The television is muted. Or perhaps I’ve simply ceased hearing it, unable to process any more strangers’ commentary on my love life.
My mental state.
My fitness to rule.
My qualifications.
My future.
My throne.
I watch them dissect my strengths and weaknesses like a fictional character being analyzed in a college literature class.
What qualities make Emilia suitable to lead more than any other candidate? Is she the heroine or the villain of our country’s story? Should we entertain a change in scene or point-of-view?
I hear knocks at the door — concerned friends have come to check on me. And yet, I cannot bring myself to unlock it. I do not have the strength to put on a brave face. To pretend I am not unravelling at the seams.
“Emilia?” A deep male voice calls through the heavy oak panel. “It’s Alden. Let me in. We must talk about this. About… our next step.”
I press my eyes closed and shut out his words.
I can’t think about our next step.
Not yet.
I need more time.
“Your Majesty? It’s Lady Morrell, dear. Should I have Patricia send in some lunch? Please unlock the door…”
“E!” Chloe calls, sounding annoyed. “Don’t make me have Riggs break this door down!”
My phone rings and rings, over and over, the screen flashing many different names —Simms, Lady Morrell, Alden, Chloe— until I’m forced to shut it off entirely, for the sake of my sanity.
I don’t want to talk to anyone. Not now. I feel a strange mix of shame and foreboding. My once-bright future has slipped from my grip. Instead, I find myself clutching at threads. They fray rapidly beneath my fingertips, impossible to stitch back together into a cohesive string on which I can hang even the slightest of hopes.
In the quiet of the conference room, as polling results roll in across the screen and royal ‘experts’ discuss my worth, I allow myself to face a possibility that, until recently, seemed impossible: reclaiming the autonomy the monarchy took from me. Reclaiming… my life.
I could step away.
From this castle, from this throne, from this responsibility.
I could give it all up.
Let Ludwig have his shot at ruling.
I could have the life I always planned.
Be plain old Emilia Lennox again.
I could be with the man for whom my heart beats.
Out of the public eye, with Carter at my side, in my arms, under my sheets.
I savor the delicious nectar of that alternative plot-line, my tastebuds singing with its sweetness. That life… it would be wonderful. And I… I would be happy. So incandescently, immeasurably happy I think my ribs might explode.
That ending — the one of my own making — is the true fairy tale.
And she lived happily ever after…