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!Notright. 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.”
* * *