a connection.
I drew in a breath and pulled myself up. It was done. Time to move forward. There were twenty-seven other girls I needed to focus on now.
Pasting a smile on, I walked across the wide hall into the dining room, where everyone was already eating. I noticed a few chairs begin to scoot back.
“Please don’t rise, ladies. Enjoy your breakfasts.” Nothing is wrong. Everything is perfect.
I kissed Mom on the cheek and gave Father a pat before sitting down myself, wanting to be the picture of the family the public expected us to be.
“A few gone already, Your Majesty?” Justin asked, pouring my coffee.
“You know, I once read a book about people who practiced polygamy. One man with several wives. Crazy. I was just in a room with eight very unhappy women, and I have no idea why anyone would choose that.” My tone was light but the sentiment was real.
Justin laughed. “It’s a good thing you only need one, sir.”
“Indeed.” I drank my coffee, taking it black, thinking of Justin’s words.
I only needed one. Now, how did I find her?
“How many are gone?” Father asked, cutting his food.
“Eight.”
He nodded. “Good start.”
For all the doubt I felt, at least there was that.
I exhaled, trying to formulate a plan. I needed to get to know these girls individually. Scanning the room, I swallowed, considering the time and energy it was going to take to become close to twenty-seven girls.
A few of the Selected caught my wandering eyes and smiled as my gaze passed them. There were so many beautiful women here. I got the sense that a few of these girls had been on dates before and, perhaps foolishly, I was intimidated.
And then there was America, her mouth stuffed with a strawberry tart, her eyes rolling like she was in heaven. I stifled a laugh, and suddenly I had a plan.
“Lady America?” I called politely, nearly cracking up again when she stopped chewing, eyes wide, as she turned to face me.
She covered her mouth with her hands, trying to finish quickly. “Yes, Your Majesty?”
“How are you enjoying the food?” I wondered if her mind went to last night when she admitted that was her main reason for staying. It was liberating somehow to tell a joke that only one person understood in front of a room of people.
Maybe I imagined the glint of mischief in her eye.
“It’s excellent, Your Majesty. This strawberry tart . . . well, I have a sister who loves sweets more than I do. I think she’d cry if she tasted this. It’s perfect.”
I took a bite, needing a moment to orchestrate this. “Do you really think she would cry?” I asked.
America’s lovely face squinted in thought. “Yes, actually, I do. She doesn’t have much of a filter when it comes to her emotions.”
“Would you wager money on it?” I shot back.
“If I had any to bet, I certainly would,” she answered with a smile.
Perfect. “What would you be willing to barter instead? You seem to be very good at striking deals.”
Father cut his eyes at me. That joke wasn’t quite so well hidden.
“Well, what do you want?” she asked.
A first date that I can actually manage. A night with someone I don’t have to try to impress because she claims it’s impossible. A way to get this rolling again without making all of these girls hate me.
I smiled. “What do you want?”
She considered. Really, she could have asked for anything. I was prepared to bribe her if I had to.
“If she cries,” she started hesitantly, “I want to wear pants for a week.”
I pressed my lips together as the rest of the room laughed. Even Father was amused, or at least playing at it. But what I liked the best was that, while the room giggled at her request, she didn’t duck her head or blush or think to ask for something else. She wanted what she wanted.
There was something charming about that.
“Done. And if she doesn’t, you owe me a walk around the grounds tomorrow afternoon.”
There were little sounds all over the room, including a sigh from Father at my choice. It was possible he was far more aware of the candidates than I was. She wouldn’t be on his list of favorites. Hell, she wasn’t really on the list at all.
America thought for a second and then nodded. “You drive a hard bargain, sir, but I accept.”
“Justin? Go make a parcel of strawberry tarts and send it to the lady’s family. Have someone wait while her sister tastes it, and let us know if she does, in fact, cry. I’m most curious about this.” Justin gave me a quick nod and grin before heading on his way. “You should write a note to send with it, and tell your family you’re safe. In fact, you all should. After breakfast, write a letter to your families, and we’ll make sure they receive them today.”
The girls—my girls—smiled joyfully. Over the course of the morning I’d met all the ladies, gotten most of their names right, dismissed several, and had arranged my first date. Though it left me feeling a little rattled, I’d have to call that a success.
