Dirty Halo: a forbidden royal romance

by East, Evie

  He leaves in a huff, a cloud of self-inflated ego lingering in his wake like bad cologne.

  * * *

  Forty minutes later, I study myself in the mirror, hardly recognizing the girl staring back at me. The ballgown is truly a work of art — champagne satin and tulle with intricately embroidered lace appliqué that covers both sleeves and extends downward in shimmering whirls of gold. The bodice is tight fitted, showing off my curves like never before with the help of the stiff corset boning. The back dips low to reveal most of my spine before flowing out into a full skirt, complete with a two foot train.

  In this dress, I actually look like a princess.

  In this dress… I almost feel like a princess.

  I’m thoroughly convinced the hair and makeup ladies have magical powers, because no fairy godmother could’ve done any better — even with a wand. My eyes are lined with black and gold, making the green of my irises pop. My lips are stained a deep berry tone that’s somehow glossy without being sticky. And my wild curls have been tamed into sleek mahogany coils — an up-do specifically designed to suit a crown.

  Just the thought of what’s to come makes my mouth press into a solemn line and my hands shake with nerves.

  “The look lovely, Your Highness,” the hairstylist says, smiling proudly. “Are you ready to go?”

  No.

  “Yes,” I murmur, turning my back on the stranger in the mirror. “Let’s go.”

  * * *

  My heart is thudding out of my chest as I float down the hall toward the throne room, four members of the King’s Guard in full uniform accompanying my every step. I can hear the swell of voices as I approach the grand staircase. The hall below comes into view and I fight to keep fear from showing on my face.

  At the bottom of the polished stone stairs, at least four hundred subjects are seated, awaiting their new king in fine gowns and tuxedoes. I spot Carter and Chloe sitting in the aisle closest to the raised throne platform. A few rows back, the Sterling family is gathered, all four platinum blond heads easy enough to spot in the sea of people.

  Their presence should be reassuring. Instead, it increases my anxiety tenfold.

  When Lady Morrell and I walked through the ceremony yesterday in the empty throne room, I felt confident enough. That confidence has fled, now that I’m standing here in a ballgown, about to be a spectacle for the whole world to judge. The aisle seems so much longer from here, an endless strip of navy and gold carpet cutting straight through the middle of the crowd. I shiver at the idea of traversing it, all those eyes fixed upon me as I glide toward the throne.

  Twenty-five steps down.

  One hundred yards dead ahead.

  Take your place on the stage.

  Stop.

  Smile.

  Breathe.

  Simms is staring pointedly at me from the other side of the landing, fully prepared to make my introduction to the crowd… but my feet are frozen. I can’t move. I stand in the shadows, just out of sight, trying and failing to make myself take my first steps down those stairs. Visions of me tripping on the train of my dress and cartwheeling head over heels down twenty-five stone steps in front of the entire court play on a continuous loop inside my head.

  “Are you nervous?”

  The whispered words make my head whip around. I startle when I see Linus standing several feet from me, dressed in the ornate gold cloak of a king. His expression is grave, his eyes intent as they move over my face.

  I jerk my chin higher and shake my head. I won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing just how scared I am. After what he did, I’ll never let my guard down around him again.

  “You look lovely, Emilia.” His green eyes, so like mine, seem to gleam in the dark. “Every inch the princess I always knew you were.”

  “A fancy dress doesn’t make me a princess,” I snap back. “By your standards, any noblewoman down in that room could hire a seamstress and call herself a queen.”

  “You’re wrong, my dear. Nobility is not equivalent to royalty. One is a social class; the other a destiny. Nobles can be elevated in rank through money or marriage, opportunity or favor… but no one on earth can alter the blood running through your veins, Emilia Lancaster.” Linus sounds more serious than I’ve ever heard him. “You bow to no one, Your Royal Highness.”

  We look at each other — father to daughter, king to heir — and before I can stop myself, I ask a question I’ve been mulling over since the minute I learned he existed.

  “Why did you leave her?” My hands curl into tight fists. “Why did you leave us?”

