Sordid Empire

by Julie Johnson

  The team of palace professionals who helped me get ready tonight used so much hairspray to craft my perfect finger-waves, I could probably spend the night doing the foxtrot with F. Scott Fitzgerald himself without a single strand coming loose.

  Leaving the entry hall in a wake of tittering silence — Did you see her? I can’t believe she’s here. I guess she’s not in a padded cell, after all. — my heels click down the short hallway that leads to the main ballroom, where the festivities are already in full swing. Last time I was in this room, it was set for a dignified afternoon tea hosted by Lady Sterling; tonight, it looks like a scene straight out of The Great Gatsby. Champagne fountains, a jazz band, and glittering decor have transformed the elegant parlor into a full-on speakeasy.

  I hear the dull gasp of collective surprise as two solemn servants announce my arrival, their voices booming over the music.

  “Her Royal Majesty Emilia Victoria Lancaster, Queen of Germania.”

  I need no such introduction; everyone in this room knows exactly who I am. But it’s clear from the unanimous looks of disbelief breaking across every face in the crowd that they were not expecting me to actually honor the gold-foil invitation that arrived at the castle six weeks ago, requesting my presence at a 1920s-themed birthday party in honor of the esteemed Sterling family’s only son.

  This is no casual cookout with cheap beer, like my college friends used to throw whenever anyone turned a year older. In this tax bracket, they celebrate with champagne and crudités, outlandishly expensive gifts and elaborate designer costumes.

  Everyone in my line of sight has risen thoroughly to the occasion; I spot so many fringe dresses and top hats, they all begin to blur together. I pause on the edge of the glittering crowd, smile frozen on my face, heart thundering in my chest. It takes all my effort to keep my expression composed, to keep my eyes from sweeping across the sea of stylish strangers, seeking a set of particularly broad shoulders and a pair of tractor-beam of cerulean eyes.

  Is he here? Is he somewhere in the shadows, watching me?

  I push the thought away with violence. Thinking about Carter Thorne will only fray my rapidly-unfurling composure faster. Same for his sister.

  If any members of the Thorne family cross my path tonight, I will treat them as the distant acquaintances we have become, not the next-of-kin we were once forced to impersonate.

  The plan feels paper-thin at best, but I don’t allow myself to dwell on that small fact. If I did, I’d go crazier than everyone at this party already seems to believe I am.

  For a long moment, the room is utterly still. Everyone is staring at me in silence. Even the jazz musicians have stopped playing in the far corner, their crooning saxophones and string instruments hanging soundless in limp hands.

  You can do this, I tell myself, forcing my chin a shade higher. You have survived much worse than a birthday party.

  And yet, this is no normal gathering. This room is a viper pit of Germania’s young elite, clad in their grandest finery. A new generation of diamond-drenched snakes in flapper dresses and tuxedo tails, their words as carefully phrased as they are emotionally cutting. The walls practically slither as they take in the sight of me.

  Fresh prey.

  “Queen Emilia,” a warm voice shatters the pervasive silence. “You came.”

  Relief floods my bloodstream as I turn to see a sharply dressed man approaching, his ultra-white smile catching the light, his platinum head of hair perfectly parted.

  “I was invited. Should I not have come?”

  Alden laughs, a charming sound laced with at least two glasses of champagne, by best estimation. He drops into a low bow. “Trust me, I’m delighted you’re here. I just doubted you’d actually accept the invitation.”

  When he straightens, our gazes snag. There’s undeniable warmth in the depths of his hazel eyes — I see it shining as he grins at me, and his genuine happiness spurs my own to life. Before I know it, I find myself smiling back at him.

  “It’s good to see you, Your Majesty. It’s been a long time.”

  I nod. “It has.”

  “Too long.”

  I don’t agree with him — not verbally, not with so many people listening to our every word. Distantly, I hear the band resume playing, but I’m highly aware that no one is dancing. They’re too busy watching me — us — with intimidating intensity.

  Alden seems to realize we’re being scrutinized as well. Smirking lightly, he offers his arm with a flourish. “They want a show. Shall we give them one? Will you do me the honor of a dance, Your Majesty?”

