Dirty Halo

by Evie East

  I pull in a breath. “So… is he…”

  “Dying?” She takes another long hit. Tendrils of smoke curl upward toward the coffered ceiling panels. “That’s the billion dollar question, isn’t it? Unfortunately, I don’t even think the doctors know the answer, at this point. He hasn’t woken up. He might never wake up. And even if he does… between the risk of infection from the burns, the damage to his lungs and heart from the smoke inhalation, and the blow to his head that knocked him unconscious… it’s highly possible he won’t ever be the same Henry we knew before.”

  My mouth goes dry. I try to speak, but I can’t seem to find any words.

  Chloe’s brows pull in. “Meanwhile, everyone is just sitting home watching the news in a state of panic. I thought the press conference Simms gave this morning would calm things down, but…”

  My heart starts to pound. “Press conference? What press conference? What did he say?”

  “You really don’t know a damn thing, do you?” she asks, amused.

  “Did he…”

  “Did he talk about you?” Her eyes roll. “No. Not a word. As far as I know, the press hasn’t caught wind of you yet.”

  A whoosh of relief moves through me.

  I’m safe.

  For now, at least.

  One glance at Chloe — now sprawled horizontally in my chair with her feet hooked over one of the arms, designer heels dangling in the air — tells me she doesn’t plan on vacating anytime soon. Resigned to my audience, I dig through the shopping bag until I locate a plain white cotton shirt. I grimace at the unflattering neckline when I pull it from the bag.

  “What’d I tell you?” Chloe giggles helplessly. “Boatneck.”

  It may be ugly, but it’s better than being naked. I yank it on and rummage through the rest of the clothes until a pair of dressy navy capri pants materialize. They’re like nothing I own — far too formal to wear to classes or the clinic. I promptly realize why when my eyes snag on the price tag.

  “Sweet Christ,” I mutter. “What are they stitched with, solid gold thread?”

  “One of the perks of princess-hood,” she drawls. “The clothes rock.”

  “Glad to hear there are at least a few perks.”

  “Considerably more than a few.” She flicks the tip of her blunt and I watch a small shower of ashes scatter across the immaculate rug. “As soon as the world knows you exist, designers are going to be tripping over themselves to dress you. Play your cards right, you’ll have the power to become a style icon.”

  “Dreams do come true,” I snap sarcastically.

  Her eyes narrow, despite the haze of drugs clouding them. “You know, for someone who just had the world handed to her, you’re kind of a wet blanket.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “Yeah, well, if you’re looking for someone to throw you a pity party, you’ve come to the wrong girl.”

  “I’m not looking for pity. And you came to me, if I recall.”

  “Not the point.”

  “Do you have a point?”

  Her lips twist. “I can give you all the advice in the world, when it comes to surviving in this place… but you’ll get it straight up, no filter. And if we’re going to be friends, I’ll expect the same in return.”

  “Fine. You want honesty?” I shove the shopping bag off my bed with the sweep of an arm, smiling as it thunks to the floor. “Excuse me if I’m not overjoyed about my new reality as Emilia Lancaster: Style Icon.” I scoff. “I want more from life than expensive clothing and boring state dinners and… and…”

  “Modest boatnecks?”

  “Exactly.”

  “So, ask for it.”

  I blink at her slowly. “What?”

  “Ask. For. It.” She pushes to her feet and looks at me like I’m the stupidest person she’s ever met — an expression that instantly reminds me of her brother. “You’re the fucking princess. You’ve been elevated to a position most of us can only ever dream of possessing, just because Linus happened to blow a load in your mom a few decades back.”

  I wince. “Was that visual necessary?”

  “Probably not.” She stubs her blunt out in the flower arrangement sitting on my dressing table and props one hip against it. “Right now, with Henry hanging by a thread and the whole damn country in turmoil… they need you a hell of a lot more than you need them. That’s called leverage, E. That’s called power. Stop whining and use it.”

