Apparently, the press is fond of bullshit, though, because that’s the story they’ve been reporting for the past two weeks. I swear to God, if I read one more glowing portfolio about the Lancaster family and my newfound place in it, I’m going to tear my own hair out by the roots.
Thatwould certainly get their attention.
I wish I could say things have calmed down, but I’d be lying. The interview requests are nonstop — Simms is still fielding at least twenty a day — and the paparazzi are so out of control, I’ve been confined to the palace until further notice. For my own protection, of course.
Cue eye rolling.
The press merely provides Linus with the perfect excuse to keep me locked away until his coronation next week. Preparations are in full swing; there must be fifty staff here at any given time, working to get the castle ready for the official crowning ceremony as well as the formal ball that will take place immediately afterward.
With the exception of the brief press conference, the coronation will mark my first official public appearance. I’ll be on full display, mingling with actual members of the aristocracy, stumbling my way through the steps of the traditional Germanian waltz, and generally just trying not to make a complete ass of myself. To say the thought gives me heart palpitations would be an understatement.
According to Chloe, my worry is unnecessary. In her mind, the only thing that truly matters is my outfit.
I’m telling you, E — you could call the Prime Minister a cabbage-brained cuckold and go on to rule peacefully for fifty years. But if you show up in a puce gown with last season’s shoes… they’ll never let you live it down.
Thus, the royal dressmakers have been here practically every day to take measurements. I endeavor to keep still as they hold up different fabric swatches against my skin tone, then do my best not to trip as they try out shoe options from a vast array of high heels — as if anyone is even going to see my feet under the mammoth ballgown they’re designing.
I don’t have the heart to tell them that no matter how hard they try to make me look the part of a perfect princess, I’ll never be able to maintain the illusion for an entire evening. Putting a shiny paint job on a rust-bucket only fools people from afar. One glance under the hood, there’s no hiding the truth.
Chloe assures me she’ll stay by my side for the entire event to help me navigate the crowds. I think this has less to do with selflessness than it does the long list of eligible bachelors who will be in attendance, all hoping for a piece of Emilia-flavored pie —herwords, not mine. Princes, barons, dukes, and earls from several neighboring monarchies are flying in for the elegant affair. Apparently, I’m a hot commodity now that I’m to inherit control of one of Europe’s most prosperous countries.
Because nothing screams romance like a man who cares more about the crown sitting on your head than the thoughts occurring inside it.
When I remarked on this potential partner flaw, Chloe just shrugged and told me there was no point squandering my good years being single and celibate, so I might as well enjoy the princess perks while they last. A fair point… though the thought of pursuing anything remotely romantic right now is a hard pill to swallow.
Maybe I’d be more inclined to date if not for the slight complication who happens to reside in the suite directly beside mine and goes by the name of Carter. I shoot a glance toward our shared wall, sighing deeply.
He hasn’t been here in days, from the sound of it — or,lackof sound, I should say. He also hasn’t spoken to me since our night in the garden. Not a word, even on the rare occasions we pass each other in the halls of the North Wing or find ourselves in the same room. It’s no accident, either. He’s actively avoiding my presence.
Last week, while exploring the library — by far the coolest room in the entire castle, with soaring ceilings and so many books it would take two lifetimes to read them all — I came around a corner and found him sprawled in an elegant wingback chair, reading a copy of Oscar Wilde’s ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’ by one of the roaring fireplaces. For a moment, I just stood there looking at him — the flickering light of the flames dancing on his face, the lock of dark hair falling over his furrowed brow, the elegant lines of his tall frame.
I must’ve made some small sound — half gasp, half sigh — because he looked up and spotted me hovering there between the shelves, clutching a first edition of ‘Rebecca’ by Daphne Du Maurier tight against my chest. Without so much as a hello, he snapped his book shut, stood, and strode out of the library.
He did not look back.
That night, the pages of my book were blotchy with falling teardrops.
I’m not completely naive: I did realize, after what happened between us, that things would be strained. But I thought with enough time, the ache inside me would fade; that I’d stop waking in the night, heart pounding from the fragmented images inside my dreams.
My hands in his hair, his tongue in my mouth… My dress ripped to shreds, his hardness resting right between my thighs…
When I’m awake, I can shut out the memories… but my unconscious mind follows no such practices of self-preservation. Each night is a fresh reminder, unearthing the passion I’m so desperate to bury.
His touch haunts me. I long for it with a need that terrifies me, crave it like a junkie thoroughly addicted after just one fix, no matter how many times I tell myself to let him go.
It never should’ve happened.
And it never will again.
That night in the garden, I was a certifiable mess — a fraying nerve of pain that needed an outlet.Carterbecame that outlet. He absorbed my damage like a steel drum containing a detonation. He traced my skin with his hands and soothed all my jagged edges. And I let him.
Not justlethim…
Eagerly encouraged.
Actively participated.
I try not to let myself think too hard about the fact that his room has been empty for the past three days. That some other girl out there is probablyactively participatingwith him at this exact moment.