“Jesus Christ, Emilia! Even if you keep everyone at arms length, even if you surround them in plastic bubble wrap and shove them out of harm’s way for their entire lives… they’ll still die someday. We all do. It’s inescapable.”
“I know that.”
“Do you? Do you really?”
My eyes narrow. “You don’t have to talk to me about death. I am intimately familiar with it. More than most people ever have to be.”
“Then, more than most people, you should be determined to live.” His eyes blaze with fire. “Wouldn’t you rather take your final curtain call knowing you lived your life to the fullest? Wouldn’t you rather head into the light having loved, and—” His voice breaks. “And been loved in return?”
I don’t even think I’m breathing, anymore.
“I mean, for fuck’s sake…” He runs two hands through his hair, mussing it instantly. His frustration is bleeding out in waves. “I can’t think of a single better reason to die than by the side of the person you love most. Can you?”
I stare at him for a long moment. I’m more than a little stunned to hear those words coming out of his mouth.
“What?” His forehead furrows. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I’m just surprised.”
“By?”
“The aloof, untouchable Lord Carter Thorne… is a closet romantic.” My brows are so high, they’ve nearly disappeared into my hairline. “Who would’ve ever guessed?”
“Maybe you should’ve.” He takes a step closer, not quite touching me… but so close, I can see the dark navy rings around his irises in perfect clarity. “And maybe you should ask yourself why the thought of missing your shot at love doesn’t terrify you just as badly as losing the actual person you love in some freak accident.”
“I don’t need to ask. I already know the answer to that, Carter. Because given the choice between hurting myself and hurting someone else… I’ll throw myself on the grenade every damn time. I’ll happily take the pain, if it means sparing someone else.”
“There you go again, assuming love is one-sided.” His words are practically a growl. “It isn’t a fucking club membership you can opt in and out of without affecting anyone else. It’s not exclusively yours. Love is something shared between two people. By closing yourself off to it… you aren’t just taking that pain on yourself. You aren’t protecting the person you’re meant to spend your life with. You’re simply eliminating their chance at happiness along with your own. That’s not selfless, Emilia. It’s the opposite.”
Abruptly, I notice how close we are — in the heat of our argument, our bodies have angled inward, two magnets repelling and attracting with equal force. At this proximity, I can see every striation of cerulean in those incredible ocean eyes of his, every wave of color on their surfaces, breaking like an irrepressible tide.
We’re both breathing too hard, our faces inches apart, the tension between us a palpable, electric shimmer in the air. I’m not sure whether I want to shake his shoulders or wrap my arms around them and hug him tight; whether I want to scream at him until he listens to me or allow my own convictions to cave beneath the weight of truth embedded in his own words.
Carter Thorne, notorious man-whore, is lecturing me about love and commitment.
It’s so shocking, I’d laugh if I could summon any amusement at all. Mouth gaping, heart hammering my ribs like a blacksmith’s anvil, I strive for a level tone but my voice comes out so shaky, I hardly recognize it as my own. “I don’t want to fight with you, Carter. I can’t. Not tonight.”
His jaw tightens dangerously. “And when, exactly, would be convenient for you to discuss this, Your Majesty? Let me guess — never?”
“No, I just—”
“You just want to keep tabling this discussion — and every discussion — that makes you question what the hell you’re doing here.”
“That’s not fair! I’ve never claimed to make all the right decisions. I’ve never claimed to be perfect.” I swallow nervously, wishing I could breathe properly but knowing there’s not a chance in hell of that. Not when he’s looking at me that way — furious and frustrated and so fucking gorgeous it makes my soul ache.
“I don’t need you to be perfect, Emilia. I need you to be honest. Not just with me or with Chloe — with yourself.”
“I’m trying!”
“Are you? Because it seems to me you’re hiding. Hiding in this castle, avoiding everything that doesn’t have a clearcut solution. Avoiding—”
He bites down on the word, but I hear it echoing unsaid off every wall in the hallway anyway, ricocheting like a bullet off every stone before embedding itself deep in the flesh of my chest wall.
