Alden looks pointedly out his window, jaw clenched tightly. I try not to read too much into that, but my stomach flips once more.
Is he angry I want to correct public perception? Did he truly believe I would go along with a fake engagement, simply to distract the press?
“As I have said before, a royal wedding would do wonders to stabilize your position…” Lady Morrell trails off when I let out an angry grumble.
“Just drop it, please. No one is getting married. Not any time soon. And the press knows better than to assume I’m engaged simply because a friend stepped in to help me during a panic attack.”
I let my eyes wander to Alden. He’s gazing out the window with a curious amount of determination. I can’t decipher the tension in his profile any more than I can decode the unsettled feeling stirring to life inside my chest.
“Right, Alden?” I ask, my voice shakier than intended.
But he says nothing. He simply stares out his window at the world passing outside.
No one says a word for the rest of the ride back to the castle. But in the silence of the limousine, the disquiet of my heart seems to roar at an ever-increasing volume.
“As Germanians across the country head to the polls, the question of Parliamentary reform is on everyone’s minds. And yet, after this morning, there’s another question we all want the answer to: Is there a royal wedding in the near future?”
The newscaster’s bright red lipstick is a garish contrast to her peach blazer. I narrow my eyes at the television in the conference room where I’ve been camped out for the past few hours, wishing I could reach through the screen and smack some sense into her.
“Onlookers tell us it was something of a real-life fairy tale,” the anchor continues, smiling. “Our field reporter is currently with two women who witnessed the incident. Ladies, can you shed a little light on what you saw this morning?”
The broadcast cuts to a pair of women on a street corner, their faces a potent mix of excitement and nervous energy.
“We were walking by the National Assembly, getting a look at the protesters, when we heard a bang. I think it was one of the vans backfiring,” the first woman says breathlessly, one hand clutched to her chest. You’d think she was describing the final five seconds of an Olympic event. “Everyone kind of got startled… I guess Queen Emilia must’ve stumbled on the steps, because she fell.”
“It was hard to see,” the second woman chimes in. “Everyone was yelling for her to get up. Her security team closed in fast and blocked some of our view…”
“Then what happened?” the field reporter prompts.
“It was like a real, honest-to-god fairy tale! That sexy blond guy—”
“Lord Alden Sterling?”
“Right, him. He stepped in to save her. Scooped her right up into his arms!”
“He was so dashing!” Her friend giggles. “Especially when he turned to the cameras and said, I will protect my Emilia no matter the cost.”
The other woman elbows her. “That’s not exactly what he said…”
“Whatever. Close enough. The point is, they’re totally in love. You could just tell, the way he held her and protected her like that…”
“So, ladies, do you think we’ll have a royal wedding this summer?”
“Oh, we hope so!”
The screen cuts back to the anchorwoman at her desk in the studio. She’s grinning ear-to-ear. “There you have it, folks. A royal romance, blossoming right under our noses! I, for one, am thrilled to share a tidbit of good news from Waterford Palace after these past few months of sad tidings. I’m sure all you viewers at home are equally excited by the prospect of our young queen happy and in love!”
I scowl at the screen with fresh anger.
Ah yes.
That’s me.
Happy and in love.
I watch for a few more minutes, scoffing periodically as the details of my supposed romance play out onscreen. News of the referendum has been effectively buried beneath the mountain of speculation concerning my love life.
Who cares about equality, anyway?
I wonder if Alden is at home watching. Perhaps he’s still too upset. He didn’t say a word when we parted earlier, except to bid me a stiff goodbye with promises to reach out after the final votes are tallied tonight.
As if she’s heard my thoughts, the anchorwoman on my television screen says his name again.
