“They won’t,” I insist. “I’m undercover. Your new royal aide, remember?”
“Mhm. But don’t be shocked if they figure it out eventually. Ava and Alden have been groomed for this life since infancy. They love nothing better than a juicy piece of gossip, and they know exactly how to use it to their own advantage.” Chloe shakes her head. “They play the political game better than anyone I’ve ever met. Maybe even Octavia. How else do you think a girl gets a Crown Prince as handsome as Henry to propose at the ripe age of twenty-five?”
With Chloe’s words tumbling around inside my head, I stare out the tinted window taking slow sips of bourbon to settle my churning stomach. About twenty minutes later, we pull up in front of a stately manor house. It’s half the size of the Lockwood Estate but no less beautiful. Two white-gloved butlers sweep open the imposing carved oak doors as we roll to a stop. I watch, dazzled, as two of the most attractive humans I’ve ever seen step out into the morning light.
Platinum blond and staggeringly tall, they’re the picture of elegance as they descend the steps to the gently sloping driveway where we’re idling. Our chauffeur gets out to hold open the limousine door for them. I slide down the leather bench seat to make some room and find myself pressed uncomfortably close to Carter’s side.
“Sorry,” I murmur.
His Adam’s apple bobs roughly. “Don’t worry about it.”
The Sterling siblings climb into the backseat so gracefully, they remind me of swans settling on the water’s surface. He’s in solid black — from his suit to his tie to his shirt to his pocket square. Even his cufflinks glitter darkly, crafted from the deepest onyx. She’s in an exquisite silk dress and an ornate cocktail hat with a netted veil that dips low to cover one half of her stunning face.
Alden and Carter exchange stiff nods while the girls fawn like old friends.
“Chloe, darling. So good to see you,” Ava exclaims, leaning forward to air-kiss Chloe once on each cheek. “How are you holding up?”
“You know me,” Chloe drawls, re-lighting her blunt as soon as the greetings are done. She blows out a puff of smoke. “Walking on sunshine.”
“Charming.” Ava coughs lightly and makes a show of fanning her face with a white-gloved hand. Her light hazel eyes rove around the interior of the limo, lingering for an uncomfortably long time on Carter — or maybe that’s just my imagination running wild — before finally sliding over to me. She seems to zero in on the small point of contact where my bare arm brushes up against his suit.
“And who is this new face?” Ava asks tightly.
My mind blanks for a minute as I try to remember my cover story, unexpectedly rattled by the intensity of her stare.
“Oh, her?” Chloe’s eyes twinkle with good humor as she interjects. She’s actually enjoying this, the loon. “No one of consequence. Just my new assistant, Emilia.”
“I wasn’t aware smoking marijuana all day required assistance.” Ava’s tone may be prim and proper, but there’s no mistaking the bite beneath her words. I’m vastly relieved when her eyes slide away from me.
A lowly assistant isn’t worth her attention.
I finish off my bourbon in a single gulp.
“Yes, well, we can’t all be as productive as you, Ava.” Chloe’s grin looks more like a grimace. “How many organizations do you co-chair, now? Four?”
“Five. There’s the Lund Beautification Society, the City Gardeners Association, the Veterans Relief Fund, the Art Preservation Council, and of course the wonderful work we’ve been doing to save the spotted owl population in the eastern mountains. Were you aware they’re endangered? It’s so important that we…”
I promptly tune her out, watching Chloe take another drag. Her eyes are glazed, whether from the drugs or the self-inflated chatter is anyone’s guess. The more Ava prattles on about her own endeavors, the stranger I find it. She hasn’t mentioned her fiancé. Not once. She’s acting like we’re on our way to a charity fundraiser for her precious spotted owls, not the funeral of two people who were supposed to be her in-laws someday.
Equally strange is that her brother, Alden, says nothing the entire ride. Not a single word. His jaw is locked tight as he stares out the window, eyes unfocused with either grief or boredom. I can’t tell from here.
“…and our focus should really be on restoring the natural grasses and trees that used to grow plentifully in those at-risk areas, because I think we can all agree, without a habitat, there’s not even a chance…”
God, does she ever take a breath?
Without a word, Carter grabs the decanter and refills my glass along with his own. Taking a fortifying sip, I tap my elbow against his.
Thank you.
A second later, I smile into my bourbon when his shoulder presses subtly against mine.
You’re welcome.
Have you ever driven through a crowd of half a million mourners?
I’d imagine it’s a lot like the procession at a royal wedding or the celebratory parade after particularly impressive football championship… except, instead of cheers, tears flow freely. Instead of team colors, a sea of black, punctuated by the occasional bolt of blue and gold — a Germanian flag, waving proudly over closed shop doors and tight-shuttered houses.
Somber citizens line every street from the outskirts of Vasgaard’s historic district all the way to Windsor Abbey. They blow kisses, salute, and throw flowers into the path of the twin black hearses that lead our procession — carrying King Leopold and Queen Abigail on one last tour through their capital city.
A final goodbye.
Several limos trail after in a long, stately line, ours second only to the one carrying Linus and Octavia. We’re followed closely by those Chloe would refer to as the far side of the family tree — distant relatives who barely merit the Lancaster birthright. At our creeping pace, it takes nearly two hours to drive from one end of the city to the next. Feeling strangely numb, I stare out at the faces as we pass, safe in the knowledge they can’t see me through our tinted windows.
A week ago, I would’ve been out there with them.
Would’ve been one of them.
Now, I am somewhere else.
Someone else.
When we finally reach the abbey, a towering vision of steeples and stained glass, I catch sight of the photographers lining the security barricades, their telephoto lenses snapping endless shots of Linus and Octavia as they ascend the steps toward the doors in a stately fashion. My heart begins to pound so hard I’m sure Carter can hear it, seated so close beside me. I’ve never felt more grateful for my anonymity.
Internally, I recite the plan, hoping it’ll help calm me.
Stand behind Simms at a respectful distance.
Don’t stare, don’t fidget, don’t draw attention.
No one knows who you are or why you’re here.
No one will even take notice of you.
A shuddering breath rattles from my lungs as I feel the brakes engage. It’s our turn to disembark.
Ava, Alden, and Chloe scramble out first. Alone in the limo, Carter’s eyes cut to mine for the briefest of moments.
“Don’t forget to breathe, love.”
With that, we step out into the unrelenting gloom of the cold October day.
Chapter Fourteen
The ceremony itself is lovely.
Lovely, but long — hours of benedictions and prayers, scripture and sermon, eulogies and ensemble choirs. By the time we finally filter out of Windsor Abbey, my feet are aching. My heart is heavy. My eyes are damp with tears I didn’t think I’d shed for the aunt and uncle I never got to meet.
Farewell, 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 yelling, 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! YOU’D CHOOSE A FATHER WHO REFUSED TO CLAIM YOU OVER YOUR BEST FRIEND? 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 sink my teeth into my bottom lip 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.”
Dirty Halo (The Forbidden Royals Trilogy Book 1) Page 14