Us.
Avoiding us.
“I’m not being purposefully hurtful,” I say, tears filling my eyes again. My voice is a thin concession, a wavering white flag on a blood-stained battlefield. “I guess I thought removing myself from emotional entanglements was safer. I never considered pulling away might do just as much damage in the long run. I didn’t see it as… as selfish, or hurtful, or cruel.”
“Yeah, that much is pretty fucking obvious,” he snaps.
“Carter, I—” I start, but he’s already turning away from me.
“You know what? I’m tired. I’m going to crash in my old suite, assuming that’s okay with you. If not, I’ll call a car service and head back to Hightower.”
“No,” I say instantly. “Stay. Of course you should stay.”
“Only for tonight. I want to be here when Chloe wakes up. But don’t worry — I don’t plan to make a habit of it.” His shoulders are stiff with tension. “Goodnight, Your Majesty.”
I watch him stalk to his door in silence. My heart is in my throat, effectively blocking all the words I want to call out to him. By the time I manage to clear it, he’s already slammed his door shut and flipped the lock with finality.
“Good morning, Carter,” I murmur to myself as I walk to my bedroom, mellow beams of a pale pink sunrise a harsh contrast to the gloom inside my heart and mind.
I’m sorry.
I’m so, so sorry.
I wish you’d let me tell you.
And most of all…
I wish telling you would change a damn thing.
Chapter Six
I sleep dreamlessly for the first time in months. I tell myself it has nothing to do with the man tangled in sheets on the other side of my bedroom wall. Just the knowledge that he’s there, one suite away, is surely not enough to negate my nightmares. That would be absurd.
Wouldn’t it?
The weak sun shining through my glass terrace doors tells me it’s late afternoon; I’ve slept most of the day away. After a quick shower, I yank on an old pair of ripped skinny jeans and a thin sage green sweater, stuffing my feet into sheepskin slippers to avoid the chilly stone floors. Even with the heat on full blast, the palace is colder than an icebox.
I don’t bother with makeup or blow-drying my hair; I’m far too eager to check on Chloe. On my way to her suite, I pass Carter’s door on stocking-feet, wondering if he’s still asleep inside. If things were more normal between us, I’d poke my head in and take a look. But as they currently stand — somewhere between complicated and clusterfuck — I don’t dare disturb him.
With Chloe, I have no such qualms about invading personal space. I turn the knob slowly, trying not to make excessive noise as I swing open her door and glance inside. Sure enough, she’s still unconscious; a tuft of red hair sticks up between two pillows, a body-shaped lump is splayed diagonally across the mattress. I can hear the rhythmic sound of her light snores, assuring me she’s still alive and well.
Relieved, I close the door behind me and head down the hallway, in the general direction of the castle kitchens. My stomach is rumbling with hunger — such an unfamiliar sensation, I hardly recognize it. I can’t remember the last time I had an actual appetite; the last time eating felt like a joyful culinary experience instead of a c
hore to be trudged through for pure sustenance.
Patricia, the palace chef, will be thrilled by this development. Her talents have gone to utter waste over the past few months.
I’m cutting through the throne room, my mind spinning with thoughts of blueberry pancake stacks and warm raspberry scones, when my eyes snag on a corridor to my left. It’s one I haven’t dared walk down in quite some time. My feet move of their own accord, turning from the path that will take me to kitchens toward the one that leads to the South Wing.
The King’s Wing, as the servants are fond of calling it.
This is the only part of the castle I didn’t visit during my many months of insomniac exploration. When Linus died so suddenly, something about coming here felt wrong. Like I was trespassing on his personal space, even though he was no longer alive to give a damn.
I don’t allow myself to question why it seems like less of a violation today; I simply turn and start walking. I take my time — my feet unhurried as they move over the ancient flagstones, my eyes scanning from the narrow, medieval-style window slots to the ornate wall sconces.
