Dirty Halo

by Evie East

  Goodbye, Leopold and Abigail. I hope you are at peace, now.

  Our group has expanded to include Lord and Lady Sterling — Ava and Alden’s parents — who are just as pale and tall as their children. They don’t bother introducing themselves to me as we make our way down the steps, through a gauntlet of King’s Guard in their formal blue uniforms.

  I trail close on Simms’ heels, keeping my eyes downcast, listening to the muffled click of press cameras from all sides. It’s the loudest noise to be heard in the gathered crowd of thousands.

  Click, click, click, click.

  We’re nearly to the bottom of the stairs, where the waiting limousines offer refuge. For the first time all day, I feel a hint of my anxiety dissipate.

  It’s over.

  My relief is short lived. A shout — slurred with alcohol, but oh so familiar — pierces the air like a clap of thunder in the otherwise silent crowd.

  “EMILIA!”

  I hear people turning toward the voice, stunned by the man who would dare interrupt such a somber occasion with senseless screaming, but I don’t dare look; not with the entire country watching.

  “EMILIA LANCASTER!”

  The crowd begins to titter, curiosity crashing through the masses like a wave.

  Did he say Lancaster?

  Simms glances back at me, concern etched on his features. Carter and Chloe do the same. My heart begins to pound as the King’s Guard closes rank, hands on their hilts, hurrying us down the remaining steps as fast as possible without causing a scene.

  “LOOK AT ME!” Owen’s words are garbled, but still intelligible. “EMILIA, YOU CAN’T DO THIS — YOU CAN’T JUST CUT ME OUT! PLEASE!”

  When his voice cracks, I can no longer control myself. My eyes lift to find him in the crowd — blond hair falling onto his forehead, brown eyes bloodshot. Our gazes connect for a moment, and I shake my head as if to say, Please, Owen, don’t say any more.

  Please, let this go.

  Let me go.

  His expression crumbles, hope disintegrating into bitter resentment. And I know, even before his mouth opens again, that what comes next will be catastrophic.

  “I GUESS TWENTY YEARS OF FRIENDSHIP MEANS NOTHING, NOW THAT YOU’RE ROYALTY. IS THAT IT, EMS? OR SHOULD I CALL YOU PRINCESS EMILIA, NOW?”

  The word princess sets off a detonation the likes of which the world has never before seen. The press goes nuclear — a mushroom cloud of outrage and speculation rising up into the sky, the fallout incalculable.

  And Owen is ground zero.

  I see guards closing in on him, dark looks on their faces as they take him into custody. Simultaneously, I watch as at least two dozen reporters circle him, hurling questions rapid-fire, desperate for his story. Unfortunately, the rest of them — at least three or four hundred, all with voice recorders at the ready — are staring at me.

  Correction: screaming at me.

  “That’s her!”

  “Emilia, look this way!”

  “Is it true you’re the princess?”

  “Can you comment on your connection to the Lancaster family?”

  My wide eyes swing around as a bombardment of camera flashes blind me. I feel like a bug trapped beneath a magnifying glass, being slowly burned alive.

  “King Linus! Is it true? Can you confirm she is your daughter?”

  “Is she a legitimate heir?”

  “Does Germania have a hidden princess?”

  There’s a screech of tires as the limo squeals away from the steps, whisking Linus, Octavia, Simms, and the Sterling parents from the scene. The rest of our group hurries toward the second vehicle, but I can’t seem to move fast enough to keep up. My feat have turned to anvils on the steps of the abbey.

  “Emilia! Look this way! Princess Emilia!”

  Emilia!

  Emilia!

  Emilia!

  Suddenly, there’s a warm hand on the small of my back and a towering male silhouette shielding me from the crowd. I know it’s Carter without looking up at him. Even now, with my senses screaming for relief and my eyes glossed with tears, my body recognizes his.

  Somehow, we make it into the limo. The door closes behind us with a slam, cutting off the worst of the screams, but there’s no escaping the thundering crowd as they surround us on all sides, frantic to get their photographs even through the tinted glass.

