“Your Majesty?”
“Send out the press release.”
Without another word, I leave the room.
I have a fiancé to track down. Guests to greet. An engagement to announce. And no time to look back at all the things that might’ve been.
* * *
“Your Majesty,Lord Sterling — warmest wishes to you both for your coming marriage.”
“Thank you,” Alden says, shaking the hand of a pompous man whose title I can’t for the life of me remember. “We so appreciate your support.”
I smile stiffly as the man bows and finally moves along, already bracing for the next well-wisher.
We’ve been greeting people for nearly three hours — a never-ending parade of nobility who’ve come to the castle to pay their respects at our engagement announcement. A fleet of official palace photographers click their shutters as we stand on the dais, our feet slowly going numb as hundreds of Germanians murmur congratulations and express their happiness.
A royal wedding, how exciting!
And soon after… a royal baby!
I lock my knees to keep upright and beam like it’s the happiest day of my life. Periodically, Alden glances over at me with concern, seeming to sense my unease, but he says nothing. He is too busy greeting his future subjects to question the mental state of his future wife.
Wife.
What an odd word.
I can’t say I ever thought I’d be married at twenty-one. Then again, I never thought I’d be a queen at twenty-one. Or an orphan at twenty-one. Or, according to Chloe, the most-followed social media user in the entire free world at twenty-one.
Life takes strange turns; all you can do is hold on tight and hope not to crash. To cope with your circumstances the best way possible.
For me, that means what it has for so many royals who’ve come before: a strategic alliance, forged through the bonds of an arranged marriage.
I look over at my husband-to-be — his chiseled, almost delicate features. His trim waist. His clean-shaven jawline.
He looks dashing in his custom-tailored suit. His tie is pale blue, a perfect match for my dress. His platinum locks are parted with extra care, not a strand out of place. He looks every inch the future royal.
The future king.
Sensing my gaze, he glances at me with a soft smile. It’s the same look he wore when we finalized our marriage agreement one week ago, under the careful supervision of Simms, Lady Morrell, and two legal advisors.
Calm.
Comforting.
Composed.
“How are you holding up over there, my dear?”
I shrug. “As well as can be expected.”
He takes one of my hands in his, his skin soft and warm. I hear camera shutters click as he interlaces our fingers.
How tender.
How sweet.
How authentic.