“We’ve spent our morning briefing you on the possible romance between Alden Sterling, the heir to Westgate, and Her Royal Majesty Queen Emilia. We’re now learning that this new match may not be warmly embraced by everyone in Germania… the rest of the Sterling family in particular.” She leans in to the camera, her excitement palpable. “A source close to the Sterlings has revealed that Alden is no longer in residence at Westgate. Additionally, Lord and Lady Sterling, the parents of the man in question, have spent weeks actively opposing today’s referendum — a position that puts them directly at odds with Her Royal Majesty. If there is an engagement looming, it seems our queen may find herself contending with some unhappy in-laws.”
Christ.
I contemplate leaving the room and locating a stiff drink, but I can’t bring myself to look away from the mess unfolding before me.
“Not only that,” the anchorwoman continues gleefully. “It appears there may also be some dissension to the match within Her Majesty’s own ranks. We now bring you live to an exclusive interview with someone intimately familiar with the inner workings of Waterford Palace. Former wife to the late King Linus. Former stepmother to the queen.” She pauses a lengthy beat. “Lady Octavia Thorne, Duchess of Hightower, Dowager Queen Consort.”
All the air leaves my lungs in a whoosh as the television cuts to a face I know well — a beautiful, icy mask of composure and condescension. Her auburn hair is styled in a perfect up-do. Her makeup is minimal but flawlessly applied, accentuating her best features. Her vintage Chanel jacket screams inherited wealth. And even through the television screen, her cold blue eyes seem to cut right into me, sharper than a blade.
“It’s an honor to have you here with us today, Dowager,” the news anchor says.
“A pleasure.” Octavia’s lips thin into a severe frown. “Though I must say, the circumstances of my visit are dire indeed.”
“Can you elaborate on that?”
Her chin jerks upward, a haughty move I remember well. “Perhaps if you were less absorbed by the romantic implications of Alden Sterling’s heroism, you would be more fixated on why it was necessary in the first place.”
The anchorwoman’s mouth drops. “Well, we certainly didn’t mean to give the impression—”
“Is it or is it not true that the queen collapsed on the steps of a National Assembly?” Octavia asks, eyes narrowing. “From all firsthand accounts, it appears that collapse was triggered by the boom of a car backfiring.”
“Well, yes.” The anchor nervously shuffles the stack of papers on her desk. “We have heard reports that Queen Emilia was startled—”
“Startled is a kinder word than I would use. Paralyzed is a more fitting descriptor, is it not?”
“I suppose that isn’t entirely inaccurate—”
“Then I ask you plainly: is this the kind of ruler fit to reign over our country? One who cowers at the first sign of danger? One so fragile she crumbles to pieces at the slightest of pressure?”
The anchorwoman’s brows pull inward. “Her Royal Majesty has never before been accused of being timid, Lady Thorne. She kicked off a referendum, flying directly in the face of the established order. She is a bold public speaker. She has broken eons-old dress codes and propelled our monarchy into the modern age. She even stayed behind to help victims during the Vasgaard Square bombing, saving countless lives.”
Octavia’s lips purse with displeasure. “And yet, that same attack seems to have rendered her an emotional wreck. Her post-traumatic-stress has long been whispered about behind closed doors, but now we have irrefutable
confirmation of it. Video evidence of a breakdown. That simply cannot be ignored.”
“But, Dowager, I’m not certain—”
“It’s a shame, really. Much as I loathe to question the competence of a girl so close to my heart—” Sniffling, Octavia presses a hand to her heart in faux concern. “ —Truly, I always saw her as my own daughter—” She wipes a nonexistent tear from the corner of one eye with a silk handkerchief she just-so-happens to have on hand. “I am too worried about the future of our country not to question it.”
As if this woman is capable of even the smallest smidgen of compassion. As if she is capable of anything at all besides manipulation and malevolence for her own selfish aims.
The anchorwoman, clearly flustered, seems to have lost control of the interview. Her mouth keeps opening and closing like a fish out of water as she searches for a suitable question or counterpoint.
