Sordid Empire

by Julie Johnson

  Carter’s skeptical scoff cuts the air like the fall of an axe. “That’s what you said last time, right before you OD’d and got sent to rehab. And the time before that, when I found that hack of a sobriety coach for you—”

  “Travis was not a hack!”

  “Fucking you on the side was not part of the contract he signed,” Carter snaps. “Unless his dick has some mystical healing properties I’m unaware of.”

  Chloe blows out a huff of air. “Okay. So maybe he was a bit of a hack. But I don’t need another sobriety coach and I definitely don’t need to go back to rehab. I’m going to rein it in. You’ll see. I’ll get it under control. I’ll be better.”

  “For how long?” Carter’s head shakes. “A week? A month? Six months? Maybe, if we’re really lucky, a full year?”

  “That’s not fair,” she retorts.

  He advances three steps, fists clenched at his sides. “Don’t talk to me about fair. Fuck! I’m so tired of this, Chloe. I’m tired of having this same conversation with you, an endless goddamn loop of promises and lies. I’m tired of watching you throw all your talent and intelligence away, chasing some high that will never keep you satisfied. Mostly, though, I’m tired of—” His voice cracks and I swear, the sound is so broken, so utterly defeated, it’s enough to make tears spring to my eyes. “I’m tired of waiting for the call from some doctor in a morgue telling me my little sister is dead.”

  A tear snakes down Chloe’s cheek. She tries to swipe it away before we can see, but she’s not quick enough.

  Carter continues roughly. “I had no father. I’d probably have been better off without the sad excuse for a mother who raised us. I can count my entire family on one finger. That’s you,” he whispers starkly. “If you die — if you kill yourself with this poison — I’ll have no one left.”

  She keeps her face averted, but there’s no missing the streaming tears — or the morose sniffles that accompany them.

  “As your only brother, I’m asking you for a favor.” Carter sets a hand on her frail shoulder and squeezes lightly, as though she’s liable to shatter beneath his grip. “Choose yourself. Choose yourself over the drugs. Over the crappy childhood. Over all the shit that’s happened to you. Over all the voices that make you question why you’re still here. Choose your future over your past… and change your present.”

  She glances up at him — eyes red-rimmed and full of tears. The silence between them stretches into a tangible thing, so thick in the air it’s hard to breathe properly.

  “What if I fail again?” she whispers, barely audible. “What if I try to get clean and I can’t do it? What if… What if I let you down again? I’ve already disappointed you so many times…”

  I reach across the bedspread and lace my hand with her limp one, squeezing as tight as I can manage. “You’ve got two people right here who believe you can do this, Chloe. But we can’t be the only ones.. You have to believe in yourself, too. You have to try. Really try. Whether that’s with talk therapy or guided meditation or a full ten-step program. You’ve got to be all in, this time.” I pause, careful not to look at Carter when I say the next part. Unable to meet his eyes as I repeat the words he once spoke to me, when I was at a low point of my own. “Someone very wise once told me… the hardest thing in the world is figuring out who you are and refusing to apologize for it. Being yourself in the face of great opposition.”

  I hear a sharp inhale from Carter’s direction, but I keep going.

  “You have a big obstacle in front of you. It’s never easy to start an uphill climb when you’re still at the bottom; it probably feels insurmountable right now. But if you never even try… you’re letting the prospect of failure define you long before you’ve actually failed. And that’s just bullshit.” I squeeze her hand harder. “The Chloe Thorne I know doesn’t let anyone or anything define her.”

  Her hand is bony and cold in mine, but there’s unanticipated strength in her grip as she returns my squeeze — hard enough to make my fingers ache. I tell myself the tears in my eyes are from that pain, not from her next words.

  “Okay. Okay. I’ll try. I might not succeed, I’ll probably let you down again… But I’ll really try. I promise.”

  Chapter Seven

  Over the next two weeks, we carve out fragile new patterns of cohabitation at the castle. It’s bizarre to have Chloe and Carter living with me again. We’ve shared the same roof before, but things feel different this time. They are different this time.