“Sorry it took so long, Your Majesty. We had to go to a boutique in town,” Seymour said, pulling a rack of pants on hangers behind him.
“Not a problem,” I replied, setting aside
the papers on my desk. I had decided to work in my room for the day. “What did you find?”
“We have several options, sir. I’m sure you’ll find something for the lady here.”
I stared at the clothes, absolutely confused. “So, what pants are good for women?”
Seymour shook his head and smiled. “Don’t worry, Your Majesty, I’ve got this completely under control. Now, these white ones would look a bit more feminine and will go well with anything her maids make for tops. The same would be true for this pair.”
He held out several options, and I tried to distinguish what made one better than the other, and guess at what she would like.
“Seymour, maybe this doesn’t matter, but she’s a Five. Do you think she’ll feel comfortable in these?”
He looked at the rack. “If she’s here, sir, she’s likely seeking luxury.”
“But if she was looking for luxury, would she have asked for pants in the first place?” I countered.
He nodded. “Jeans.” Reaching toward the back of the rack he pulled out a pair of denim pants. I’d never actually worn jeans before. Didn’t look particularly appealing. “I have a feeling these will be a winner.”
I looked at my options again. “Yes, go with these, but throw that first pair you picked up in there as well. And maybe one more for good measure. Will these fit her?”
Seymour smiled. “We’ll have them tailored and ready by this evening. Did the young lady win, then?”
I shrugged. “Not yet, but I’m hoping that if she does, and I give her more than she hoped for, she’ll go on the date with me anyway.”
“You must really like her,” Seymour said, pushing the rack into the hallway.
I didn’t answer, but as I shut the door, I thought about it. There was something about her. Even the way she didn’t like me drew me in, and I couldn’t help but smile.
CHAPTER 8
“ARE YOU SURE?” I ASKED.
“Absolutely,” the courier said.
“Not a single tear?”
He grinned. “Not a one.”
I paused outside America’s door, unsure why my heart was beating so fast. She had no feelings for me; she’d made that quite clear. And that was my primary reason for choosing her first. This was going to be an easy date.
I expected a maid to answer the door, but when it rushed back, America was standing there, fighting a sarcastic smile.
“For the sake of appearances, would you please take my arm?” I asked, offering it to her. She sighed and took it, following me down the hall.
I’d expected her to start complaining, to say she really should have won, but she was silent. Was she upset? Did she really not want to go with me?
“I’m sorry she didn’t cry,” I offered.
“No, you’re not,” she teased. With that, I knew she was fine. Maybe she was distracted somehow, but joking seemed to be our language. If we could find our way there, we’d be okay.
“I’ve never gambled before. It was nice to win.”
“Beginner’s luck,” she shot back.
“Perhaps,” I agreed. “Next time we’ll try to make her laugh.”
Her eyes went to the ceiling in thought, and I could guess where her mind was. “What’s your family like?”
She made a face. “What do you mean?”
“Just that. Your family must be very different from mine.” She had siblings, her house was small . . . people cried over pastries. I couldn’t begin to imagine life in her family.
“I’d say so. For one, no one wears their tiaras to breakfast.” She laughed, a musical sound, so fitting for a Five.
“More of a dinner thing at the Singer house?”
“Of course.”
I couldn’t help but chuckle. I liked her wit. It felt a bit similar to mine when she let it show. And it made me curious if two people from two different worlds could grow up and be surprisingly the same.
“Well, I’m the middle child of five.”
“Five!” Goodness, that must be loud.
“Yeah, five,” she said, incredulous at my surprise. “Most families out there have lots of kids. I’d have lots if I could.”
“Oh, really?” Another similarity, and a very personal one.
Her bashful yes let me know it was an intimate detail for her as well. Maybe it shouldn’t have felt awkward, but it did, discussing a future family with someone I was meant to have a chance with while knowing that I didn’t.
“Anyway,” she continued, “my oldest sister, Kenna, is married to a Four. She works in a factory now. My mom wants me to marry at least a Four.” What’s wrong with a One? “But I don’t want to have to stop singing. I love it too much.” Oh, that makes sense. The guy at home must be a spectacular Five.
“But I guess I’m a Three now,” she continued, sounding sad. “That’s really weird. I think I’m going to try to stay in music if I can. Kota is next. He’s an artist. We don’t see much of him these days. He did come to see me off, but that’s about it.”
