“Very good, Princess. Then I will send in your hair and makeup team to assist you with final preparations. Please do not dally — guests are beginning to arrive and you are expected down in the throne room within the hour.”
He leaves in a huff, a cloud of self-inflated ego lingering in his wake like bad cologne.
* * *
Forty minutes later,I study myself in the mirror, hardly recognizing the girl staring back at me. The ballgown is truly a work of art — champagne satin and tulle with intricately embroidered lace appliqué that covers both sleeves and extends downward in shimmering whirls of gold. The bodice is tight fitted, showing off my curves like never before with the help of the stiff corset boning. The back dips low to reveal most of my spine before flowing out into a full skirt, complete with a two foot train.
In this dress, I actually look like a princess.
In this dress… I almostfeellike a princess.
I’m thoroughly convinced the hair and makeup ladies have magical powers, because no fairy godmother could’ve done any better — even with a wand. My eyes are lined with black and gold, making the green of my irises pop. My lips are stained a deep berry tone that’s somehow glossy without being sticky. And my wild curls have been tamed into sleek mahogany coils — an up-do specifically designed to suit a crown.
Just the thought of what’s to come makes my mouth press into a solemn line and my hands shake with nerves.
“The look lovely, Your Highness,” the hairstylist says, smiling proudly. “Are you ready to go?”
No.
“Yes,” I murmur, turning my back on the stranger in the mirror. “Let’s go.”
* * *
My heart is thuddingout of my chest as I float down the hall toward the throne room, four members of the King’s Guard in full uniform accompanying my every step. I can hear the swell of voices as I approach the grand staircase. The hall below comes into view and I fight to keep fear from showing on my face.
At the bottom of the polished stone stairs, at least five hundred subjects are seated, awaiting their new king in elegant gowns and tuxedoes. I spot Carter and Chloe sitting in the aisle closest to the raised throne platform. A few rows back, the Sterling family is gathered, all four platinum blond heads easy enough to spot in the sea of people.
The presence of friends should be reassuring. Instead, it increases my anxiety tenfold. When Lady Morrell and I walked through the ceremony yesterday in the empty throne room, I felt confident enough. That confidence has fled now that I’m standing here in a ballgown, about to be a spectacle for the whole world to judge. The aisle seems so much longer from here, an endless strip of navy and gold carpet cutting straight through the middle of the crowd. I shiver at the idea of traversing it, all those eyes fixed upon me as I glide toward the throne.
Twenty-five steps down.
One hundred yards dead ahead.
Take your place on the stage.
Stop.
Smile.
Breathe.
Simms is staring pointedly at me from the other side of the landing, fully prepared to make my introduction to the crowd… but my feet are frozen. I can’t move. I stand in the shadows, just out of sight, trying and failing to make myself take my first steps down those stairs. Visions of me tripping on the train of my dress and cartwheeling head over heels down twenty-five stone steps in front of the entire court play on a continuous loop inside my head.
“Are you nervous?”
The whispered words make my head whip around. I startle when I see Linus standing several feet from me, dressed in the ornate gold cloak of a king. His expression is grave, his eyes intent as they move over my face.
I jerk my chin higher and shake my head. I won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing just how scared I am. After what he did, I’ll never let my guard down around him again.
“You look lovely, Emilia.” His green eyes, so like mine, seem to gleam in the dark. “Every inch the princess I always knew you were.”
“A fancy dress doesn’t make me a princess,” I snap back. “By your standards, any noblewoman down in that room could hire a seamstress and call herself a queen.”
“You’re wrong, my dear. Nobility is not equivalent to royalty. One is a social class; the other a destiny. Nobles can be elevated in rank through money or marriage, opportunity or favor… but no one on earth can alter the blood running through your veins, Emilia Lancaster.” Linus sounds more serious than I’ve ever heard him. “You bow to no one, Your Royal Highness.”
We look at each other — father to daughter, king to heir — and before I can stop myself, I ask a question I’ve been mulling over since the minute I learned he existed.
“Why did you leave her?” My hands curl into tight fists. “Why did you leaveus?”