  Chloe is sober, for one. Gone are the days of her night-owl antics — stumbling home at dawn in a sequined dress, her makeup smudged beneath dilated eyes. Now that the worst of her withdrawal symptoms have passed, most days she’s awake before I drag myself out of bed: doing yoga in the Gatehouse training center with Galizia, meditating on the floor of her suite surrounded by scented candles and ambient sounds, sipping tea in the library with Dr. Hess, the new psychologist she’s started seeing every afternoon.

  Already, she’s smiling more. Eating more. Even laughing again. The circles under her eyes are fading day by day. There’s a healthy glow to her skin which, mere days ago, was wan with exhaustion. Her progress is startling in its suddenness.

  I know it’s still too early to be entirely confident these lifestyle changes will stick, but I catch myself feeling cautiously optimistic. Or perhaps I’m simply more at ease having her here. Home. These gloomy castle corridors don’t feel so incredibly vast with the sound of Chloe’s laughter echoing down them.

  Having my sister back in my life fills me with a remarkable sense of rightness — as though I’ve snapped fully awake after sleepwalking for months. I’ve felt more alive in the days since she returned than I did the entire span she was away. Maybe I’m the one who’s supposed to be helping her find equilibrium but, in reality, she’s doing the same for me.

  Her brother is another story.

  With Carter Thorne once again stalking the halls of Waterford Palace, I spend my days balanced on the edge of a dangerous fault line — acting as a pillar of strength for Chloe while my own foundation crumbles, brick by brick, beneath my feet.

  I never knew it was possible to be so simultaneously drawn to and repelled by someone; to have their every nerve ending call to yours like there are magnets in their bloodstream specifically calibrated to either draw you in or shove you away, depending entirely on their mood.

  Lately, that mood is decidedly dark — at least, around me. For Chloe, he puts on a mask of civility and brotherly concern. Not me, though.

  I get the beast.

  Stripped of any obligation to act polite, Carter does more scowling than speaking where I’m concerned. Whenever we find ourselves alone in the same room — be it the kitchen for a late-night snack or the library for a new book off the shelves or the hallway outside our adjacent suites — he shoots me the most withering of looks before pivoting on one heel and striding in the opposite direction. As though he can’t get away from me fast enough. As though my proximity is something to be avoided at all costs.

  I watch him go in silent misery, paralyzed by my desperation to chase after him and the knowledge that doing so would be an unmitigated disaster.

  He is not your beast to tame, Emilia. He never was.

  Carter’s arctic chill is hardly warmer when other people are around to witness it. He may not physically remove himself from my presence while Chloe is in the room, but the waves of fury pouring off him are palpable — a never-ceasing tide of silent wrath. I let them wash over me without complaint, wishing his anger was enough to render my own attraction null and void. If disdain could cancel out desire, I’d have been cured of this ill-fated infatuation long ago.

  I’m not sure how much longer I can endure the strange truce we’ve struck — it feels eggshell-thin, liable to crack apart at any moment. We are one conversation away from wreckage, and every day it’s getting harder and harder to shove down my words. I am choking on all the thoughts I’ve spent two weeks swallowing in his presence. I f
ear my windpipe will soon be so blocked, I won’t be able to breathe at all.

  I almost wish he’d gone back to stay at Hightower; that Chloe hadn’t done her puppy-dog-eyes routine until he agreed to stay. Almost, but not really. Because the only thing worse than him being here, hating me, would be him not being here at all.

  If this is the only version of him I can get… I’ll take it. I’ll take the beast.

  I never expected Prince Charming from him, anyway.

  “Hello?” A pillow sails into the side of my head with a thunk, jolting me back to reality. “Am I talking to myself here?”

  “Sorry.” I shoot Chloe an apologetic look from my chair by the window. She’s sitting on her bed, painting her toenails a bright shade of aquamarine. “What were you saying?”

