Surprisingly, he doesn’t laugh at me. He simply inclines his head and asks, “And how long would this trial period last?”
“Um…” Shit, I hadn’t considered that. “A year?”
“Until my official coronation,” he counters, his expression unreadable. “In one month.”
“But that’s not nearly enough time! How can I possibly—”
“This is a negotiation, is it not?” he cuts me off in a stern voice.
“…yes.”
“And you are familiar with the meaning of that word, correct?”
I fight the urge to stick out my tongue at him like a child and murmur, “A compromise between parties with opposing interests.”
“Exactly right. However, in this case, my interests are time sensitive.” He sits back in his chair and steeples his hands once more. “One month — during which time your identity will be kept in strictest confidence from all outside the immediate family, household staff, and security detail. You will be at my disposal for public events, posing as a new royal aide or some other suitable alias. You will also take mandatory lessons in foreign affairs, traditional dance, and proper etiquette from a tutor of my choosing.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I snap, outraged. “You want me to take princess lessons!?”
“Twice a day.”
“That’s absurd!” I jolt to my feet. “I will not be subjected to the humiliation of parading around a ballroom, learning how to flirt and finger-wave like some tiara-wearing airhead.”
“Then I suppose you won’t be getting whatever it is you so desperately want.” He shrugs lightly, as if he doesn’t care which path I choose, but his eyes remain intent. “What is it you want, Emilia? I imagine something of vast importance, if you’re willing to even temporarily take on a role you so clearly despise in order to get it.”
Don’t let anger cloud your judgment.
Focus on your endgame.
Focus on getting home.
I sink slowly back into my seat and take a deep breath. “I still think one month isn’t nearly enough time.”
He doesn’t say a word.
“But I will concede to it,” I agree, wincing at the idea. “If you give me what I want in return.”
“Which is?”
I swallow hard. “Firstly, I want my belongings returned to me, including my cellphone, so I can call the friend I was with last night and make sure he is okay. I’d also like to see him in person — today, if possible. ”
“This would be…” He glances down at a folder on his desk. “Mr. Owen Harding?”
A jolt moves through me. “Yes. How did you know that? Is he all right?”
“I assure you, he’s perfectly well. So well, in fact, that he’s been calling the palace nonstop since you were extracted last night, demanding to speak with you.”
“What?”
Linus nods. “Quite a determined fellow.”
I run a hand through my hair. “He must be going out of his mind with worry…”
“We will, of course, make arrangements for your boyfriend to come here — after he’s been screened for potential security threats.”
“He’s not a security threat! And he’s not my boyfriend.”
“My mistake.” Those bushy brows quirk upward again. “It’s simply rare to see such devotion from a… friend.”
“Maybe you need new friends.”
His eyes gleam. “Now that we’ve settled the matter of Mr. Harding… I assume you have more items on your list of demands?”
“Right.” I straighten my shoulders. “My internship.”
“At Vasgaard University’s Center for Clinical Psychology.”
Again, I startle at his thorough knowledge of my life. “Yes.”
“A prestigious program.”
“Exactly. I worked hard to earn my spot there, and I won’t allow all of this—” I gesture around vaguely. “— to jeopardize it, especially when I’m this close to completing my degree. During this trial, I’ll need to continue my courses.”
“That’s not possible.”
I stiffen. “Just like that? No discussion?”
“Just like that.”
“So I have to take princess lessons and give up my real ones?” I scoff. “Absurd! I thought this was a negotiation!”
“To a certain point. However, we cannot guarantee your safety while you are wandering around unchecked a university campus.”
“No one even knows who I am,” I point out. “I’m not in danger.”
“We don’t know that for sure. We don’t have any definitive information yet about how the fire started; however, my head of security believes foul play was a factor. This is not yet public knowledge, but… someone hit Henry over the head before the flames spread, and left him in his chambers to die. Which means this was no accident. It was an attack. It was murder.”
My eyes widen. I’d suspected that might be a possibility, but hearing it confirmed is still a punch to the gut. Linus suddenly looks every bit his age, all seventy-three years of life weighing down on him like an anvil.
“My brother is dead. My sister-in-law is dead. My nephew is lying in a hospital bed, clinging to life. This is not the time for taking undue risks, Emilia.”
“I understand that,” I murmur. “However—”
“No. My answer is final. Until we know whether this is an active threat, who the perpetrators are, and whether any other members of this family are targets, extra precautions must be taken. I will not have my daughter’s life put at risk over something that can easily be solved with a letter to the dean and a temporary hiatus from your coursework.”
The word daughter hangs in the air between us, heavier than fog. I drop my eyes to the gleaming surface of his desk and do my damndest to ignore it.
“I don’t want to take a hiatus,” I whisper.
“Then we will enroll you in online classes.”
“And my internship?” I ask, lifting my eyes again. “How can I see patients, or practice therapy, or learn to diagnose from behind a computer screen?”
