Just keep moving.
Just don’t think.
“Emilia,” Chloe says, once we’re settled in the car — a rare use of my first name. “You’re freaking me out.”
“I’m fine,” I respond, on auto-pilot.
“You aren’t fine. You’re like… a pod person.” She waves a hand in front of my eyes. “Hello? Is anyone in there? Anyone home?”
Ignoring her antics, I turn and look out the window.
I thought the inclement weather might deter the crowds, but as we ride through Vasgaard in my white Rolls-Royce, the streets are lined with millions of Germanians in plastic ponchos and waterproof slickers.
“They say it’s good luck if it rains on your wedding day,” Lady Morrell titters from the seat across from mine. “When one istying the knot, so to speak… a wet rope is far harder to untangle than a perfectly dry one.”
Chloe scoffs. “That’s just a bullshit cliché made up to soothe Bridezillas.”
“Miss Thorne, your attitude is not helping matters…”
I promptly tune them out.
Don’t think.
Don’t think.
Don’t think.
We soon arrive at Windsor Abbey. The crowds here are twice as thick and ten times as loud, cheering uproariously when my limousine rolls into view.
Between the press cameras, reporters, and bystanders, the streets are at capacity — a roiling ocean of sodden hats and umbrellas. The surrounding buildings are equally mobbed. People are peering out from every available window, leaning over balcony railings, huddling on rooftops in the driving rain.
All hoping for just one glimpse at me.
All waiting with joy in their hearts, thrilled by the prospect of this royal union.
We pull to a stop at the curb and I steel my shoulders against the inevitable. A page bounds to the door and pulls it open, letting in a wave of sound. It crashes into me, vibrating my very bones.
Lady Morrell and her minions get out first, poised by the door to assist with my exit. Through the water-beaded glass window, I see the gauntlet of Queen’s Guard forming once again on the steps. Waiting for me.
It’s time to go.
“E.” Chloe grabs my arm, stilling me. “I don’t care what anyone says — you do not have to do this if you don’t want to.”
Lady Morrell makes a sound of deep distress, audible through the door gap. “Miss Thorne! How could you say such a thing? And now, of all times?”
“Ignore her.” Chloe stares into my eyes, her expression intent. “I mean it. We can make a run for it. The keys are in the ignition. Say the word — I’ll hop the partition, fire up the engine, and get us the hell out of here.”
I take a deep breath, allowing the air to fill up my lungs, then slowly expelling it out through my nose. For one insane instant, I close my eyes and allow myself to picture it — two sisters on the open road. The runaway bride and the recovering addict, getting the hell out of dodge. Skipping out on all the shit that’s been thrown at us, these past few months. Starting over somewhere new. Living our lives however the hell we choose to, without any input from our families or political pundits or social advisors.
It’s a nice fantasy.
I turn it over in my mind, savoring its sweetness. But as soon as my eyes open, the fantasy evaporates like mist.
Chloe squeezes my bicep again. “Well? What’ll it be?”
Placing my hand over hers, I squeeze back, once… then slowly pull her grip from my arm.
“Chloe. If I’ve learned one thing in the past few months, it’s that you can’t outrun fate. It always catches up to you eventually.” I force a smile onto my lips and hope it looks more convincing than it feels. “Look at them all out there. Waiting for me. For their queen. I cannot let them down. I will not let them down.”