  My lips twist. “It’s your birthday. How can I possibly refuse?”

  He leans in a bit, so only I can hear his next words. “Please don’t only agree because it’s my birthday. Agree because… you want to dance with me. Simple as that.”

  Never breaking eye contact with him, I swallow hard, lift a hand, and slide it into the crook of his waiting arm.

  “Lead the way.”

  It’s not my first time dancing with Alden Sterling.

  We’ve waltzed before, the night I was coronated as the Crown Princess. But tonight is different — the tempo faster, the steps more lively, the atmosphere more relaxed. Plus, it’s infinitely more enjoyable to dance without a corset cinching my ribs and twenty yards of ballgown weighing me down.

  At the center of a writhing mass of couples, Alden twirls me around the floor like a man possessed, his limbs loose with the aftereffects of alcohol, his spirits higher than I’ve ever seen.

  “Now this is what I call a party!” he yells in my ear, spinning me around again, then pulling me in closer as the song comes to an end. Applause thundering around us, I lean forward into his space so he can hear my breathless words.

  “If you spin me any faster, I’ll fall over and break my neck, Alden!”

  “I hope not. I’d rather not go to jail for accidentally assassinating the queen.” He winks. “But if it means you’re having a good time, I’ll take the risk.”

  I’m so out of breath, the laugh snags in my throat. No one is more surprised than me to realize he’s right: I am having a good time.

  When did having fun become such a foreign concept?

  When did laughing morph into a distant memory?

  Something is shaking loose inside me, thawing in the heat of my hammering heartbeat. I stand in the arms of a handsome, uncomplicated man, listening to the roar of my own pulse, feeling unflinchingly alive for the first time in months.

  “So, what do you think?” Alden’s head jerks toward the stage. “Was the band worth the cash I dropped to get them here? Their rider alone set me back a good portion of my trust fund…”

  I snort. “You don’t do anything by half measures, do you Alden?”

  “Why on earth would I ever do that?” He shakes his head, grinning. “They were supposed to play the Prince of Luxembourg’s wedding this weekend, but I made it worth their while to come here instead.”

  “Are you telling me you’ve caused an international incident over a little jazz?”

  “A little jazz? You’re in the presence of greatness and you don’t even know it!” He pauses. “Oh, and the band’s decent too.”

  “How humble of you.”

  “Oh, come on. It’s my birthday! A little grandstanding is allowed.”

  “I suppose. Though I’m not sure the Prince of Luxembourg would agree.”

  “He might, if he were here.” Alden’s eyes are glazed with liquor and locked on mine as we sway to a slow song. “Personally, I think this party was worth going to war for.”

  “Big fan of your birthday, are you?”

  “Big fan of this.” His arms tighten around me and I feel a faint flutter in my stomach. “I’m glad you came. Did I tell you that already?”

  “Only five or six times.”

  “Not nearly enough. I have work to do.”

  I laugh — a real, honest-to-god laugh, my first in quite a while. Alden watches the sound form with a mesmerized loo
k on his face.

  “Wow.”

  “What?” I ask, clamping my lips together.

  “It’s just good to see you smile. You’re always beautiful, but when you smile… You’re absolutely radiant, Your Majesty.”

  “How long are you going to call me that?”

  “What? Your official title?” His head tilts. “Forever, I’d imagine. Unless you plan on abdicating your throne anytime soon?”

  I sigh. “Unfortunately, I don’t think there’s anyone I can abdicate to. Not unless my cousin wakes up.”

  The smile drops off Alden’s face at the mention of Prince Henry. I instantly have the urge to insert my foot directly into my mouth. I was so caught up in the moment, I forgot how close Alden and Henry used to be before the fire that landed him in the hospital last fall.

  “Oh, Alden — that was thoughtless of me. This is the last thing you should have to think about on you birthday. I’m sorry, I—”

  “Don’t be. You’re allowed to talk about Henry.” Alden smiles, but there’s a tightness in his voice that wasn’t there before. “I’ve actually been meaning to ask… Has there been any change in his condition? I still visit the hospital regularly, but the doctors won’t let me into the burn ward. They say the risk of exposure to outside germs and infections is too great, in his weakened state.”

