by Evie East
His head shakes. “The palace has many resources. Connections at every academic institution in the world. Should you decide to abdicate at the end of our trial, I will personally ensure you are settled in whichever field you choose to pursue.”
“But—”
“Emilia. On this point, I will not bend. I cannot.”
My hands curl into fists. I glare at the man across the desk — at the unyielding set to his shoulders and the firm press of his mouth — and suddenly realize where my stubborn streak comes from.
Rock, meet hard place.
The last thing I want to do is give up my internship. I worked my ass off to land it. But I’m smart enough to know that without intervention, it’s only a matter of time before Linus releases a royal statement about me to the press. And once that tea is spilled… there’ll be no getting it back in the cup. I’ll be stuck forever in this life.
The heir apparent.
The crown princess.
As far as I can see… this negotiation is the only sliver of a chance I’ve got at hanging onto my dreams. My life. My identity. My home.
“There must be something else,” Linus interjects suddenly, seeming to read my thoughts. “Something of equal or greater value to you, that I can offer in exchange.”
My eyes hold his for a long moment. “There is one thing.”
“Name it.”
“My house… Nina’s house.”
He stills at the mention of Mom. “What about it?”
“The mortgage…” I suck in a sharp breath. “With the internship on top of my classes, I had to cut back on my waitressing hours. It’s been tough to keep up with the payments.”
“Ah. And what is the outstanding balance?”
I pause. “Around a hundred-thousand dollars.”
“I see.”
“It wasn’t Mom’s fault. The house was nearly paid off. But when she died…” I look up into his eyes, shame swallowing me whole. “Between the hospital bills and my school expenses, I had no choice but to consolidate our debt. A second mortgage was the only option I could think of to make ends meet.”
“I understand.” He considers me gravely. “I assume you would like me to absorb that balance, as part of our agreement.”
The only thing I hate more than asking for help is asking for money. It makes me feel dirty somehow. Brimming with mortification and wounded pride that I can’t handle things on my own. But that feeling doesn’t compare with the devastation I experience whenever I think about losing the house.
Every room, every wall, every floorboard is embedded with memories of my mother. Cooking elaborate meals together in the tiny kitchen, reading by the old wood stove in the back room, watching black and white movies beneath a blanket on chilly autumn nights. I can’t bear the thought of losing my last remaining link to her.
“Yes,” I whisper, my voice cracking. “If you help with the house, I’ll do whatever you want.”
“Then consider it done,” Linus agrees easily, as though I’ve asked to borrow a fiver for a carton of milk, not a payment-in-full on my mortgage. “I’ll have a check sent to the bank tomorrow.”
Relief floods through me. Maybe tonight, for the first time in months, I’ll be able to fall asleep without tossing and turning, dreaming of envelopes marked PAST DUE in red ink, worrying about the dire financial hole I’ve dug myself into.
“Thank you,” I murmur.
“Is there anything else you want?”
I shake my head, at a loss for words.
“Then terms are as follows: I will assume financial responsibility for your house, arrange for some of your personal belongings to be delivered here — along with Mr. Harding, if he so chooses — and assist you in finding a new internship, in the event of abdication. In return, you will live here — and, when it’s safe, at the palace — until my coronation in one month. You will be fully at my disposal for formal events, public appearances… whatever I see fit. You will take twice daily princess lessons, as you so charmingly christened them. And, above all, you will keep an open mind about the role you would play, should you choose to accept your position as my heir.” He pins me with a grave stare. “Are we are in agreement?”
“Yes,” I say, exhausted by the mere prospect of the weeks that lie ahead of me. “We are in agreement.”
“Shall we shake on it?” He extends a hand across his desk. “To make it official?”
Slowly, I reach out and slide my palm into his sturdy grip. He doesn’t pump my hand up and down in a normal shake — he simply holds it, squeezing lightly as he stares into my eyes. It’s a strangely poignant moment, all things considered. As is the realization that, if Linus weren’t my biological father…
I think I’d probably like him.
“Thank you, again,” I say haltingly, pulling back. I tuck my hands beneath my thighs. “For not laughing at me. For hearing me out. For… negotiating.”
He nods, somber as ever. “I’m rather impressed, actually. Only a very poor leader would accept a deal blindly, without questioning the terms and assuring their own interests.”
Did my father just… compliment me?
I don’t know what to say, so I simply nod.
“Next time, don’t fold your hand so fast,” he adds in a lighter tone. “If you’d held your ground, you might’ve talked me down on the princess lessons.”
My mouth falls open. “But— you said those terms were non-negotiable!”
“Consider this your first lesson: everything is negotiable, Emilia. The letter of law, the will of the people… even the word of a king.”
“Not fair,” I grumble. “I want a re-do.”
“Second lesson: there are no quote-unquote re-dos in politicking.”
I sigh. “Well, that sucks.”
“And so the trial begins.” His mouth turns up at one corner. “Tomorrow, at your first tutoring sessions, I’ll be sure to have your instructor teach you all the best methods to flirt and finger-wave like a — what was it you said?”
“Tiara-wearing airhead,” I murmur.