As she flounders, Octavia continues her well-rehearsed diatribe — directly to the watching world. “Are the people of Germania not deserving of a leader who is actually able to lead us into the future? A girl too fragile to endure the backfiring of a car engine is surely unequipped to steer us through far greater terrors: wars and trade negotiations and political alliances. It has become glaringly obvious that Emilia is too scarred by the trauma of her past to continue on as our queen.”
“Lady Thorne, those remarks border on treason—”
“I do not care,” Octavia snarls, a bit of her venom seeping through the facade of motherly concern. “Not when the entire monarchy hangs in the balance, one loud bang away from utter dissolution.”
The anchorwoman gathers the fraying remnants of her composure, clearing her throat lightly. “Dowager, validity of your remarks non-withstanding… you talk as though we have another option readily available. Her Royal Majesty is the last remaining Lancaster. With Crown Prince Henry still comatose and seemingly unlikely to recover, we are without any viable heirs until the queen marries and produces one. Unless you are advocating for abolition of the monarchy altogether…”
Octavia’s eyes gleam. The anchorwoman has perfectly positioned her to introduce her plans. A power-coup, couched in false mercy.
“I am not suggesting we sink the ship which has borne us steadily onward for hundreds of years. I am merely suggesting that we adjust our sails to a course that will not dash us fatally upon the rocks… In part, by changing the captain at our helm.”
“Change our captain — you mean the queen?” The anchorwoman’s brows are arched high on her forehead. “How, exactly, would that happen?”
I listen, heart pounding like a drum inside my chest, as Octavia nails the final stakes into my political coffin.
“It is true that my late husband King Linus produced no heirs other than Emilia; nor did his elder brother King Leopold, discounting Henry. But their uncle, the honorable Duke Lionel — younger brother of King Leonard — did indeed have a daughter… and a grandson after that.”
“You are referring to the von Strauss lineage, are you not?” The interviewer’s head cants in curiosity. “If my Germanian history lessons serve me, Lionel’s daughter Helga Lancaster married out of the Lancaster line — relinquishing any claims to the throne when she wed a Norwegian businessman named Carl von Strauss.” The anchorwoman pauses. “Their son, Ludwig von Strauss, has never lived in Germania. He has never had any association with the royal family.”
“Nor did our current monarch, until quite recently. Was she not raised as a commoner? How is a girl born as Emilia Lennox any more qualified to rule than Ludwig von Strauss — a young man with exceptional potential and unquestionable emotional stability?”
“Are you—” The anchor swallows hard. “Dowager, are you suggesting—”
Octavia stares straight into the camera lens, her every word intent. “I am not suggesting anything. I am urging, with every ounce of gravity I possess, that we do not discount viable alternatives when they present themselves. We, as a nation, have an obligation to explore the option of new leadership on the throne.” Octavia smiles so coldly, it chills me to the bone. “Perhaps this illegitimate girl, who was forced upon us by a series of tragedies, need not be our downfall. Perhaps what Germania needs most is not a queen at all… but a king. King Ludwig von Strauss. Direct descendant of Crown Prince Lionel… and rightful heir to the throne.”
The next few hours pass in a blur.
I sit in the conference room in a daze, feeling detached from my own life. Emotionless. Unmoored. As if the events of the last few hours are happening to someone else.
The television is muted. Or perhaps I’ve simply ceased hearing it, unable to process any more strangers’ commentary on my love life.
My mental state.
My fitness to rule.
My qualifications.
My future.
My throne.
I watch them dissect my strengths and weaknesses like a fictional character being analyzed in a college literature class.
What qualities make Emilia suitable to lead more than any other candidate? Is she the heroine or the villain of our country’s story? Should we entertain a change in scene or point-of-view?
I hear knocks at the door — concerned friends have come to check on me. And yet, I cannot bring myself to unlock it. I do not have the strength to put on a brave face. To pretend I am not unravelling at the seams.
“Emilia?” A deep male voice calls through the heavy oak panel. “It’s Alden. Let me in. We must talk about this. About… our next step.”