There was something in her tone that hinted at pain or regret, but she moved on too quickly for me to ask about it.
“Then there’s me,” she said as we drew near to the stairs.
I beamed. “America Singer, my closest friend.”
She playfully rolled her eyes, the blue in them catching the light. “That’s right.”
There was a strange comfort in those words.
“After me there’s May. She’s the one who sold me out and didn’t cry. Honestly, I was robbed; I can’t believe she didn’t cry! But yeah, she’s an artist. I . . . I adore her.
“And then Gerad. He’s the baby; he’s seven. He hasn’t quite figured out if he’s into music or art yet. Mostly he likes to play ball and study bugs, which is fine except that he can’t make a living that way. We’re trying to get him to experiment more. Anyway, that’s everyone.”
“What about your parents?” I asked, still trying to paint a full picture of her.
“What about your parents?” she countered.
“You know my parents.”
“No, I don’t. I know the public image of them. What are they really like?” she pleaded, pulling on my arm. Childish as it was, it made me smile.
But I was distracted. What could I possibly tell her about my parents?
I’m afraid my mother is sick. She has headaches a lot and seems tired. I can’t tell if it’s because of the way she grew up or if something happened later. I’m sure I’m supposed to have at least one sibling, and I can’t tell if it’s tied to that or not. My dad . . . Sometimes my dad . . .
We stepped into the garden and the cameras waited. Instantly, I felt on guard. I didn’t want them here for this. I didn’t know how far into the truth about myself or herself we might go, but I knew it wouldn’t happen with an audience. After waving the crew away, I looked at America and realized she was distant again.
“Are you all right? You seem tense.”
She shrugged. “You get confused by crying women, I get confused by walks with princes.”
I smirked. “What about me is so confusing?”
“Your character. Your intentions. I’m not sure what to expect out of this little stroll.”
Was I so mysterious? Perhaps I was. I’d mastered smiles and half truths. But I certainly didn’t want to appear that way.
I paused and turned to her. “Ah. I think you can tell by now that I’m not the type of man to beat around the bush. I’ll tell you exactly what I want from you.” I want to know someone. Really know someone. And I think I want that person to be you, even if you leave.
I stepped toward her and was suddenly stopped by a crippling pain. Yelling, I bent over and backed away. Those few steps were practically unbearable, but there was no way I was going to lie curled up on the ground, even though that was my instinct. I felt like I might vomit, and I fought that as well. Princes did not vomit and roll in the grass.
“What was that for?” Was that my voice? Really? I sounded like a f
ive-year-old girl with a smoking problem.
“If you lay a single finger on me, I’ll do worse!”
“What?”
“I said, if you—”
“No, no, you crazy girl. I heard you the first time. But just what in the world do you mean by it?”
She stood there wide-eyed again, covering her mouth as if she’d made a horrible mistake. I turned at the sound of the guard’s footsteps and raised one arm while desperately holding myself with the other, dismissing them.
What had I done? What did she think I was . . . ?
I pulled myself together if only because I needed to know.
“What did you think I wanted?” I asked.
She lowered her eyes.
“America, what did you think I wanted?” I demanded.
Everything about her demeanor gave her away. I’d never been so insulted. “In public? You thought . . . for heaven’s sake. I’m a gentleman!”
Though it was blindingly painful to do so, I stood a bit taller and walked away. Then something struck me.
“Why did you even offer to help if you think so little of me?”
She said nothing.
“You’ll be taking dinner in your room tonight. I’ll deal with this in the morning.”
I moved as quickly as I could, eager to be away from her, hoping I might outrun the anger and humiliation. I slammed the door to my room, furious.
A second later, my butler knocked. “I heard you come in, Your Majesty. Can I get you anything before bed?”
“Ice,” I whimpered.
He scurried away, and I fell into bed, consumed with rage. I covered my eyes, trying to process it all. I couldn’t believe only minutes ago, I was about to open up to her, really share.
This was supposed to be my easy first date!
I huffed and heard my butler leave a tray on my bedside table and quickly exit.
Who did she think she was, a Five assaulting her future king? If I had the inclination, she could be seriously punished.
She was definitely going home. There was no way I would keep her here after that.
I stewed over the situation for hours, thinking of what I should have said or done in the moment. Every time I relived it, I was irate. What kind of girl did that? What made her think she could attack her prince?