  I press my eyes closed with the heels of my hands, as though that will somehow make them disappear. I don’t open them again until we’re several blocks away, racing out of the city at nearly twice the legal speed limit.

  Chloe, Carter, Ava, and Alden are all staring at me, a mix of shock and concern etched on all their faces. To my great surprise, it’s Alden — quiet, composed Alden — who finally breaks the silence. His cultured voice is thick with incredulity.

  “Anyone care to explain what the actual fuck just happened?”

  * * *

  It’s a question that will be repeated — with varying amounts of profanity — over and over by every news outlet on the planet in the next few hours. Because from Germania to Gibraltar, America to Argentina, Morocco to Malaysia… everyone’s wondering the same thing.

  Who is the secret princess?

  In a world of social media and twenty-four hour news cycles, it doesn’t take long for the rest of the world to piece together the story of Emilia Victoria Lancaster. Or, at least, their shiny, fairy tale version of it.

  Ordinary girl becomes royalty overnight!

  Chloe, Carter, and I hover in the Lockwood Estate’s large conference room, eyes on the television screens, watching my anonymity disappear in slow degrees — one news story after another picking apart every aspect of the girl I used to be.

  …twenty years old…

  …student at Vasgaard University…

  …prestigious clinical psychology internship…

  …mother, Nina Lennox, deceased…

  …complications following pneumonia…

  I’m grateful that the Sterlings aren’t here to witness this humiliation. I’m even more grateful that Simms already scrubbed my social media presence from the face of the earth. Not that I was ever a prolific poster, but as far as I’m concerned, the fewer pictures and memories these vultures have to dissect on their morning talk shows, the better.

  “It’s not so bad,” Chloe says, bumping her shoulder against mine as a horrid shot of me with frizzy hair and braces flashes on the screen. My middle school portrait, if I remember correctly.

  I glance at her skeptically. “I thought you didn’t do bullshit.”

  She sighs. “Look… it was going to come out eventually, right?”

  “No! Not right. Not if I didn’t want it to.” I drop my head into my hands with a groan. “This was supposed to be my decision.”

  “It still is,” she insists.

  “No, it’s not! Now, the whole world gets a vote.”

  “Fuck the world.”

  I look up sharply at the sound of Carter’s voice. He’s staring at me, brows pulled in, eyes intent.

  “What?” I breathe.

  “Fuck the world,” he repeats. “They can’t make you be someone you don’t want to be, Emilia. If you don’t want this… no one can force you into it. Not the press, not Linus, not even that jackass boyfriend of yours.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend. He’s not even my friend. Not anymore.” My voice cracks pathetically — a faint hint at the fissure of betrayal that’s opened up inside me, so deep I cannot seem to find my way out. “But… thank you anyway. For saying that.”

  He nods gravely.

  I look back at the television, where a series of video clips and images are playing on a constant loop. The news anchor gleefully freeze-frames my frozen panic on the Windsor Abbey steps, then zooms in until the fear in my eyes is magnified large enough to fill the whole screen. I want to tear my gaze away, but I can’t.

  “The royal family has yet to issue an official statement, but we are hearing word that the palace press
secretary, Gerald Simms, will be in touch before the day ends…” The newswoman shuffles the papers on her desk. “We take you now to our correspondent on the ground, Sara Wertz, who is reporting live from outside the Hawthorne home where the princess grew up…”

  I suck in a breath when the screen flashes with a live feed of my house, its chipped paint and crooked shutters rather a dull sight. There are several King’s Guard positioned around the perimeter… along with about a hundred members of the press, all desperate for a scoop.

  It’s a total mob scene.

  My heart lurches in my chest when the familiar face of my neighbor appears, a microphone shoved toward her mouth.

  “Ma’am, care to answer any questions about the princess? Is it true she grew up right across the street?”