  “They tell me the same thing,” I murmur. “I get weekly briefings on his condition. As far as I know… there have been no significant changes. He’s still comatose.”

  Alden’s brow unfurrows slightly. “Will you promise me something, Your Majesty?”

  “What?”

  “Keep me informed on his condition? I like knowing how he’s doing. It’s strange… Henry’s been my best friend for as long as I can remember. But since I’m not technically family, his doctors can’t give me any real information. I’m totally in the dark.”

  My heart clenches. I wonder how I’d feel if Owen were hospitalized and I couldn’t visit him… If I couldn’t get even the most basic information on his prognosis or speak to his doctors about treatment plans…

  Awful.

  I’d feel awful.

  “I promise, if anything changes, you’ll be the first to know.” I smile faintly, hoping it looks genuine. “And your sister, of course. She is Henry’s fiancée, after all.”

  “It’s kind of you to think of her. I know Ava can be… difficult.”

  I scoff lightly. Calling Ava Sterling difficult is akin to calling a dragon moody, seconds before it turns you into flambé.

  Alden leans a shade closer, his voice lowering. “I’m not defending her actions or her choices. I just hope, at some point, the two of you can come to some sort of accord. It’s important to me that you get along. So important.”

  My brows lift at his adamance. “Why? Why does it matter so much that Ava and I bury the hatchet?”

  His steady hazel gaze never shifts from mine. There’s not an ounce of hesitation in his next words. “Because if you hate my family, I know there’s no shot in hell you’ll ever be inclined to become a part of it.”

  I suck in a sharp gulp of air. “Alden—”

  “Thank you for the dance, Your Majesty. It truly was the best birthday gift I ever could’ve asked for.”

  Without giving me a chance to reply, he releases me from his hold and vanishes into the tangle of bodies crowding the dance floor.

  Undeniably rattled after Alden’s unexpected declaration, I set my sights on the champagne fountain.

  One drink, then I’ll make my excuses and head home.

  Unfortunately, several people intercept me on my way off the dance floor. I make it approximately two steps before Westley Egerton, the Baron of Frenberg, swoops in, offering his condolences on the loss of my father and asking to dance all in the same breath. The excuse is barely out of my mouth when a gaggle of girls I’ve never met before descend on me like vultures, babbling about their plans for an upcoming charity fashion show.

  “We’d just love you to participate — you could be our celebrity judge!”

  Muttering something about my lack of free time, I dodge gracelessly away. I’m desperate to escape before Edgar Klingerton — the dull-as-dirt earl from Lund with whom I once shared an unfortunate date orchestrated by my old advisors — can make it across the floor to my side. I’d rather be blatantly rude than risk getting roped into another afternoon with that man, even if courtship makes for good press.

  No photo-op in the world is worth the loss of brain cells I experienced while enduring one afternoon in his presence.

  When I finally clear the crowd, I give the champagne fountain wide berth. Much as I’d enjoy a fortifying glass of bubbles, there’s no way I can risk stopping — not with this many Germanians eager to corner me.

  “A toast!” On the other side of the room, a slurred male voice sounds over the clinking of glasses. “To the birthday boy! Alden, where are you? Get your ass over here!”

  I use the momentary distraction to my advantage; while the crowd’s attention is diverted by the drunken speech, I slip from the main room through a nondescript side door. I move quickly down a dimly lit hallway, the music growing fainter with each step. Halfway, I pass a couple pressed together in a dark corner, their mouths fused, their hands groping under garter belts and cummerbunds. I avert my eyes and keep moving, an unintended voyeur on their stolen moment.

  At the end of the hallway, I reach a small solarium full of potted plants and uncomfortable-looking wicker furniture. It’s quite dark inside — likely to discourage party-goers from stumbling into this part of the house — and it takes a minute for my eyes to adjust.

