“You could have waited until after the wedding. Why now? And for God’s sake, tell me the truth for once.”
The King takes both my hands and raises my fingertips to his lips, not quite kissing them. “Danica, in our months together I’ve told you many truths. I only wish you’d believed them.” He drops my hands abruptly and offers his arm again, starting to move forward without waiting to see if I’ll accept. I almost have to lunge for his elbow to keep up. “It’s not easy, but I am trying not to underestimate you. You’d be fighting every last wedding plan if you didn’t think you could run away. In truth, you never would have spurned the offer I made two weeks ago if you didn’t already have a plausible escape at the ready. And who’s the one person most likely to assist you in carrying out such a plan?”
I don’t answer. I don’t have to.
“You understand, then, why I couldn’t allow him to remain at your side. Oh, one more thing,” he says, leaning down so his mouth is close to my ear. “You’ll be pleased to know that, owing to the unfortunate circumstances surrounding your mother’s death, safety protocols have been revised—no more unmonitored offices in the residential areas of the palace. A life could have been saved. Alternative arrangements will be made to ensure the business privacy of our noble board members, of course, but we’d hate to have a repeat incident.”
What he doesn’t say is that he knows Saber and I have been spending many hours alone in that unmonitored space. He assumes he knows what we were doing there.
That’s not where we did that.
“We wouldn’t want anything to happen to your surviving parent, would we?” His last words come out in a growl, and I understand that this is a threat. And not an empty one. If my father were to die, the King would lose nothing; my father’s shares and votes would pass to me, and the King—already assigned as my guardian and taking it upon himself to authorize my otherwise illegal underage marriage—would wield them. “Consider yourself under lock and key,” His Highness says in a whisper.
We’ve finished our circuit of the large room and are approaching the group of loud, tipsy men again. My entire body is numb, and it’s only my hand tucked into the crook of His Highness’ arm that keeps me moving forward at all.
“You must join us in a toast, my pet,” His Majesty says, pushing me toward the center of the circle and effectively ending our private conversation. “They got in a case of Henri Jayer Cros-Parantoux—five thousand euros a bottle, and that a bargain, I’m assured.”
The men around him chuckle.
“Here,” he says, putting a tiny silver goblet into my gloved hand and closing my fingers around it, seeming to understand that I’ve grown too numb, too frazzled, to grip it without assistance. “To us.”
I take the small glass of outrageously expensive wine without a word, and in one gulp, I toss back an ounce of liquid worth nearly six pots of drugged cosmetics. “Indeed,” I say, whipping out my fan and fluttering it over my chest as my throat begins to burn. “This has been enlightening.”
I leave without a backward glance.
TONIGHT IS THE last fête before selected press members descend upon us tomorrow, and the King has requested that we give an informal performance of the elaborate dance we’ve been practicing for three weeks. The one we’re supposed to perform for all the cameras tomorrow night. The one that made him realize he truly does want me for his Queen.
The one I taught Molli.
I know my face must be going back and forth between being flushed with mortification and white from despair, but I can’t seem to get hold of my emotions tonight.
As the music plays, I can feel the oily weight of His Highness’ eyes on me—mostly the part of me below my shoulders—and it’s all I can do not to flee the hall. Finally, we strike our last pose and His Majesty comes forward, clapping his hands. He grabs me tight and forces a kiss on me.
“My Queen in nearly every way,” he declares to a smattering of applause. “How glorious it’ll be when you’re finally fully mine,” he says, for my ears only. His fingers tighten on my bodice, a centimeter below my breasts, and a groan of want rumbles low in his throat.
The King finally lets me go and leads me to the high table, where course after course of delicacies is placed before me. I try to eat—I know I’m going to need my strength—but even the desserts can’t tempt me.
The champagne, however, goes down fine.
“Of course I’m delighted,” I say, beaming at yet another noble as I walk through the crowds once the meal is finally complete. I couldn’t say which noble; they’ve all become a blur, and when this one moves on and a new one steps in front of me, I notice nothing until he shakes my arm hard.
“Danica, are you okay?”