  I look at her, reeling as her words rattle around inside my head.

  She’s kind of a genius.

  “I thought my fairy godmother was supposed to have wings and a wand,” I say finally, smiling despite myself. “Instead I get a foul-mouthed stoner in designer heels?”

  “Yeah, well, I thought when my mom became queen I’d finally get a proper royal title,” she volleys back, spritzing herself with a bottle of the perfume on the vanity to cover the smell of pot. “Instead I’m handed an evil stepsister with perky tits and purple hair.”

  I laugh. “Haven’t you heard? Life isn’t fair.”

  Fluffing her long auburn hair, she crosses to the door and yanks it open. “Who fed you that line of bullshit?” she asks, brows arching upward. “Screw fair. Life is a chess game, E. Welcome to the board. I suggest you choose your moves carefully.”

  With one last wink, she slips out into the hall. I barely have time to yell a belated thank you before the door clicks closed behind her. And for the first time in twenty-four hours, a smile spreads across my face as I realize that the life I want is still well within my grasp. I just have to be brave enough to reach out and take it back.

  That’s called leverage, E.

  Let’s see if my fairy godmother was right.

  * * *

  An hour later, all signs of my smile are long gone. I glare at the portly man blocking my path into the private study, his double chin quivering with righteous indignation as he peers down his nose at me.

  “I’m sorry, Your Highness, that’s simply not possible.”

  “I haven’t been coronated yet, Simms. Stop calling me Your Highness,” I snap. “And get out of my way.”

  “King Linus is currently occupied. Official crown business.”

  “Yeah. You said that.” I tilt my head at him. “Thing is, I still need to see him. Urgently.”

  “He is a very busy man, Your High—” He hiccups when he sees my lethal glare, and wisely changes course. “—Miss Emilia.”

  “Too busy to speak to his only daughter?” I ask, desperate enough to play any card in my deck, if it means getting what I want.

  Simms shifts uncomfortably, but does not yield. “Unfortunately, I cannot make any exceptions.”

  Crossing my arms over my chest, I try to evaluate him like he’s one of the patients at the clinic; try to assess him as one of my professors would, during a practical lesson.

  Snappy dresser, suggesting a dramatic streak… Unfailingly loyal to the Lancasters, almost as a point of pride… Aspirations of a long career connected to the royal family…

  Between his perfectionist tendencies and the near pathological degree of self-importance, the one potential chink in his armor is that it’s not in his nature to burn a bridge with someone who might help further his position, down the line.

  Someone like me.

  I just have to remind him of that fact.

  “You mean to tell me, the king is too busy to speak to the sole heir of Germania?”

  “I’m sorry… but…” Simms wavers.

  “You know, Gerald — can I call you Gerald?” I lean in, eyes locked on his beady brown ones. “I’m new to all of this, so forgive me if I’m off base here… but if I were in your position, I wouldn’t want to make an enemy of a girl who might, one day, inherit that official crown business they’re discussing behind those doors. And as your princess…” My jaw sets in a sweet smile. “Maybe even as your future queen… I suggest you let me pass.”

  His face pales a shade. “This is highly unprecedented…”<
br />
  I lift my brows and wait.

  Approximately three seconds later, he pivots on his shiny shoes and knocks quietly on the study doors. “Your Royal Majesty? Please forgive the impertinence…”

  My smile returns.

  Leverage, indeed.

  Chapter Eight

  I sit in a leather chair staring across a massive mahogany desk, engaged in a staring contest I fear I cannot win with the father I wish I’d never met. It’s almost like looking into my own eyes — same deep green shade, same slightly almond shape, same mix of curiosity and caution projected in their depths as we evaluate one another.

  It’s just the two of us; he dismissed his counselors and his personal guard detail when he saw me hovering in the doorway to his study, Simms chortling out apologies at my side. In the crushing silence left behind, I find myself wishing they’d stayed. I’m suddenly second-guessing my whole rationale for insisting upon this meeting.

