I could not have imagined a more perfect woman to sit by my side on one of the longest, hardest days of my goddamn life.
Jessica didn’t flinch when I asked her to attend Marcus’s funeral with me. Her first thought was to step back, allowing me time to process everything that’s been happening and regroup with my family, but I couldn’t find the words to tell her that she is as important to me as anyone in my family. There were no words to describe the pain piercing my heart when I pictured her boarding a plane back to the United States, leaving me behind. Alone.
Besides that, it’s just my father and me now.
I have a few errant uncles and aunts, but my mother only had one sister and my father’s siblings aren’t close to one another and they’re scattered across the world.
For years, it was the three of us.
Now it’s just the two of us.
I don’t think I could have faced the funeral—so final, so heart-wrenching—without Jessica by my side.
Somehow, she doesn’t need me to tell her what to do. She manages to be a constant comfort to me without demanding a thing, even though she’s in a strange country and attending the funeral of a man she never met. As far as she knew, he was just a man who wanted her deported.
Jessica knew instinctively to ignore the photographers covering our entrance when we arrived at the Sainthall Cathedral for the service. She faced forward the entire time, her steps measured and confident. Throughout the service, she stayed by my side, her hand tucked into the crook of my elbow.
Her beauty served as the ideal distraction whenever grief and guilt threatened to overwhelm me. I didn’t even need to offer input into her wardrobe choice for the funeral. Instead, she consulted quietly with Claire and the styling team while I sat on the sofa in her living area, picking at a lunch she’d had sent up for me because she insisted that I needed to eat. She chose to wear a simple black dress with a matching hat that highlighted her best features but didn’t draw any attention away from the funeral.
The entire time, she was strong and composed, and it made me impressed at her composure and class under duress. She’s American, no doubt about it, but she can fit in here.
She sits close to me in the back seat of the town car driven by Nate to the burial service, her hand always clasped to mine in comfort, and doesn’t once complain about the heat.
Her step and facial expression does not falter when we arrive at Sainthall Palace, though I know she must be nervous about meeting my father.
“It’s going to be all right,” I reassure her as we move toward the palace’s formal entry, the paparazzi flashing their cameras mercilessly from both sides of the paved pathway leading to the door. They’re lined up shoulder to shoulder and they remind me of goddamn vultures waiting to swoop in and devour us. My father has approved a few select members of the media to photograph the reception held after the funeral. When I asked him why, he said, “We have to let the people of Saintland see that we mourn just as they do.”
We are both introduced to the somber crowd as we enter the Great Hall, and it’s then that I see Jessica’s iron veneer crack. She takes in a deep breath and lets it out evenly as she rearranges her expression to form a small smile appropriate for the occasion.
My father stands at the back of the hall near a display that the palace staff set up to honor my brother. They’ve displayed his official portrait on one easel and arranged a massive wreath of orchids, the official flowers of the House of Caldwell, on a second easel. The King of Saintland, his back ramrod straight and eyes hollowed with sadness, shakes hand after hand as people come through the receiving line offering condolences. When he sees us approaching, he excuses himself and steps aside to join us.
“Come with me,” he says quietly, motioning for us to follow him. I guide Jessica, who is still linked to my elbow, as we follow him out of the room.
My father leads us through a door into the throne room, and then through the next one leading into his council chambers.
The last time I was here with Marcus, we fought.
The memory flushes warmly through my chest. It’s agony.
It must be agony for my father, too, but he doesn’t mention it.
Instead, he goes farther into the room to stand in front of the desk. Then he turns to face us, extending a hand toward Jessica.
“Ms. Reeves,” he says, his voice deep and tired. “Please let me apologize for any unpleasantness…any discomfort you might have experienced over the past couple of weeks. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I am Arthur Caldwell, King of Saintland, and Alexander’s father.”
Jessica shakes her head, waving away his need to apologize, and places her other hand over his in a gesture of sympathy. “I was so very sorry to hear about your son, your majesty.” Someone must have coached her how to greet him.