He chuckles — the first time I’ve ever heard him laugh. It’s a rusty sound, as though he doesn’t do it very often. “By god, you are so very much like your mother.”
I look up sharply. “You think?”
“I do.” The laugher bleeds out of his tone, replaced by a heart-rending sadness. “She was willful. Beautiful. A true force to be reckoned with.”
“She was.” My eyes are stinging precariously. I push to my feet and turn for the door. “I really should be going, now.”
“Emilia.” His voice halts me halfway to the exit.
I glance back.
“I am so very sorry you lost her. I should’ve said that before.” His eyes press closed. “I’m sure you miss her with each breath.”
Why does he sound like he’s speaking from experience?
Before I can do something foolish, like ask the question aloud, I slip out of his study and close the door firmly behind me.
Chapter Nine
I pull open a cabinet, grimace, and slam it back closed.
“Miss Emilia,” the timid housekeeper, Patricia, whispers for the third time in as many minutes. “If you’d just tell me what you need, I’ll be happy to make it for you…”
“I told you already,” I mutter, yanking open another cabinet. Pots and pans. I promptly shut it and move on. “The only thing I need is something to keep me occupied. I’m going insane in this empty house, just sitting around doing nothing all day.”
“Yes, miss.”
Another cabinet, this one full of cleaning products.
The next, brimming with brightly polished candlesticks.
Moving on.
Much like the rest of the manor, the kitchen is massive. It took me nearly thirty minutes of wandering down empty corridors to even locate it, tucked away in the basement, accessible only by a narrow servant’s stairwell. I descended, expecting a dark, dank, windowless room without air circulation. Instead
, I found a lovely space with narrow skylights by the ceiling that allow in soft shafts of late-afternoon light.
Much to the confusion of household staff — who assured me they could make me anything I desired, if only I’d allow them — I spent the first twenty minutes simply walking around in awe, skimming my fingers along the set of gleaming copper pots that hang from an overhead rack, examining the brick oven where three fresh breads are baking, marveling at the dum-waiters embedded in the walls, used to quickly run dishes up and down during dinner parties.
Between the stainless steel counter tops, three modern glass-front refrigerators, and more cooking implements than I’ve ever seen in one place… it’s rather different from the kitchen I grew up using — a narrow galley with barely any room to move around and a gas range so old, the burners don’t light without a match.
But I bet no one’s ever had as much fun in here as Mom and I did chopping onions on those cracked linoleum counter tops, laughing till the tears were gone.
After my meeting with Linus, I went straight back to my bedroom and stared at the wall for about an hour, wondering if I’d made a massive mistake. Torturing myself, replaying all the counter-arguments I should’ve used, analyzing all the points I forgot to touch on during our negotiation, until I thought my head might explode from the strain of it all.
I needed a distraction. Something to take my mind off the future. Preferably, something involving semi-sweet chocolate morsels and a nice rush of sugar. I needed…
Cookies.
So, I put aside my worries about bumping into Carter or Chloe or — god forbid — their mother, and set out to find the kitchen. Now, if I could only find the flour, I’d be in business…
“Dammit,” I mutter, opening another cabinet. This one is full of what appears to be an antique china set.
“Miss, are you sure I can’t assist with—”
“I’m sure!” I cut her off, shaking my head in exasperation and muttering to myself. “Seriously, how do rich people live like this? What do they do with all this free time?” I pull open another cabinet. Spices. I’m getting closer. “No chores to complete? No meals to prepare? Food appears magically on the table, dirty clothes vanish without me lifting a finger… I feel like I’m living with freaking house elves.”
“I apologize, miss,” Patricia says, sounding near tears.
“Oh, please don’t be upset!” I whirl to face her, guilt flooding me. “I know you’re just doing your job. It’s me. I’m not used to sitting around all day without pulling my weight. I go a bit stir-crazy without anything to keep me occupied. Can you understand that?”
“Of course, miss.”
I smile, but she doesn’t return it — she’s too busy chewing her bottom lip. Clearly, she’s not used to royal guests making themselves at home in her domain.
With a sigh, I resume my search for ingredients. I’ve nearly given up hope when I pull open the final set of white doors and find a narrow inset pantry, fully stocked with baking supplies.
“Of course, it’s the last one I open…”
I laugh as I grab the containers marked FLOUR and SUGER off the shelf, cradle them to my chest, and carry them over to a nearby prep table. The Lockwood Estate’s heavy stand mixer is far nicer quality than the one I have back home, but it doesn’t look much different in terms of basic mechanics. I’m sure I can figure out how to use it easily enough.
Patricia wrings her hands in silent agony as she watches me make trips back and forth from the pantry, lining up my items in a neat row — baking soda, salt, vanilla extract, chocolate chips. When she sees me heading for her immaculately organized refrigerator, she can’t quite contain her sound of distress.
“Miss, are you quite sure you wouldn’t prefer me to do that for you? If you’ll only dictate the recipe—”
“Sorry,” I say wryly, plucking two eggs from a carton. “I’m that crazy person who actually enjoys making things for herself.”
“Crazy person?” A warm, familiar voice cuts through the room. “That, I will vouch for.”