His head shakes. “The palace has many resources. Connections at every academic institution in the world. Should you decide to abdicate at the end of our trial, I will personally ensure you are settled in whichever field you choose to pursue.”
“But—”
“Emilia. On this point, I will not bend. I cannot.”
My hands curl into fists. I glare at the man across the desk — at the unyielding set to his shoulders and the firm press of his mouth — and suddenly realize where my stubborn streak comes from.
Rock, meet hard place.
The last thing I want to do is give up my internship. I worked my ass off to land it. But I’m smart enough to know that without intervention, it’s only a matter of time before Linus releases a royal statement about me to the press. And once that tea is spilled… there’ll be no getting it back into the cup. I’ll be stuck forever in this life.
The heir apparent.
The Crown Princess.
As far as I can see… this negotiation is the only sliver of a chance I’ve got at hanging onto my dreams. My life. My identity. My home.
“There must be something else,” Linus interjects suddenly, seeming to read my thoughts. “Something of equal or greater value to you, that I can offer in exchange for the sacrifices you’re making.”
My eyes hold his for a long moment. “There is one thing.”
“Name it.”
“My house… Nina’s house.”
He stills at the mention of Mom. “What about it?”
“The mortgage…” I suck in a sharp breath. “With the internship on top of my classes, I had to cut back on my waitressing hours. It’s been tough to keep up with the payments.”
“Ah. And what is the outstanding balance?”
I pause. “Around a hundred-thousand dollars.”
“I see.”
“It wasn’t Mom’s fault. The house was nearly paid off. But when she
died…” I look up into his eyes, shame swallowing me whole. “Between the hospital bills and my school expenses, I had no choice but to consolidate our debt. A second mortgage was the only option I could think of to make ends meet.”
“I understand.” He considers me gravely. “I assume you would like me to absorb that balance, as part of our agreement.”
The only thing I hate more than asking for help is asking for money. It makes me feel dirty. Brimming with mortification and wounded pride that I can’t handle things on my own. But that feeling doesn’t compare with the devastation I experience whenever I contemplate losing the house.
Every room, every wall, every floorboard is embedded with memories of my mother. Cooking elaborate meals together in the tiny kitchen, reading by the old wood stove in the back room, watching black and white movies beneath a blanket on chilly autumn nights. I can’t bear the thought of losing my last remaining link to her.
“Yes,” I whisper, my voice cracking. “If you help with the house, I’ll do whatever you want.”
“Then consider it done,” Linus agrees easily, as though I’ve asked to borrow a fiver for a carton of milk, not a payment-in-full on my mortgage. “I’ll have a check sent to the bank tomorrow.”
Relief floods through me. Maybe tonight, for the first time in months, I’ll be able to fall asleep without tossing and turning, dreaming of envelopes marked PAST DUE in red ink, worrying about the dire financial hole I’ve dug myself into.
“Thank you,” I murmur.
“Is there anything else you want?”
I shake my head, at a loss for words.
“Then terms are as follows: I will assume financial responsibility for your house, arrange for some of your personal belongings to be delivered here — along with Mr. Harding, if he so chooses — and assist you in finding a new internship, in the event of abdication. In return, you will live here — and, when it’s deemed safe, at the palace — until my coronation in one month. You will be fully at my disposal for formal events, public appearances… whatever I see fit. You will take twice daily princess lessons, as you so charmingly christened them. And, above all, you will keep an open mind about the role you would play, should you choose to accept your position as my heir.” He pins me with a grave stare. “Are we are in agreement?”
“Yes,” I say, exhausted by the mere prospect of the weeks that lie ahead of me. “We are in agreement.”
“Shall we shake on it?” He extends a hand across his desk. “To make it official?”
Slowly, I reach out and slide my palm into his sturdy grip. He doesn’t pump my hand up and down in a normal shake — he simply holds it, squeezing lightly as he stares into my eyes. It’s a strangely poignant moment, all things considered. As is the realization that, if Linus weren’t my biological father…
I think I’d probably like him.
“Thank you, again,” I say haltingly, pulling back. I tuck my hands beneath my thighs. “For not laughing at me. For hearing me out. For… negotiating.”
He nods, somber as ever. “I’m rather impressed, actually. Only a very poor leader would accept a deal blindly, without questioning the terms and assuring their own interests.”
Did my father just… compliment me?
I don’t know what to say, so I simply nod.
“Next time, don’t fold your hand so fast,” he adds in a lighter tone. “If you’d held your ground, you might’ve talked me down on the princess lessons.”
My mouth falls open. “But— you said those terms were non-negotiable!”
“Consider this your first lesson: everything is negotiable, Emilia. The letter of law, the will of the people… even the word of a king.”
“Not fair,” I grumble. “I want a re-do.”
“Second lesson: there are no quote-unquote re-dos in politicking.”
I sigh. “Well, that sucks.”
“And so the trial begins.” His mouth turns up at one corner. “Tomorrow, at your first tutoring sessions, I’ll be sure to have your instructor teach you all the best methods to flirt and finger-wave like a — what was it you said?”