  “I asked what you’re planning to wear tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow? To open the Parliamentary session?” My nose wrinkles with distaste. “Probably an ugly pantsuit or something else suitably dignified…”

  “God no.” She snorts. “Tomorrow night. To that charity auction in Frenburg — the one benefiting the victims of the Vasgaard Square bombing. All of Germanian society will be there.” Her head tilts. “You are going, aren’t you?”

  “I wasn’t planning on it.”

  Truth be told, without Caulfield here to pressure me about making more public appearances, I haven’t even entertained the thought of leaving the castle. I’ve been too focused on Chloe’s recovery to contemplate much else. Tomorrow morning’s visit to Parliament is the only planned exception to my isolation.

  Each month, it’s customary for the reigning monarch to open a session of government with the ceremonial oath, listen to the ministers propose and vote on different bills, and sign those that pass into official law. The practice is known as royal assent, according to the history texts I’ve been studying and, as far as I can tell, it’s mostly a formality. A sovereign hasn’t withheld their stamp of approval on any law in over a century.

  Perhaps the anti-monarchists are onto something: it seems I’m nothing but a figurehead after all. The ministers in Parliament appear to be the only ones with true power in this kingdom.

  Just the thought of spending my day tomorrow in the grand halls of the National Assembly, surrounded by stuffy old men in powdered white wigs, trying to keep my eyes open as they drone on about amendments and addendums, is painful enough to make me consider abdicating my crown.

  “I think we should go to the auction,” Chloe announces decidedly. “I already asked the staff to bring some dress options by later tonight. We can try them all on, do a full fashion montage like we’re in a cheesy romantic comedy. Maybe put on some girly music and sing pop ballads into our hairbrushes, for the full effect… Doesn’t that sound fun? In a lame, sober, preteen girl kind of way, I’ll grant you. But still fun, right?”

  My heart pangs. “Chloe.”

  “Mmm?”

  “Isn’t it a bit soon for you to be…”

  “What?” Her red brows arch skeptically. “Out of confinement at the castle? Surrounded by temptation in the form of an open bar in a ballroom full of fellow overdressed, overmedicated elites?”

  “Your words, not mine.”

  She sighs deeply. “Your concern is noted and appreciated, E. But isolation isn’t my style. I don’t think spending a few hours outside these walls, interacting with people other than you, my overbearing older brother, and my shrink would be the worst thing in the world. It would probably be good for me, actually.”

  “Speaking of your shrink, what does Dr. Hess think about this proposed field trip?”

  “She’s surprisingly onboard. She thinks it would be a good way to — and I quote — test the waters of my newfound sobriety in a familiar environment of temptation.”

  I hesitate, chewing my bottom lip worriedly. On the one hand, what Chloe is saying makes sense. She’s been doing so well here. I want to trust that she’s ready to extend that progress into new settings. But I’m also terrified the minute she steps outside the palace gates, she’s going to fall off the wagon… straight onto the floor of some club in a drugged-out stupor.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” she murmurs, screwing the top back onto the bottle of polish. “You don’t think I’m strong enough to handle it. You doubt I’m actually serious about staying sober. But this time… God, I don’t know how to explain it, things just feel different. Maybe because I actually want them to be different. I actually want to change.”

  “It’s not that I doubt you or your capabilities, Chloe. I just think it’s a little soon. You’ve been doing so well. Why rock the boat?”

  “Staying in control here, surrounded by babysitters? That’s not difficult, E. I need to show that I can stay sober without constant supervision, outside this protective bubble.” A pleading note creeps into her voice. “I need to prove to myself that I’m stronger than my addiction. To prove that being an addict doesn’t define who I am.”

  I suck in a breath. An addict. I’ve never heard her refer to herself in those terms before. She’s always downplayed her issues, laughed off our concerns about her frequent drug use with a pithy comment or a wave of her wrist. The fact that she’s actually acknowledging her own demons is such a leap from where she was mere weeks ago, it’s hard to wrap my mind around it.

  “Please, E,” she murmurs. “Give me a chance.”