  “So.” Linus steeples his hands in front of him and leans back in his leather chair. “You wanted to see me.”

  I nod.

  “I must say, I’m surprised — given your reaction last night.”

  My eyes press closed as I recall my outburst. I can’t bring myself to apologize, but I do arrange my features into a suitably contrary expression. “Last night, I was overwhelmed and exhausted. It was… a lot to take in all at once.”

  “Still, I thought you’d be halfway to Hawthorne by now.”

  I jolt, startled when he names the small neighborhood in Vasgaard that I call home.

  “Are you surprised I know where you grew up, Emilia?” he asks softly. “Would you be surprised to learn I know a great deal about you and the life you’ve led?”

  I wouldn’t touch that question with a ten-foot pole. The potential answer is far too scary.

  My pulse kicks up a gear. “Honestly? I’m more surprised you’d let me go home at all.”

  “You are not a prisoner, Emilia. You were brought to Lockwood Estate as a form of protection during an emergency. And, despite what you might think, everyone in this household is thrilled to have you here.”

  “Oh, that’s precisely the impression I got from the armed guards who dragged me here against my will.” I snort. “And especially from your wife.”

  “Admittedly, some are struggling with this transition more that others.” A glimmer of humor appears in his eyes. “But even Octavia will come around eventually.”

  I stare at him skeptically.

  “If I may ask… what is it you came here for?” He coughs — a wet, racking sound that reminds me of my mother before she went into the hospital. I try to focus on the talking points I put together, but it’s a struggle.

  Is he sick?

  “Emilia?” Linus prompts. “Much as I enjoy your company, I do have matters to attend to. If you won’t tell me why you’re here—”

  “A negotiation,” I blurt.

  “Oh?” His expression turns curious. “And what are we negotiating?”

  “You want something from me — need something, actually,” I correct rather clumsily, wishing my words were coming out the way I rehearsed earlier in my bathroom mirror. “But I’m going to need some things in exchange.”

  His bushy gray brows lift. “Do go on.”

  “I…” I force out the words. “I will agree to consider becoming your heir — and I mean really, truly consider it, with an open mind, withholding all judgment — but I can’t do that if the whole world is watching me. I want the chance to see what this life would be like without being under the public microscope.” My cheeks stain red. “No royal announcement. No press. No pressure.”

  He doesn’t react.

  I suck in a fortifying gulp of oxygen and keep going. “This way, you can teach me about the kingdom, about this life, about the responsibilities that come along with being a royal, before I’m locked in for all eternity. If you manage to convince me to stay, I will accept my role as the crown princess. But, if not… you will allow me to return to my life, under no obligation to ever take on a royal title.” I shrug lightly. “Call it… a trial period.”

  Surprisingly, he doesn’t laugh at me. He simply inclines his head and asks, “And how long would this trial period last?”

  “Um…” Shit, I hadn’t considered that. “A year?”

  “ Until my official coronation,” he counters, his expression unreadable. “In one month.”

  “But that’s not nearly enough time! How can I possibly—”

  “This is a negotiation, is it not?” he cuts me off in a stern voice.

  “…yes.”

  “And you are familiar with the meaning of that word, correct?”

  I fight the urge to stick out my tongue at him like a child and murmur, “A compromise between parties with opposing interests.”

  “Exactly right. However, in this case, my interests are time sensitive.” He sits back in his chair and steeples his hands once more. “One month — during which time your identity will be kept in strictest confidence from all outside the immediate royal family, household staff, and security detail. You will be at my disposal for public events, posing as a new royal aide or some other suitable alias. You will also take mandatory lessons in foreign affairs, traditional dance, and proper etiquette from a tutor of my choosing.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I snap, outraged. “You want me to take princess lessons!?”

  “Twice a day.”