  Before I can hear whether or not sweet old Mrs. Carmichael is about to sell me out to the press, Carter strides angrily toward the television and switches it off with such violence, I’m surprised it doesn’t crash to the floor.

  In the heavy silence that follows, my eyes burn into the now-black screen where, if I squint, I can just make out the silhouette of the strange girl staring back at me. The one with dark brown hair and a broken spirit.

  The side door opens with a soft creak. Simms steps in, his expression grave.

  “Your Highness,” he murmurs, and for the first time, I don’t bother correcting him. “The king is asking for you.”

  * * *

  For nearly a full minute Linus just stares at me, hands steepled in front of him on his vast desk. I try not to be intimidated, jerking my chin up and holding his eyes.

  “Today did not go as planned,” he says finally.

  “No,” I agree. “I’m sorry. The funeral…”

  “What happened was not your fault. Still, certain reparations must be made. To that end, we will be holding a press conference tomorrow morning, officially announcing you as my heir. I would like you to be there, at my side, when we make the announcement. As a show of strength.”

  He waits for my response.

  I don’t offer one.

  “Now that the funeral is behind us, we will be moving into the castle to officially mark the beginning of my reign.” He pauses again. “The East Wing is traditionally reserved for the heir apparent but, naturally, it is not currently available due to the fire. For the time being, you will occupy a suite in the North Wing, along with Chloe and Carter.”

  I refrain from commenting.

  “Eventually, we will restore the palace to its former glory. But we don’t want to appear too hasty in rebuilding. Not with Henry still…” he trails off.

  I clench my jaw tighter.

  The silence grows suffocating.

  “Emilia.” He sighs, as though I’m being terribly tiresome. “I know you were hoping to avoid this outcome for a few more weeks, but we must face facts. The situation has changed. You no longer have the liberty of a choice in this matter. You are the Crown Princess of Germania. It is your birthright and your responsibility. And tomorrow, the whole world will watch as you finally accept it.”

  I clear my throat, making sure I have control over my volume before I attempt to respond. “So everything you said — everything you promised me before, about how I’d get to decide my own path… that was all bullshit?”

  He leans back in his chair. “It was not bullshit. It was me, attempting to extend your childish illusion of freedom for a little while longer. A kindness, if you will.”

  “A kindness?” I scoff bitterly. “You’re joking.”

  “I do not have the luxury of making jokes. Not today.”

  “If this is how you treat your family, I’d love to know how handle your enemies.”

  “Disobey me and perhaps you shall,” he threatens in a hard tone.

  “Wow. You’re a real piece of work, you know that?”

  “Be that as it may, I am also a king with the weight of an entire country on my shoulders. Like it or not, your desires are not the only ones in Germania that concern me.” His eyes turn to emerald chips of ice. “Which is why you will be at that press conference tomorrow. You will act in a dignified manner. And you will verbally acknowledge your intent to take up the role of crown princess.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  He weighs his words carefully for a moment. “Then your house in Hawthorne goes on the market. I imagine, now that people know their princess once lived there, it will sell quite quickly.”

  “You can’t do that,” I gasp. “You’ve already paid off the mortgage! The house is mine, free and clear.”

  “Is it?”

  My blood runs cold. “What?”

  He leans across the table toward me. “You see, I had a feeling we might run into a snag like this one at some point down the line. That’s why, instead of paying the bank the full amount owed in your name… I paid it in mine. Which means I now control a significant lien on your property.”

  “But I still have the deed,” I insist, hardly believing my ears.

  “If you research property law, you will find that the deed ceases to matter at a certain point — usually once your mortgage payments lapse and you fail to pay your property taxes.” His expression softens slightly. “For all intents and purposes, I have assumed all financial responsibility for your home, Emilia. It’s mine. And if you choose to walk away from your duty… You will have nowhere left to go.”

  I go completely still, feeling that fault line of betrayal deep inside me open even wider. First Owen, now Linus.

  How much treachery can one heart take in a single day?