  He flinches almost imperceptibly, but doesn’t balk. “Because… she asked me to.”

  “What?”

  “Your mother asked me to leave.”

  No. He’s lying.

  “That’s not what she told me.”

  “No, I wouldn’t imagine so. I’m sure she told you I was a scoundrel and a rake, a middle-aged man with a wandering eye who seduced a woman too young for him by about twenty-five years.” He sighs. “And that is all true. However, it is not the full story. And it’s not the reason I did not raise you as my daughter.”

  “Then why?”

  “Your mother wanted nothing to do with this life. Not me or my familial obligations, not the pretension or the pomp, not the strict rules and restrictions that come along with the crown. None of it.” He pauses. “She was a free spirit. An artist. She would’ve been utterly miserable, confined within the role of Duchess of Hightower. I’m sure you can see that.”

  “But, you could’ve left her and still…”

  “Still claimed you,” he finishes for me. “You’re correct. I could have. But your mother asked for complete separation. A clean cut, she called it. A chance for you to have a totally normal life, without any of this to bog you down.”

  “And you agreed? Just like that?”

  “Regardless of what you might think of me… I loved your mother very much. I would’ve done anything she asked of me. Even cut myself out of her life. Even walk away from my chance to raise my own child.”

  “And I suppose you never regretted that choice, seeing as you married Octavia a few short years later and got two brand new step-kids to fill that father-shaped void in your life.”

  He sighs deeply, regret twisting his features. “I wish, daily, that I had chosen to do things differently. These past few weeks… to see the fine woman you have grown into, to witness the way you have handled an unprecedented situation with grace and poise, when a lesser person might’ve crumbled beneath the pressure… it has been a source of both great pride and deep remorse.”

  I pull in a stunned breath. Much as I’d love to pretend his words have no effect on me, I can’t. My father is standing there saying things I’ve waited my whole life to hear. And maybe it makes me weak for even listening, maybe it makes me a fool for believing a word he says, after the things he’s done in the past…

  But it’s no use.

  You’re such an idiot, I scold myself, even as my heart clenches and my eyes begin to sting. Not everyone deserves a second chance.

  “Emilia.” Linus takes a step forward, so we’re chest to chest, and reaches down to gather my limp hands within his own. It’s the closest we’ve ever come to an embrace. “I know you never would’ve chosen this path for yourself. But I truly believe that is why you are meant to take it.” He pauses. “A very wise woman once told me, ‘Those who actively seek out power are those who least deserve it.’”

  “Mom,” I whisper, voice breaking. “Mom said that.”

  He nods. “I’ve never forgotten.”

  “Give a crown to a king, he will treat the world as commoners. Give a crown to a common man, he will treat the world like kings,” I recite from memory, smiling even though I want to cry.

  “I vow to you, Emilia…” Linus breaks off, a painful cough rattling through his chest, but manages to gather himself again. “I will try to be the kind of king she would be proud of. However short my reign.”


  A tear rolls down my cheek. I hear Mom’s voice in my head, mingling with his.

  I love you, pure heart.

  Stay bold.

  My chin lifts. Eyes glossy, I hold his stare for a long moment. There’s so much to say to him and yet, not a single word materializes on my tongue.

  What do you say to the man whose absence has defined your whole life, when he’s finally standing before you, seeking forgiveness?

  He smiles softly at me, his own eyes perilously wet, and I know he understands the meaning buried beneath my silence. In truth, I’m still not ready to forgive him for the choices he’s made… even if I’m beginning to understand his justifications in making them.

  Our road so far has been rocky. Fraught with thorny bushes and false turns. But perhaps someday… there’s a chance we can move forward. On a new path, forged by circumstance, with cautious respect from both sides.

  Not today.

  But someday.

  “Linus!” a cold, female voice snaps from the shadows, shattering the moment. “What on earth are you doing over here? I’ve been waiting with Gerald for five minutes.”

  We both turn to watch as Octavia strides toward us, her fitted blue dress stunning against the fiery shade of her hair. Her eyes slide to mine.