  Moonlight filters through the glass walls, illuminating the puffs of air that escape my mouth with each breath. It’s chilly in here, the heat lamps set to their lowest setting. Most of the plants lack blooms, their stems barren. Winter is never kind to fragile things; only the hardiest have not gone dormant in the cold.

  Pressing my eyes closed, I suck in a fortifying breath and revel in the momentary solitude.

  Inhale.

  Exhale.

  Endure.

  Between the lights and the music and the murmuring crowd, my senses are in overdrive, bombarded by stimuli from all sides. After months of isolation, it’s a harsh adjustment. I feel like an astronaut who’s woken up from hyper-sleep back on their home planet; groggy and dazed, operating at half-speed while the rest of the world spins in fast-forward.

  Just a few more minutes, I tell myself, breathing deep through my nose. Then I’ll head back inside to face the serpents.

  “You’re not supposed to be in here.”

  The icy voice makes my spine straighten and my breath catch. I should’ve known this moment of solace wouldn’t last long. Steeling myself for a battle, I turn slowly around to face her.

  She’s annoyingly attractive in the darkness — some pale, unearthly flower that blooms only at night. Deadly magnolia, maybe. Her platinum locks are swept into a complicated twist, her statuesque limbs encased in a dark gold beaded dress. It’s a shame she always wears such a bitchy expression; she’d be even more gorgeous if her veins weren’t made of ice.

  “Hello, Ava.”

  Chapter Four

  Ava Sterling’s full-lipped mouth twists cruelly as she clicks closer on razor-thin stilettos. She’s always been tall, but in her Louboutins she’s liable to catch altitude sickness.

  “Well, well, well. If it isn’t Her Royal Majesty, in the flesh! I must say, I’m shocked you’d actually show up.”

  “As if I’d ever pass up a chance to see you, Ava.” Sarcasm sizzles hotly. “It’s always such a joy.”

  “I’m flattered. Word has it you’ve become quite a shut-in. I heard you can barely make it through the day without having a panic attack.”

  “You heard?” I shake my head. “Let’s not pretend you aren’t the source of every rumor that circulates about me.”

  “On the contrary, I do my best to ignore everything about you.”
r />   “Then why the hell did you follow me in here?”

  “Maybe I wanted to witness the crazy up close. See if you’re actually as batshit as the rumors say.” Her smile widens, a she-wolf baring fangs. “If I make a loud noise are you going to dart under a table? If I clap unexpectedly will you duck for cover? Or are your little PTSD episodes merely a ploy for the press cameras? Some pathetic attempt to garner public sympathy?”

  My teeth grind together when she brings up the table incident. It happened almost three months ago — one of my first public appearances after the bombings, at the memorial service for a fallen first responder.

  One minute I was standing in a funeral reception hall, shaking hands with a firefighter’s widow; the next I was under the refreshment table with my hands pressed over my eyes, hyperventilating. Legs curled up to my chest in the smallest ball I could manage, heart beating so hard it caused physical pain.

  I don’t even remember how I got there, let alone the ten minutes it took my guards to coax me out again. Later, I’d learn the bang that triggered my panic attack was a clumsy server dropping a tray. Nothing I’d blink at, under normal circumstances. But in the wake of recent events, even the smallest unexpected sound was enough to trigger my survival instincts.

  Run.

  Hide.

  Now.

  Just the mention of that mortifying moment chases away any levity I managed to muster earlier on the dance floor with Alden.

  “What?” Ava jeers. “Afraid to answer me?”

  “Just shut the fuck up about it,” I snap. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. You have no idea what I’ve been through.”

  “Oh, I read all about it in the papers. Everyone did — it’s the only thing they bothered printing for weeks.” Her hazel eyes, twins of her brother’s, roll in their sockets. “Princess Emilia stayed behind to personally help victims evacuate during the terror attack, refusing her guards’ orders for evacuation. Hero-Queen lauded by survivors and their families.” She shakes her head in disbelief. “When this country started confusing idiocy for heroism, I have no idea. Anyone with half a functioning brain cell would realize how irresponsible your actions were.”