The newscaster’s bright red lipstick is a garish contrast to her peach blazer. I narrow my eyes at the television in the conference room where I’ve been camped out for the past few hours, wishing I could reach through the screen and smack some sense into her.
“Onlookers tell us it was something of a real-life fairy tale,” the anchor continues, smiling. “Our field reporter is currently with two women who witnessed the incident. Ladies, can you shed a little light on what you saw this morning?”
The broadcast cuts to a pair of women on a street corner, their faces a potent mix of excitement and nervous energy.
“We were walking by the National Assembly, getting a look at the protesters, when we heard a bang. I think it was one of the vans backfiring,” the first woman says breathlessly, one hand clutched to her chest. You’d think she was describing the final five seconds of an Olympic event. “Everyone kind of got startled… I guess Queen Emilia must’ve stumbled on the steps, because she fell.”
“It was hard to see,” the second woman chimes in. “Everyone was yelling for her to get up. Her security team closed in fast and blocked some of our view…”
“Then what happened?” the field reporter prompts.
“It was like a real, honest-to-god fairy tale! That sexy blond guy—”
“Lord Alden Sterling?”
“Right, him. He stepped in to save her. Scooped her right up into his arms!”
“He was so dashing!” Her friend giggles. “Especially when he turned to the cameras and said,I will protect my Emilia no matter the cost.”
The other woman elbows her. “That’s not exactly what he said…”
“Whatever. Close enough. The point is, they’retotallyin love. You could just tell, the way he held her and protected her like that…”
“So, ladies, do you think we’ll have a royal wedding this summer?”
“Oh, we hope so!”
The screen cuts back to the anchorwoman at her desk in the studio. She’s grinning ear-to-ear. “There you have it, folks. A royal romance, blossoming right under our noses! I, for one, am thrilled to share a tidbit ofgoodnews from Waterford Palace after these past few months of sad tidings. I’m sure all you viewers at home are equally excited by the prospect of our young queen happy and in love!”
I scowl at the screen with fresh anger.
Ah yes.
That’s me.
Happy and in love.
I watch for a few more minutes, scoffing periodically as the details of my supposed romance play out onscreen. News of the referendum has been effectively buried beneath the mountain of speculation concerning my love life.
Who cares about equality, anyway?
I wonder if Alden is at home watching. Perhaps he’s still too upset. He didn’t say a word when we parted earlier, except to bid me a stiff goodbye with promises to reach out after the final votes are tallied tonight.
As if she’s heard my thoughts, the anchorwoman on my television screen says his name again.
“We’ve spent our morning briefing you on the possible romance between Alden Sterling, the heir to Westgate, and Her Royal Majesty Queen Emilia. We’re now learning that this new match may not be warmly embraced by everyone in Germania… the rest of the Sterling family in particular.” She leans in to the camera, her excitement palpable. “A source close to the Sterlings has revealed that Alden is no longer in residence at Westgate. Additionally, Lord and Lady Sterling, the parents of the man in question, have spent weeks actively opposing today’s referendum — a position that puts them directly at odds with Her Royal Majesty. If there is an engagement looming, it seems our queen may find herself contending with some unhappy in-laws.”
Christ.
I contemplate leaving the room and locating a stiff drink, but I can’t bring myself to look away from the mess unfolding before me.
“Not only that,” the anchorwoman continues gleefully. “It appears there may also be some dissension to the match within Her Majesty’s own ranks. We now bring you live to an exclusive interview with someone intimately familiar with the inner workings of Waterford Palace. Former wife to the late King Linus. Former stepmother to the queen.” She pauses a lengthy beat. “Lady Octavia Thorne, Duchess of Hightower, Dowager Queen Consort.”
All the air leaves my lungs in a whoosh as the television cuts to a face I know well — a beautiful, icy mask of composure and condescension. Her auburn hair is styled in a perfect up-do. Her makeup is minimal but flawlessly applied, accentuating her best features. Her vintage Chanel jacket screams inherited wealth. And even through the television screen, her cold blue eyes seem to cut right into me, sharper than a blade.
“It’s an honor to have you here with us today, Dowager,” the news anchor says.
“A pleasure.” Octavia’s lips thin into a severe frown. “Though I must say, the circumstances of my visit are dire indeed.”