“Her Royal Majesty Emilia Victoria Lancaster, Queen of Germania.”
I need no such introduction; everyone in this room knows exactly who I am. But it’s clear from the unanimous looks of disbelief breaking across every face in the crowd that they were not expecting me to actually honor the gold-foil invitation that arrived at the castle six weeks ago, requesting my presence at a 1920s-themed birthday party in honor of the esteemed Sterling family’s only son.
This is no casual cookout with cheap beer, like my college friends used to throw whenever anyone turned a year older. In this tax bracket, they celebrate with champagne and crudités, outlandishly expensive gifts and elaborate designer costumes.
Everyone in my line of sight has risen thoroughly to the occasion; I spot so many fringe dresses and top hats, they all begin to blur together. I pause on the edge of the glittering crowd, smile frozen on my face, heart thundering in my chest. It takes all my effort to keep my expression composed, to keep my eyes from sweeping across the sea of stylish strangers, seeking a set of particularly broad shoulders and a pair of tractor-beam of cerulean eyes.
Is he here? Is he somewhere in the shadows, watching me?
I push the thought away with violence. Thinking about Carter Thorne will only fray my rapidly-unfurling composure faster. Same for his sister.
If any members of the Thorne family cross my path tonight, I will treat them as the distant acquaintances we have become, not the next-of-kin we were once forced to impersonate.
The plan feels paper-thin at best, but I don’t allow myself to dwell on that small fact. If I did, I’d go crazier than everyone at this party already seems to believe I am.
For a long moment, the room is utterly still. Everyone is staring at me in silence. Even the jazz musicians have stopped playing in the far corner, their crooning saxophones and string instruments hanging soundless in limp hands.
You can do this,I tell myself, forcing my chin a shade higher.You have survived much worse than a birthday party.
And yet, this is no normal gathering. This room is a viper pit of Germania’s young elite, clad in their grandest finery. A new generation of diamond-drenched snakes in flapper dresses and tuxedo tails, their words as carefully phrased as they are emotionally cutting. The walls practically slither as they take in the sight of me.
Fresh prey.
“Queen Emilia,” a warm voice shatters the pervasive silence. “You came.”
Relief floods my bloodstream as I turn to see a sharply dressed man approaching, his ultra-white smile catching the light, his platinum head of hair perfectly parted.
“I was invited. Should I not have come?”
Alden laughs, a charming sound laced with at least two glasses of champagne, by best estimation. He drops into a low bow. “Trust me, I’m delighted you’re here. I just doubted you’d actually accept the invitation.”
When he straightens, our gazes snag. There’s undeniable warmth in the depths of his hazel eyes — I see it shining as he grins at me, and his genuine happiness spurs my own to life. Before I know it, I find myself smiling back at him.
“It’s good to see you, Your Majesty. It’s been a long time.”
I nod. “It has.”
“Too long.”
I don’t agree with him — not verbally, not with so many people listening to our every word. Distantly, I hear the band resume playing, but I’m highly aware that no one is dancing. They’re too busy watching me —us— with intimidating intensity.
Alden seems to realize we’re being scrutinized as well. Smirking lightly, he offers his arm with a flourish. “They want a show. Shall we give them one? Will you do me the honor of a dance, Your Majesty?”
My lips twist. “It’s your birthday. How can I possibly refuse?”
He leans in a bit, so only I can hear his next words. “Please don’t only agree because it’s my birthday. Agree because… you want to dance with me. Simple as that.”
Never breaking eye contact with him, I swallow hard, lift a hand, and slide it into the crook of his waiting arm.
“Lead the way.”
* * *
It’s notmy first time dancing with Alden Sterling.
We’ve waltzed before, the night I was coronated as the Crown Princess. But tonight is different — the tempo faster, the steps more lively, the atmosphere more relaxed. Plus, it’s infinitely more enjoyable to dance without a corset cinching my ribs and twenty yards of ballgown weighing me down.
At the center of a writhing mass of couples, Alden twirls me around the floor like a man possessed, his limbs loose with the aftereffects of alcohol, his spirits higher than I’ve ever seen.