Rounding a bend, I pause when an impressive set of wooden doors comes into view: my father’s study. Just the sight of the heavy brass knocker is enough to steal my breath. My stomach twists in tandem with my hand as I grasp the lion-headed door knob and push inward.
It looks just the same as I remember it. That shouldn’t be a surprise — no one’s been in here. I gave strict orders the maids weren’t even allowed to clean, lest they disturb anything my father left behind.
A fine layer of dust has settled over everything. I run my finger along the nearest bookshelf, the top of his wingback chair, the edge of his mahogany desk, leaving a visible trail behind as I make my way deeper into the sanctum. Signs of life slowly materialize: there’s a half-empty glass of scotch sitting beside a ledger; a box of cigars waiting to be smoked on the low table by the fireplace. I notice a pen on the floor, dropped in haste and left behind.
It’s strange to see these lingering traces of Linus. My father was not a man I knew well, let alone understood with any degree of confidence. We were only just beginning to get comfortable around each other when he slipped away from me forever, taking with him any real chance for a fulfilling father-daughter relationship.
The doctors said it was a stroke — one so massive, he likely felt no pain at all when it happened. An unavoidable end, triggered by an arbitrary external stressor: in Linus’ case, the Vasgaard Square attack.
It could’ve happened at any point, the medical examiner assured me. If not today, then tomorrow or the next. He was walking around with a time bomb in his head. It was only a matter of when it would detonate.
I lower myself into my father’s chair with a tentative plop that sends a plume of dust into the air. Sneezing particles out of my nose, I reach out and run my fingers across the page of the ledger in front of me. It’s still open to a half-written page. I notice a splotch of ink on the lower left corner — a spot where the fountain pen lingered just a moment too long, bleeding into the paper. I wonder if this is what he was working on the moment disaster struck.
Am I staring at the last lines he ever etched?
Leaning forward, I scan the sheet for anything of significance, but it’s merely a spreadsheet of names and numbers — a budgetary breakdown of castle employee salaries, from the look of it.
Rather a dry final contribution to society.
Disappointment curdles in the pit of my stomach, sour as spoiled milk. I’m not sure what I was hoping to find by finally coming here. Some conclusive clue into my father’s character? An epilogue chapter for a story cut short? What would offer me the clarity I’m so plainly seeking?
Perhaps a handwritten letter detailing all the mistakes he ever made as a man — chief among them, the neglect of his only child.
I snort lightly.
What delusional world are you living in, Emilia?
This isn’t a Hollywood movie or a fairy tale. This is real life. And the more I experience of it, the more I realize life rarely follows any sort of script. Endings aren’t always conclusive, let alone happy. I may never get the closure I crave when it comes to my father. The sooner I make peace with that, the more content I’ll be.
I spend a few more minutes digging around Linus’ desk, trying my best not to disturb anything too greatly — an archaeologist uncovering clues without altering the integrity of the site. When I leave, I take only two small souvenirs with me: a leather-bound journal I cannot yet bring myself to pry open and an antique silver cigar lighter, engraved with a double-headed lion. The Lancaster crest. I don’t smoke, but that’s not really the point.
Despite my best intentions, I’d gotten my hopes up about what I might discover when I finally worked up the courage to come in here. Feeling oddly anticlimactic, I tuck my treasures against my chest and push the desk chair back in, precisely the way I found it. There’s nothing for me in this place. No new connections to be made. No posthumous glimpses of clarity or comfort.
Be grateful for the few memories you have with him, Emilia.
Few is far better than none.
My slippers are so thick, I barely feel the crunch at first; the slightest crinkle of paper beneath a sole as I step around an ornate end table on my way to the door. Glancing down, I see the corner of something sticking out beneath my foot. When my fingers close on the paper, its glossy surface smooth under my grip, I realize it’s a photograph — the contents of which make my heart lurch inside my chest. Because…
It’s a photograph of me.