“Tiara-wearing airhead,” I murmur.
He chuckles — the first time I’ve ever heard him laugh. It’s a rusty sound, as though he doesn’t do it very often. “By god, you are so very much like your mother.”
I look up sharply. “You think?”
“I do.” The laugher bleeds out of his tone, replaced by a heart-rending sadness. “She was willful. Beautiful. A true force to be reckoned with.”
“She was.” My eyes are stinging precariously. I push to my feet and turn for the door. “I really should be going, now.”
“Emilia.” His voice halts me halfway to the exit.
I glance back.
“I am so very sorry you lost her. I should’ve said that before.” His eyes press closed. “I’m sure you miss her with each breath.”
Why does he sound like he’s speaking from experience?
Before I can do something foolish, like ask the question aloud, I slip out of his study and close the door firmly behind me.
Chapter Ten
I pull open a cabinet, grimace, and slam it back closed.
“Miss Emilia,” the timid housekeeper, Patricia, whispers for the third time in as many minutes. “If you’d just tell me what you need, I’ll be happy to make it for you…”
“I told you already,” I mutter, yanking open another cabinet. Pots and pans. I promptly shut it and move on. “The only thing I need is something to keep me occupied. I’m going insane in this empty house, just sitting around doing nothing all day.”
“Yes, miss.”
Another cabinet, this one full of cleaning products.
The next, brimming with brightly polished candlesticks.
Moving on.
Much like the rest of the manor, the kitchen is massive. It took me nearly thirty minutes of wandering down empty corridors to even locate it, tucked away in the basement, accessible only by a narrow servant’s stairwell. I descended, expecting a dark, dank, windowless room without air circulation. Instead, I found a lovely space with narrow skylights by the ceiling that allow soft shafts of buttery, late-afternoon light to bathe every surface.
Much to the confusion of household staff — who assured me they could make me anything I desired, if only I’d allow them — I spent the first twenty minutes simply walking around in awe, skimming my fingers along the set of gleaming copper pots that hang from an overhead rack, examining the brick oven where three fresh breads are baking, marveling at the dum-waiters embedded in the walls, used to quickly run dishes up and down during dinner parties.
Between the stainless steel counter tops, three modern glass-front refrigerators, and more cooking implements than I’ve ever seen in one place, it’s rather different from the kitchen I grew up using — a narrow galley with barely any room to move around and a gas range so old, the burners don’t light without a match.
But I bet no one’s ever had as much fun in here as Mom and I did chopping onions on those cracked linoleum counter tops, laughing till the tears were gone.
After my meeting with Linus, I went straight back to my bedroom and stared at the wall for about an hour, wondering if I’d made a massive mistake. Torturing myself, replaying all the counter-arguments I should’ve used, analyzing all the points I forgot to touch on during our negotiation, until I thought my head might explode from the strain of it all.
I needed a distraction. Something to take my mind off the future. Preferably, something involving semi-sweet chocolate morsels and a nice rush of sugar. I needed…
Cookies.
So, I put aside my worries about bumping into Carter or Chloe or — god forbid — their demonic mother, and set out to find the kitchen. Now, if I could only find the flour, I’d be in business…
“Dammit,” I mutter, opening another cabinet. This one is full of what appears to be an antique china set.
“Miss, are you sure I can’t assist wit
h—”
“I’m sure!” I cut her off, shaking my head in exasperation and muttering to myself. “Seriously, how do rich people live like this? What do they do with all this free time?” I pull open another cabinet. Spices. I’m getting closer. “No chores to complete? No meals to prepare? Food appears magically on the table, dirty clothes vanish without me lifting a finger… I feel like I’m living with freaking house elves.”
“I apologize, miss,” Patricia says, sounding near tears.
“Oh, please don’t be upset!” I whirl to face her, guilt flooding me. “I know you’re just doing your job. It’s me. I’m not used to sitting around all day without pulling my weight. I go a bit stir-crazy without anything to keep me occupied. Can you understand that?”
“Of course, miss.”
I smile, but she doesn’t return it — she’s too busy chewing her bottom lip. Clearly, she’s not used to royal guests making themselves at home in her domain.
With a sigh, I resume my search for ingredients. I’ve nearly given up hope when I pull open the final set of white doors and find a narrow inset pantry, fully stocked with baking supplies.
“Of course, it’s the last one I open…”
I laugh as I grab the containers marked FLOUR and SUGAR off the shelf, cradle them to my chest, and carry them over to a nearby prep table. The Lockwood Estate’s heavy stand mixer is far nicer quality than the one I have back home, but it doesn’t look much different in terms of basic mechanics. I’m sure I can figure out how to use it easily enough.
Patricia wrings her hands in silent agony as she watches me make trips back and forth from the pantry, lining up my items in a neat row — baking soda, salt, vanilla extract, chocolate chips. When she sees me heading for her immaculately organized refrigerator, she can’t quite contain her sound of distress.
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