  “You are supposed to be on the stairs already, girl.”

  A week ago, I might’ve dropped my eyes to the floor. Avoided her stare, shied away from confrontation. But no more. Lifting my chin, I stare cooly into her eyes.

  “My name is not you or girl. It is Emilia Victoria Lancaster. I suggest you start using it.”

  Ignoring the stunned look on her face, I set my shoulders proudly and brush past her with every ounce of grace and poise I can muster.

  Lady Morrell would be so proud.

  My heart thunders as I come to a stop at the edge of the landing. The stairs spill in front of me, a waterfall of stone. I pull in a shallow breath that strains the confines of my corset before giving Simms a small nod.

  I’m ready.

  He announces my arrival in a booming voice that barely registers in my ringing ears. A hush falls over the crowd below. Every head in the audience turns to look at me. There’s a collective gasp as they take in the sight of my resplendent gold gown drifting down the stairs, one careful step at a time.

  I keep my eyes dead ahead and attempt to maintain a stately pace. A hint of relief stirs inside me when I make it to the bottom without tripping on the massive train or stumbling on my high heels… at least, until I look forward at the gauntlet remaining before me.

  My mother’s voice is with me like a drumbeat as I take those first steps down the aisle. I set my pace by each syllable as I walk, feeling eyes on me from all sides.

  Stay bold.

  Stay bold

  Stay bold

  Eighty yards.

  Fifty yards.

  Twenty yards.

  The throne creeps ever closer, the crowd around me a mass of faceless strangers. I’m nearing the end of this long, dreadful parade when I sense a set of eyes on me from the front row, strong enough to draw my focus. I tell myself not to look at him, not to yield to the tractor-beam of his stare… but as I pass within a few feet of his chair, my own eyes shift without executive permission. They lock on his, bright blue and burning with unmasked longing and for the first time since Simms said my name…

  My feet falter.

  It’s just a slight bobble before I recover; a stumble so small, I doubt anyone even notices. Except Carter. He’s watching me so intently, I know there’s not a detail of my dress he hasn’t memorized, not a single move I make that escapes his hyper-alert focus.

  Swallowing hard, I tear my gaze from his and start up the three wide steps onto the pavilion, where the archbishop is waiting in full regalia. I nod respectfully to him as I take my spot in front of the small, ornate chair to the right of the gilded throne. I don’t risk looking at the front row again, instead sweeping my eyes across the expanse, taking it all in.

  My kingdom.

  Every face in the crowd is turned to mine. They appear awed as they behold me. As though they’re witnessing something truly spectacular. It’s easily the most surreal moment of my entire life. My heartbeat pounds between my ears louder than a battle drum the longer I stand there — all eyes fixed on me, taking my measure in turn.

  Their princess.

  Thankfully, Simms voice draws their attention away before the pressure can crack my composure — booming out to announce Octavia’s entrance. Everyone shifts in their seats to watch her, the picture of regal poise as she begins her procession down the stairs. She soaks in every ounce of attention, her steps tiny, her pace glacial. I think I lose three or four years of my life, just waiting for her to take her place beside me on the stage.

  Really putting the queen in drama queen, if you ask me.

  Simms voice booms out one final time.

  “His Royal Majesty Linus Lancaster, King of Germania…”

  Every member of the audience climbs to their feet to greet him, a sign of respect reserved only for the highest echelon of the monarchy. Linus looks every bit a king as he makes his dignified procession down the aisle toward us. His eyes meet mine for the briefest of moments as he steps up onto the throne pavilion. I see a flash of warmth and pride before he looks away to greet the archbishop. Bowing his head, he takes a shuddering breath as he kneels upon the plush cushion at the center of the stage.

  And so it begins.

  * * *

  The essential elements of a Germanian coronation have remained largely unchanged for the past thousand years: an hour-long ceremony of acclaim, anointment, and sworn oaths to uphold the law, the church, and above all, the loyal subjects of the land.