I’m so startled, I drop both eggs to the floor. I hear the unmistakable crunch of shells on tile along with a shriek from the housekeeper as she watches yolk spreading across her floor, but I don’t care. I’m already in motion — flying across the kitchen into Owen’s waiting arms.
“You’re here!” I cry as he crushes me to his chest, breathing him in. He smells so good. Safe. Solid. Secure.
Like home.
“Of course I’m here. You think I’d let them lock you up and throw away the key without putting up a fight? Not a chance, Ems.”
“My hero,” I tease in a swooning voice.
He laughs. “Yeah, well, it wasn’t exactly easy. I probably called a hundred times, screaming as an apathetic operator fed me the same bullshit line about confidential royal protocol and routine security procedure. I was scared out of my fucking head that something had happened to you.”
“God.” I squeeze him tighter. “I’m really sorry.”
“Not your fault. It’s the bastards who dragged you here,” he mutters darkly.
“Owen, the thing is—”
“You know, I’m not actually sure why they changed their minds. I guess I must’ve worn them down, though, because about an hour ago this fancy black town car pulls up outside my apartment and the driver tells me to get in. By order of the king. How insane is that? I felt like I was in an action movie.” He snorts. “Not a good one.”
A flash of guilt moves through me. I know exactly why he’s suddenly here with me — it has nothing to do with his extensive cellphone charges and everything to do with the deal I made in Linus’ study two hours ago. I don’t have the heart to correct him.
“Thank you for coming,” I whisper, blinking away tears. “I really can’t believe you’re here.”
“Me? What about you?” he counters, pulling back to look down at me. There’s an undeniable fissure of concern between his narrowed brown eyes. “Seriously, Ems… what the fuck are you still doing here?” His gaze darts around the kitchen, zeroing in on the ingredients behind me. “Besides, apparently, baking cookies for the goddamn enemy.”
Flinching, I drop my arms to my sides.
“I mean it, Ems. What the hell is going on? I charge in, expecting to find you locked up in some bedroom like a prisoner of war, fighting tooth and nail for your freedom… Imagine my surprise to see you’re perfectly content being kidnapped.”
“That’s not true!”
“Isn’t it?”
“Owen, stop. You don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“Then explain it to me.
I run both hands through my hair. “It’s complicated.”
“What’s so complicated about it?” he asks. “Grab your shit and let’s get the hell out of here. Away from these people. Back to our life.”
My eyes widen a shade. “I… Owen, I can’t.”
“What the hell do you mean, you can’t?”
I dart a glance behind me at Patricia, who’s down on her hands and knees cleaning the egg yolks off the floor, in plain earshot of every word we’re saying. If I thought there was any chance at all she’d allow it, I’d get down there and help her… but I’m wise enough not to try.
“Come with me, okay?” I plead with my best friend, grabbing his limp hand and threading our fingers together. “I’ll explain. Just… not here.”
He stares at me stoically for a moment before returning my hand-squeeze. Calling an apology over my shoulder to Patricia, I lead him out of the kitchen and up the stairs. Foreboding fills the pit of my stomach, weighing me down a bit more with each step we ascend.
Why do I have a feeling I’m about to make an even bigger mess than the one I just left behind on the immaculate kitchen floors?
* * *
It’s a gorgeous autumn day.
The snow-capped mountains behind the manor make a picture-perfect backdrop for our walk through the gardens. Two guards trail us at a respectful
distance — mute shadows, ever watchful as we wind a path around topiaries and bubbling fountains. The maze of carefully tended plots is beautiful despite the lack of summer blooms. On any other day, we’d be enjoying the view, laughing and joking about trivial things, sharing stories and making plans for the future.
Today, we are a chasm of deep silence.
He hasn’t said a word since I told him about the deal I made with Linus. I can’t say I blame him. When he arrived earlier, he thought he was here to rescue me. My real life knight-in-shining-armor. Instead, he learned the princess didn’t need any saving. In fact, she’d already struck a deal with the wicked king.
I shiver as the breeze picks up. My light cotton blouse and thin navy pants may be fashionable in the eyes of the palace personal shoppers, but they’re not exactly suited to spending time outdoors in the brisk Germanian climate. I can’t help thinking their decision not to include a coat in my new wardrobe was an intentional move to keep me from straying too far from the manor.
Nice try, assholes.
I’ve begun rubbing my hands together for warmth when Owen stops walking, shrugs out of his sturdy olive green jacket, and passes it to me.
“Here. Take it.”
My throat clogs up. He’s always taking care of me — even when he’s pissed.
“Thanks,” I murmur, pulling it on. Made of heavy canvas-like material, it’s practically the length of a dress on my petite frame, the sleeves hanging down far past my hands. He can’t quite hide the twitching of his lips when he sees how ridiculous I look wearing it.
“Owen—”
His lips flatten into a frown again. “Don’t.”
“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
“Of course I do. I’ve known you your whole damn life.” He sighs deeply. “You’re going to try to justify why this is the right decision for you, in the long run. Because you’ve no doubt already made a list of pros and cons, and rehearsed all your little talking points in your bathroom mirror…”
My cheeks flame. He really does know me.
