Chapter Sixteen
A knock wakesme from a fitful sleep.
I sit up in bed, squinting at the harsh morning light streaming through my terrace windows. My gaze is drawn to the door by the soft rasp of an envelope being slid underneath it.
Sighing, I shove off my duvet and stretch my arms over my head as I make my way across the room. I recognize Simms’ boring blue stationary before I’ve read a single word of his message.
Your Royal Highness,
Your presence is requested this afternoon for an award ceremony, as your father is unable to attend.
You’ll be presenting a group of Vasgaardian firefighters with the National Medal of Valor for their bravery while battling the inferno in the East Wing last month.
There will be a short ceremony to thank them for their service in front of their fellow firefighters, close friends, and family members.
The limousine will be waiting downstairs to take you to the station at eleven forty-five sharp.
Gerald Simms
Palace Press Secretary
As always,he signed off with a flourish of ink beneath his name and position. I’m not sure why he bothers with such formality — I see the man practically every day, for god’s sake. But Simms isn’t the type to ever loosen up on protocol.
I glance at my phone to check the time and see two missed calls from an unlisted number on the screen. Normally, that might make me take pause — only a handful of people in the world know my private line — but when I see it’s already past ten, I toss down the phone and jolt into motion.
I’ve slept far later than usual — no doubt because I was up half the night tossing and turning. I shoot a pointed glare at the wall that divides my suite from Carter’s as I walk to my ensuite bathroom to start getting ready.
He wants to be enemies?
That’s fine with me.
Fine, fine, fine.
I couldn’t care less.
In fact, I’m glad.
It’s a relief.
Standing in the shower, it’s easier to pretend the stinging of my eyes is due only to the scalding water falling in a torrent on my face.
“Thankyou so much for your courage.”
I shake yet another firefighter’s hand, hoping my voice doesn’t sound shaky or insincere. The deputy chief nods at me, his face stoic.
“King Linus appreciates your heroism,” I murmur to the man beside him. “It will never be forgotten.”
Another handshake.
Another smile.
And so it goes, until I’ve greeted all twenty men who put their lives on the line last month when the East Wing went up in flames. If not for their swift response, Prince Henry might’ve lost his life along with King Leopold, Queen Abigail, and several members of the castle staff.
Not that he’s much better off now, lying in a coma in the hospital burn unit…
As I cross the stage toward the podium, Simms trails closely on my heels — no doubt trying to curb any reckless ideas that pop into my head before they come to fruition. By this point, he should be accustomed to me going off-script in some humiliating way or another — kicking off my high heels, sticking my tongue out at the paparazzi, giving away priceless Lancaster heirlooms to poor little girls from Hawthorne. You’d think he would’ve given up by now, but he still tries his best to keep me in check.
Good luck with that, Ger.