  Linus’ voice is strong and clear as he accepts his responsibility. When he rises, an elaborate crown sitting upon his head, the applause is so loud, I hear the crystal chandeliers rattling perilously overhead. Lady Morrell instructed me most firmly that I was not to clap — a princess does not cheer with the masses; do endeavor to maintain a somber countenance — but I can’t help myself from smiling.

  In a sort of daze, I watch as the archbishop moves on to inaugurate Octavia as Queen Consort — a simpler, shorter version of the same process. (I assure you, my somber countenance is firmly in place when the room applauds for her.)

  Then, terrifyingly… it’s my turn.

  Kneeling with my hands clasped tightly, I stare into the dull brown eyes of the bishop as I repeat back the words of fealty I’ve spent the past few days practicing in my bathroom mirror.

  To my great surprise, as I speak my oath, the blind sense of panic fades. My pulse slows to a steady tempo. My voice doesn’t shake, the words crystal clear as they rings out in the silent room.

  “I, Emilia Victoria Lancaster, do pledge my sovereign allegiance to the people of Germania as heir apparent to the throne. In this role, I vow to uphold law and justice with mercy, to maintain the doctrine, worship, and discipline of both church and state, and to preserve all such rights and privileges of each man, woman, and child under my dominion.” I take a deep breath and bow my head. “All that which I have promised, I will perform and keep to the fullest extent of my power. So help me God.”

  The room is so silent, you could hear a button drop.

  The archbishop anoints my forehead with holy oil, his thumb slippery against my skin. I inhale involuntarily when he lifts the sparkling tiara from an ornate box to his left. It’s heavy with gold and diamond; heavier still with importance as he sets it down upon my head. It settles against my hair, glittering in the light, a perfect complement to my gown.

  As I rise and turn to greet my countrymen, I’m met with a forceful wave of applause. They cheer and clap, eyes feverish with unconditional excitement as they behold me.

  Their heir apparent.

  Their future queen.

  I have done nothing to earn their love. Yet here I stand, a product of divine right, acclaimed and adored for no r
eason at all. A fraud, collecting credit for absolutely nothing except the surname on my birth certificate.

  The smile wavers on my lips. The pulse jumps in my veins. And the beautiful crown upon my head begins to feel like something else entirely.

  A golden lie.

  A dirty halo.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Hot damn, E! You look fucking incredible! That dress is a wet dream.”

  “Um.” I blink at Chloe. “Thank you… I think?”

  “Trust me, it’s a compliment.”

  “She’s right,” Alden cuts in smoothly, stepping up to me with a smile. His eyes are shining. “You look absolutely perfect, princess.”

  My smile wavers. “Please, don’t call me that.”

  His brows lift in confusion.

  I glance away, back to Chloe, and find her squinting at the diamonds on my tiara. Her cherry red lips — the same shade as the mermaid-style dress she’s wearing — are parted in pure lust.

  “You’re going to let me try it on later, right?”

  I snort. “I don’t think I’m allowed to, actually. Pretty sure it goes back into the royal vault as soon as the party ends.”

  “Then I suppose we’d better make the most of the moment.” Alden’s hand extends. “If it’s not too forward of me… may I have the first dance?”

  “Oh,” I murmur, blushing deeply. “Of course.”

  He beams as he tucks my hand in the crook of his arm and leads me out onto the dance floor. I glance around at the Great Hall, telling myself I’m taking in the sights — not scanning restlessly for a dark head of hair and broad, tuxedoed shoulders amongst the throng of guests.

  There’s no sign of him anywhere. And I can’t help noticing that Ava is suspiciously absent, as well.

  It doesn’t matter.

  It doesn’t matter.

  It doesn’t matter.

  Pushing thoughts of Carter Thorne from my head, I force myself to appreciate the beauty of the ballroom. The space has been impressively transformed, full to the brim with fresh flower arrangements and white linen table cloths and shining silver candlesticks. Sharply uniformed waitstaff distribute champagne flutes to everyone in the crowd. An eight-piece string band offers musical accompaniment to the many couples already whirling around elegantly at the center of the room.