I press my eyes closed and shut out his words.
I can’t think about our next step.
Not yet.
I need more time.
“Your Majesty? It’s Lady Morrell, dear. Should I have Patricia send in some lunch? Please unlock the door…”
“E!” Chloe calls, sounding annoyed. “Don’t make me have Riggs break this door down!”
My phone rings and rings, over and over, the screen flashing many different names — Simms, Lady Morrell, Alden, Chloe — until I’m forced to shut it off entirely, for the sake of my sanity.
I don’t want to talk to anyone. Not now. I feel a strange mix of shame and foreboding. My once-bright future has slipped from my grip. Instead, I find myself clutching at threads. They fray rapidly beneath my fingertips, impossible to stitch back together into a cohesive string on which I can hang even the slightest of hopes.
In the quiet of the conference room, as polling results roll in across the screen and royal ‘experts’ discuss my worth, I allow myself to face a possibility that, until recently, seemed impossible: reclaiming the autonomy the monarchy took from me. Reclaiming… my life.
I could step away.
From this castle, from this throne, from this responsibility.
I could give it all up.
Let Ludwig have his shot at ruling.
I could have the life I always planned.
Be plain old Emilia Lennox again.
I could be with the man for whom my heart beats.
Out of the public eye, with Carter at my side, in my arms, under my sheets.
I savor the delicious nectar of that alternative plot-line, my tastebuds singing with its sweetness. That life… it would be wonderful. And I… I would be happy. So incandescently, immeasurably happy I think my ribs might explode.
That ending — the one of my own making — is the true fairy tale.
And she lived happily ever after…
But if I have learned anything these past few months, it’s that life as a royal rarely resembles a storybook fantasy. True kings and queens do not have the luxury of penning their own endings. For they do not prioritize their own happiness over that of their people.
I have a choice.
Yet, there is no choice at all.
It is the grandest of ironies — finally finding the loophole I spent weeks looking for, praying for, when I was backed into this world against my will… and no longer having any use for it. Locating an escape
hatch just when you have grown to love your prison.
Human nature is a fickle thing. You do not value that which you possess until it is about to be yanked from your grasp. You take for granted the supposed certainties of your existence. The things you consider untouchable.
Until I learned I might lose this crown atop my head, I did not fear its absence. I did not understand that I have been changed irrevocably by its glittering weight. That, without it, I will no longer recognize the woman staring back at me in the mirror.
For I cannot go back to the girl I was before, nor do I wish to. What I once saw as a burden, I now recognize is an invaluable gift.
A destiny.
My destiny.
I am Her Royal Majesty Emilia Victoria Lancaster, daughter of King Linus, granddaughter of King Leonard, great-granddaughter of King Lewis.
I am the Queen of Germania.
I am a Lancaster lion.
And I pity any enemy foolish enough not to fear my mighty roar.
“You know, you’re a real pain in the ass.”
I jolt at the sound of Chloe’s voice, looking away from the television screen where an endless loop of poll numbers and political commentary stream by in a soundless flood. She’s leaning in the doorjamb, twirling a silver key and eyeing me with exasperation.
“How did you get in here?”
“Housekeepers finally tracked down the spare key. Only took three full hours.”
I roll my eyes. “Did the locked door and radio silence not clue you in to my desire for solitude?”
“Screw that. You shouldn’t be alone right now. Certainly not locked away in here, staring at the TV so intently. You’re going to fry your retinas if you keep it up.”
I roll my eyes. “I’ll risk it.”
“I’m serious.” She steps into the room, grabs the remote from the coffee table, and clicks off the television.
“Hey! I was watching that.”
“Enough already. The referendum will pass. Or it won’t. You’ll either marry Alden. Or you won’t. The dreaded Ludwig will either take your crown. Or he won’t.” She shrugs. “There’s nothing you can do about any of that for the time being.”
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