  Naively, I handed over the thing that matters most, in the vain belief that he would honor his word and safeguard it. Instead, he’s using it to control me.

  What a fool I was, to trust this man. To fall for the fairy tale, despite every atom in my body screaming I should do otherwise.

  Did you forget there was a reason Mom hated him?

  I thought, deep down, there might still be some sliver of paternal loyalty inside Linus’ soul. I see now how grave an error that was. He doesn’t give a shit about me. He doesn’t give a shit about anyone or anything except himself, his crown, and his legacy.

  Ironically enough, it’s Octavia’s words I hear in this moment.

  The only person Linus Lancaster serves is Linus Lancaster. You will find out for yourself just how little you matter to him, as soon as your interests stop aligning with his own.

  She warned me this would happen, but I was either too stupid or too stubborn to listen to her. And as I sit there in my father’s office, feeling my careful plans fall to pieces, I nearly laugh at how artfully I have been outmaneuvered in this game we’re all playing.

  It’s almost absurd: after today, the whole world thinks I’m royalty.

  But I’m not a princess.

  I’m a pawn.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I wind up right back where I first started — sitting in the dark on a cold stone bench in a forgotten garden. My eyes are wet. My heart is empty.

  At least it’s not raining, this time.

  I’ve come full circle in the span of a week.

  God, has it truly only been a week?

  Everything’s changed so fast, from the scope of my future right down to the color of my hair. It’s hard to believe ten days ago, I was a regular girl on my way to class. My biggest worries consisted of midterm grades and whether the cute guy in my pharmacology lecture was flirting with me or just being friendly when he asked to go over our notes together after class.

  I had a best friend. I had a home. I had a career path.

  And now… I have no one.

  Nothing.

  Just a title I don’t want and a bottomless abyss of anguish swirling inside me like a black hole.

  The tears drip faster, even when I arch my neck to stare up at the stars. Halfheartedly, I pick out a few constellations as I shiver and shake in my pretty black dress.

  Ten minutes go by.

  I wait.

&
nbsp; Twenty.

  I wait.

  Thirty.

  Forty.

  Fifty.

  I wait.

  I wait.

  I wait.

  Because I think… some part of me knows he’ll come, even before he makes the conscious choice to leave the manor, far before I hear his voice in the darkness at my back.

  “I see you’re back to your original plan.”

  Carter.

  My throat convulses. I don’t turn to look at him. I can’t. Not yet. Not with my face a mess of tears.

  There’s a crunch of gravel as he walks up behind me. A second later, my shoulders are enveloped by warm fabric — his suit jacket, settling around me like a blanket. My fingers latch onto the lapels as his lips brush my ear.

  “I thought we already ruled out you dying of exposure to avoid becoming the princess,” he murmurs.

  I try to find words, but my throat is clogged by tears and grief and something else. Something I’m not ready to name, just yet.

  Carter sits down on the bench beside me. He’s so close, the heat of his strong thigh seeps into mine. I slide my arms inside his sleeves and try not to notice how much better I feel, just being near him.

  “Emilia… are you okay?”

  “No,” I croak. “No, I’m really not.”

  “Is there anything…” He blows out a breath, as if he’s not sure how to say this properly. “Can I do anything to make this better for you?”

  “You don’t happen to have a time machine?”

  “Afraid not.”

  “Cloak of invisibility?”

  His head shakes.

  “Then, no, Carter. I think I’m on my own.”

  His hands curl around the stone bench seat. He’s practically thrumming with anger and frustration.

  “It’s actually pretty funny,” I tell him in a hollow voice that isn’t funny at all. “I’m a psychology student. I study human behavior. I read all these books about our capacity for manipulation and evil. About every atrocity we, as a species, have committed against one another over tens of thousands of years. How we’ve actually evolved to be cruel and self-serving, rather than honest and true.” I pull in a shallow breath. “All that knowledge, right there at my fingertips… and still, I’m totally blindsided when it happens to me.”