We’re on the third tray of desserts—after about nine courses of everything else; even eating lightly, I feel uncomfortably full within my corset—when His Majesty rises from his seat and taps his crystal champagne flute with his solid-gold spoon.
Chairs clatter and clothing rustles as everyone in the line of open salons endeavors to rise with their sovereign. I’m beyond grateful that the small handful of us at the high table on the dais aren’t required to observe this particular nicety. Instead I sit very still and stare at the bubbles in my glass.
“A toast!” the King pronounces jubilantly. “And an announcement. You’re all aware that our great nation will soon celebrate the centennial of its founding.”
He pauses as a wave of polite applause rolls through the rooms.
“The event will be attended by everyone in residence at the palace, of course, but also by Sonoma Inc. administrators from around the world, representatives from our corporate partners, ambassadors, dignitaries, and yes, even our beloved press.” He pauses for the crowd’s predictably wry laughter.
“It’s a very special time for me,” the King continues soberly, and a hush falls over the crowd. So quiet the King hardly needs the speakers M.A.R.I.E. engaged as soon as he opened his address. “But also a solemn one, as I always expected to celebrate our hundredth anniversary with my parents. Their untimely passing came as a great shock to me, as I’m sure it did to each of you, but I can think of no better way to honor their memory than to make this the most glorious celebration in the history of Sonoman-Versailles. So in their name, and in pursuit of our own joy and happiness, my beloved affianced and I have chosen to crown the centennial with the solemnization of our marriage.”
The crowd bursts into applause, and I can’t keep my head from swiveling to peer up at him, trying to figure out what he’s playing at. The centennial is in three weeks, more than a month before my eighteenth birthday. It completely destroys the timeline set by my mother—the timeline by which I’ve been setting my own financial expectations.
The King reaches out and grasps the tips of my fingers, and I’m grateful I’m wearing gloves. “I’d like you all to raise your glasses with me in a special toast to my bride of choice, Her Grace and your future Queen: Danica Grayson.” He lifts his glass high. “To the future Queen!”
The ocean itself could not have tumbled me more wildly than the wave of sound that rolls forth from the assembled court as they spew back the King’s echoed words. He’s tugging on my hand, and I realize I have to rise. My knees barely support me, but somehow I manage, and His Highness draws me close beside him.
“This wasn’t the deal,” I hiss through clenched teeth.
“Smile, bitch.”
And I do. Because there’s no other choice. Our glasses are refilled by circling bots, and His Majesty continues to raise his in all directions, punctuating his gestures with sips of champagne. Lift and sip, lift and sip. I try to do the same, but my stomach roils and burns, a volcano in a sea of alcohol. I have to simply wet my lips and pretend to swallow while sucking deep breaths in an effort to hold nausea at bay.
I thought I had time to spare. Instead, I have none at all, and I can almost hear each moment passing, an insistent digital beep counting down the seconds before my life explodes.
At last the King sets down his glass and makes a great show of kissing my hands before leading me off the dais and out of the salons. I try to pull away the instant we’re through the doorway, but though he drops my hand, the King’s fingers immediately find my arm. He pulls—really drags—me, and my last sight before I stagger into the King’s private office is Saber’s eyes, watching.
Then the door slams.
“Would you like to tell me just what the hell that was, Justin?” I demand, recovering myself as quickly as possible.
He doesn’t even look ruffled, never mind having just bodily dragged me into this room. He bends, looking into a mirror and fixing an errant strand of hair. “That was me foiling a secret ouster. Someone in court has private plans. Plans I have to stop.”
“By wedding a minor,” I say cynically.
“By having the Queen’s shares active and in my corner,” he says, straightening. “The marriage was always going to be a scandal anyway, and the headache of guardianship paperwork is easily delegated to an overpaid attorney. Meanwhile, my opponents are going to call an emergency meeting the day after the centennial celebration, while the relevant players are all in Sonoman-Versailles. Ordinarily, such a secret meeting of the nobility would be impossible to arrange.”
“Secret?” I say. “Then why do you know about it?”
He turns and fixes me with a hard glare. “Sonoman-Versailles is my kingdom. I know about the meeting because it’s my business to know everything that’s happening in Sonoman-Versailles.”