  “That’s absurd!” I jolt to my feet. “I will not be subjected to the humiliation of parading around a ballroom, learning how to flirt and finger-wave like some tiara-wearing airhead.”

  “Then I suppose you won’t be getting whatever it is you so desperately want.” He shrugs lightly, as if he doesn’t care which path I choose, but his eyes remain intent. “What is it you want, Emilia? I imagine something of vast importance, if you’re willing to even temporarily take on a role you so clearly despise in order to get it.”

  Don’t let anger cloud your judgment.

  Focus on your endgame.

  Focus on getting home.

  I sink slowly back into my seat and take a deep breath. “I still think one month isn’t nearly enough time.”

  He doesn’t say a word.

  “But I will concede to it,” I agree, wincing at the idea. “If you give me what I want in return.”

  “Which is?”

  I swallow hard. “Firstly, I want my belongings returned to me, including my cellphone, so I can call the friend I was with last night and make sure he is okay. I’d also like to see him in person — today, if possible. ”

  “This would be…” He glances down at a folder on his desk. “Mr. Owen Harding?”

  A jolt moves through me. “Yes. How did you know that? Is he all right?”

  “I assure you, he’s perfectly well. So well, in fact, that he’s been calling the palace nonstop since you were extracted last night, demanding to speak with you.”

  “What?”

  Linus nods. “Quite a determined fellow.”

  I run a hand through my hair. “He must be going out of his mind with worry…”

  “We will, of course, make arrangements for your boyfriend to come here — after he’s been screened for potential security threats.”

  “He’s not a security threat! And he’s not my boyfriend.”

  “My mistake.” Those bushy brows quirk upward again. “It’s simply rare to see such devotion from a… friend.”

  “Maybe you need new friends.”

  His eyes gleam. “Now that we’ve settled the matter of Mr. Harding… I assume you have more items on your list of demands?”

  “Right.” I straighten my shoulders. “My internship.”

  “At Vasgaard University’s Center for Clinical Psychology.”

  Again, I startle at his thorough knowledge of my life. “Yes.”

  “A prestigious program.”

  “Exactly. I worked hard to earn my spot there, and I won’t allow all
of this—” I gesture around vaguely. “— to jeopardize it, especially when I’m this close to completing my degree. During this trial, I’ll need to continue my courses.”

  “That’s not possible.”

  I stiffen. “Just like that? No discussion?”

  He nods. “Just like that.”

  “So I have to take princess lessons and give up my real ones?” I scoff. “I thought this was a negotiation!”

  “To a certain point. However, we cannot guarantee your safety while you are wandering around a university campus.”

  “No one even knows who I am,” I point out. “I’m not in danger.”

  “We don’t know that for sure. We don’t have any definitive information yet about how the fire started; however, my head of security believes foul play was a factor. This is not yet public knowledge, but… someone hit Henry over the head before the flames spread, and left him in his chambers to die. Which means this was no accident. It was an attack. It was murder.”

  My eyes widen. I’d suspected that might be a possibility, but hearing it confirmed is still a punch to the gut. Linus suddenly looks every bit his age, all seventy three years of life weighing down on him like an anvil.

  “My brother is dead. My sister-in-law is dead. My nephew is lying in a hospital bed, clinging to life. This is not the time for taking undue risks, Emilia.”

  “I understand that,” I murmur. “However—”

  “No. My answer is final. Until we know whether this is an active threat, who the perpetrators are, and whether any other members of this family are targets, extra precautions must be taken. I will not have my daughter’s life put at risk over something that can easily be solved with a letter to the dean and a temporary hiatus from your coursework.”

  The word daughter hangs in the air between us, heavier than fog. I drop my eyes to the gleaming surface of his desk and do my damndest to ignore it.

  “I don’t want to take a hiatus,” I whisper.

  “Then we will enroll you in online classes.”

  “And my internship?” I ask, lifting my eyes again. “How can I see patients, or practice therapy, or learn to diagnose from behind a computer screen?”