Snapped from afar on the night of my coronation as Germania’s Crown Princess, judging by the gold ballgown I’m wearing, this is a candid angle I’ve never seen before — certainly not one of the official press photos released to the public, where I appear so stuffy and staged I might as well be a mannequin.
In this picture, I’m not looking at the lens. My gaze is trained elsewhere, off-camera. There’s a faraway look on my face, a lazy half-smile tugging at my lips. I wonder what I was looking at when the photographer clicked his shutter down; who inspired that dazed, almost dreamy expression, immortalized forever on film.
Fingers shaking, I flip over the photograph and examine the back side. There are four words written there in a messy, masculine scrawl. As I read them, my eyes begin to sting and all my earlier thoughts about this detour being a waste of time go right out of my head.
“My extraordinary daughter, Emilia.”
The word ‘extraordinary’ is underlined.
Twice.
Knees feeling suddenly weak, I sink into the closest armchair — the one that still smells faintly of aftershave and cigar smoke and fine ink — and press the photograph to my chest. Directly over my heart, as if to absorb the words into my skin.
And there, in a dusty office, for the first time since I heard the words “The king is dead” three months ago… I allow myself a moment to grieve. Not as a subject mourning her monarch. Not as an heir mourning her predecessor. But as a daughter, lamenting the loss of her father.
I grieve for the man I almost knew. For the relationship we almost had. For the future that almost was.
In another life…
It might’ve been extraordinary.
“Your Majesty! Wait!”
The cheery voice chases me down the hall. I wince, hurrying my pace, but it’s no use — she’s nearly caught up to me, now.
“Your Majesty!” She rounds the corner so close on my heels, I have no choice but to stop. “I’ve been calling after you for nearly three corridors — didn’t you hear me?”
“I must’ve been lost in thought,” I lie, a falsely bright smile pasted on my lips. “Did you need something, Caulfield?”
“If you have a free minute, I wanted to discuss your visit to the party at Westgate last night.”
“Oh?”
Her blonde asymmetrical bob sways with the force of her enthusiastic nodding. Behind the transparent lens
es of her hipster glasses, she looks far younger than her thirty-two years. “From my monitoring of social media, mentions of your name and all pertinent hashtags—”
“I have hashtags?”
She startles, as though the question is shocking. “Of course you have hashtags, Your Majesty.” She whips out her smartphone, toggles a familiar app, and shows me a stream of content. “See? Some of them are still trending within the country, but we had a good deal of worldwide traction last night as well. Quite exciting, don’t you agree? Let’s see here… We’ve got #QueenEmilia, #HerRoyalMajesty, #QueenofGermania, and my personal favorite, #QueenE. I think the familiarity of that particular tag makes you seem more accessible to your fans.”
“Fans?”
“Fans.” She nods emphatically again. “And, may I just say, your decision to forego wearing the customary elbow-length gloves last night? Stroke. Of. Genius. People simply cannot stop talking about it! There hasn’t been a scandal like this in the royal family since Queen Abigail’s step-niece got pregnant out of wedlock, back in the eighties. And she wasn’t even a Lancaster blood relative! But this ‘Free the Forearm’ campaign of yours is just radical. You’re an overnight sensation! No. Not a sensation. An icon.” She starts tapping her phone screen aggressively, making notes for later reference. “Icon has a nice ring to it. Don’t you agree? It sends the message that you’re revolutionary but still regal.”
I blink slowly, struggling to process everything I’m hearing. The fact that I haven’t even had coffee yet today is suddenly glaringly apparent. “Caulfield.”
“Mmm?”
“Did you just say… Free the Forearm?”
“Mmm. Why? Not a fan? Don’t worry, we’re still working on the official branding. How do you feel about ‘Shove the Glove’ — too aggressive, don’t you agree? Never fear, I’ll have my interns hammer out some fresh ideas…”
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