  I can see how sincere she is. The intent look on her face, the fragile hope she’s not fully managing to conceal. This is an important step for her. Maybe not one I’m entirely comfortable with… but one she needs to take in order to move forward.

  Squaring my shoulders, I take a deep breath and fix her with a stern look. “You’ll stick with me or Galizia the entire time we’re at the auction.”

  “Consider me Elmer’s, baby — I’ll be like glue.”

  “And I want to talk to Dr. Hess before we go.”

  “Chat away.”

  “And we’re not staying late.”

  “Curfew accepted.”

  My lips twist. I’ve never heard Chloe so agreeable about anything, let alone voluntarily attending a Germanian social function. “You’re really serious about this, huh?”

  “I really am.”

  “Then toss me that nail polish.”

  “Why? Planning to stir up another social media storm with an unauthorized royal manicure?” Chloe smirks as she slides off the bed and crosses to hand me the small bottle. “You little rebel.”

  “I’m not a rebel.” I roll my eyes. “And it’s not about creating chaos on Twitter. I just…”

  “Don’t want to be controlled by some archaic, arbitrary rules you have no say in?” Her voice is wry. “Trust me, I get it. I’m all for it. In fact, if I were you, I’d take it even further.”

  My brows go up. “Meaning?”

  Eyes narrowed, she reaches out and takes a loose lock of my hair between two fingers. The glossy mahogany strands catch the light as she twirls them lightly.

  “How much do you trust me?”

  Two hours later, I gasp at myself in the vanity mirror. Reaching up, I touch my hair to make sure I’m not hallucinating.

  “See? Told you it would be badass,” Chloe says happily, her face appearing next to mine in the reflection. “You like it, right?”

  I turn my head to better see the results of her handiwork. Most of my hair was left untouched; it’s the same deep brown shade it was this morning. But now, framing the left side of my face, there’s one long streak of deep purple running from my roots to the ends — a vivid pop of color amidst my glossy curls. Seeing it there inspires an irrepressible smile.

  “I love it,” I tell her, meaning it. “It’s absolutely perfect.”

  “You do realize half the world is going to lose their shit over this, right?”

  I shrug. “Then I guess they’re lucky they didn’t meet me six months ago, when my whole head was lavender.”

  “Oh, I remember.”

  “If my appearance
is more important to them than my actions as their queen, I think we have bigger problems at hand.”

  “Damn straight. I’d normally pop some champagne to celebrate your newfound independence, but seeing as I’m not allowed to drink…” She raises an imaginary glass in my direction. “Cheers to not letting them define you, E.”

  I lift my empty hand in return and murmur, “To reclaiming the pieces.”

  Her nose scrunches. “What? What does that mean? What pieces?”

  I shrug lightly, unable to explain without opening a very messy can of worms. But in my head, I hear his voice so clearly — whispering words that have gotten me through more dark nights than I’d ever care to count.

  You don’t like people tearing pieces of you away, replacing them with traits of their own design? Then take your pieces back. Remake yourself. And when you do, make sure you use more than staples and glue. Use iron and blood and stone. Use something so strong, they can’t break you apart ever again.

  Blinking away sudden tears, I paste on a smile and turn fully toward Chloe. “Thank you. Really, the hair is perfect.”

  “My pleasure. Nothing pleases me more than scandalizing stodgy members of the Germanian aristocracy. I’m glad I can continue the practice even in my sobriety.”

  “Speaking of snobby aristocrats…”

  Her brows lift.

  “I’m almost afraid to ask, but… have you heard from your mother, lately? I know she went abroad after Linus died. I haven’t heard a peep since, though. It’s suspiciously quiet.”

  Chloe winces. “Ugh, E! Our don’t-ask-don’t-tell policy concerning Octavia was going so well…”

  “Trust me, I don’t want to talk about the woman either. She’s not exactly my favorite person on the planet. In fact, she might be my least favorite person on the planet. But she’s still your mother.”

  “Your point being?”

  “My point being… Do you think she might want to know how you’re doing… where you’re living… about your sobriety…”