Page 103 of Heavy Crown

I set down my coffee and pour her a glass from the pitcher in the mini fridge. When I pass it to her, our gazes connect.

“Just don’t make a fool of me. That’s all I ask.”

“I don’t intend to,” I say. “I promise I won’t.” For the last three weeks, I’ve been so caught up in other things, I haven’t asked myself or her the simplest question. “Why did you agree to this?”

“You need to be married to become king?” Her dark eyes are calculating. “That’s what my family has speculated. A marriage clause in the coronation documents.”

“Yes,” I admit. She signed the paperwork without an explicit conversation about my reasoning, and she doesn’t seem to want to back out, even though I’ve been parading around with Rory for weeks. If the situation was reversed, I’m not sure I’d be so generous.

“I want to be a queen. In Denmark, my older brother will become the king. My potential is squandered by birth order. Here,” she says with a wave of her hand, “I get to be your partner. Power, influence, and a gorgeous husband. I know a good deal when I see one.” She gives me a rueful smile. “Or I thought I did.”

Power and influence. I’m familiar with that pair, and I can’t fault her for wanting something I’ve also craved. They’re both a bit hollow now that I understand what else life has to offer. Love. So much love.

The anger I’ve been trying to cling to just won’t stick.

“Let me give you that tour,” I say.

Simone drains her water and sets the glass on the small granite counter. “I’m excited to see what our home has to offer.”

Her comment reminds me of the conversation I had with Rory at the wine bar. Home. Our home.

My chest constricts, and when Simone runs her hand down my back, I let her touch linger, even though everything in me longs to step away.

There is nothing quite like the whirlwind of a royal ceremony of any sort, but the wedding rivals a coronation in the number of staff members frantically running around and shouting orders into their walkie-talkies. It’s a military grade exercise with civilians at the helm.

Simone straightens her dress beside me while we wait for Nick and Jules to arrive and for the church balcony doors to open. The ceremony is done. It was streamed across Bellerive in every conceivable public area as well as to the world via news stations and the royal social media accounts. Family photos are complete, retouched, and posted.

Outside the church, the majority of Bellerive waits for their first glimpse of Prince Nicholas and his bride. But I’m also keenly aware, thanks to our social media manager, that the country waits for another opportunity to scrutinize Simone on my arm. Our arrival to the church together caused quite a stir, as we realized it would.

What I didn’t anticipate, and I doubt anyone else did either, was the public’s response. Along with all the usual wedding nonsense involving Nick and Jules is my very own hashtag. #AloraDead. A lump sprung into my throat when I happened to check the reaction to Simone earlier and spotted the trending moniker. Were people happy or sad about the newest development? I couldn’t allow myself to click. Either would crush me.

To maintain my sanity, I switched off my phone.

“Here they come,” Simone says in my ear as frantic activity swirls increasingly louder behind us.

I half turn to find Julia resplendent in a white gown that is stunning in its simplicity. A scooped neckline, three-quarter-length lace sleeves, and enough royal jewelry to sparkle off the glare of the sun. The tiara, long train, and turned down veil are all staples of the royal look, but on her there’s something relatable about the glamor. She might have grown up one step removed from royalty, but like my mother, the people see Jules as one of them.

How would they have viewed Rory?

I close my eyes and rub my forehead. How will they view Simone? That’s the question I need to be concerned about. Simone. I drill her name into my brain and hope it sticks.

“Headache?” Simone murmurs in my ear.

“Yes,” I say, and the lie comes easily. There’s definitely an ache, but it’s not in my head.

“I have pills in my purse. I’ll grab them for you after this.”

“Thanks,” I mutter. Medicine for an ailment that cannot be cured.

Across the hallway, my gaze connects with my father, and he’s frowning while he scans my features. How broken do I appear to him? There’s only so much I can hide from anyone who knows me well. Simone has sailed through the day as though I’ve been excellent company, but I understand my performance, outside the glare of the press, has been lackluster.

None of this is her fault, and I need to rein in my poor attitude. We all made choices, and this is where we’ve landed. Leaving the monarchy when Rory told me not to would have been beyond foolish. While I’m convinced she loves me, she didn’t believe it was enough. To me, it became everything. Now I need to cut those feelings out and staunch the bleeding.

Staff rattle off a list of instructions to all of us while Jules and Nick take their places in front of the double doors which open onto the huge balcony overlooking the center of Tucker’s Town. For centuries, royalty has been married in this church, greeted by citizens below.

“It’s nice to see how this will work for us, isn’t it? A dry run.” Simone smiles and glances at me. “Oh, you poor thing.” Her fingertips graze my brow. “Is your head that sore? Are you going to be okay?”

I stare at her, willing myself to invest in this moment with her. “I’ll be fine,” I say.