And now it’s gone. Frankie is gone. And there’s a hollow in my chest where my heart used to be.
Two weeks later, I’m in attendance to the queen, along with all her indispensable advisors, and a host of dispensable ones. The throne room is packed with nobles arranged in order of importance, the greatest to least. I’m up near the front, close to the throne.
Today the queen announces her successor. Her advisors aren’t a hundred percent on my side, but enough of them are convinced I’ll be able to steer the country well if the queen dies or takes an absence. Ending my engagement helped.
The tabloid frenzy has also died down somewhat. It helped that Franz wrecked his brand new red Lamborghini Aventador in a 300-year-old Baroque fountain two days ago. Of course my idiot brother emerged without a scratch, but the spectacular accident has dominated the news cycles, followed closely by my breakup with so called ‘gold-digger’, Francis Beaumonde.
I’ve filed lawsuits against the worst of the papers, but Daniel says I don’t have enough political capital to do much more than that. Freedom of speech is important, but there are a few editors I wish I could challenge to a duel.
My jaw aches from gritting my teeth. I know I’ve lost weight. But I’m so close. I’ll put on a game face. Fake it. Get through this royal audience, and then the press conference scheduled immediately afterwards. And the next. And the next.
The show must go on.
The Cawthornes are present, their smug faces arranged in a row across from me. They’re up near the front, too, skipping in line ahead of titles five centuries older than theirs, simply because they're wealthy, and their companies add a fifth of a percent to our GDP.
The eldest Cawthorne—the Viscount—reached out to me, offering vague sympathy for my recent break-up, and offering his support. I hope we can work together in the future to strengthen trade for our great nation. I can read between the lines as well as the next duke. Any offer of support is a trap. He’d expect quid pro quo, and more.
Daniel didn’t let me send a response. He also won’t allow me to levy revenge against the Cawthornes. Too bad. I’ve thought up seventy-six different ways to destroy their political, social and financial standing. Only three are illegal.
I stay up at night, plotting them. Ignoring the side of the bed where Frankie slept, the handful of nights we were together.
Daniel says my mood’s been particularly awful since the break-up. The arrogance turned cruel. He blames it on my lack of sleep, but we both know better. Frankie’s gone and with her, my reasons, my desire to be better. My sharp edges are all I have left.
I never suffered fools gladly but lately, I don't suffer them at all.
An advisor to the queen is droning on about precedent or some such nonsense. Typically I'd be paying attention to every detail, but I can't seem to focus.
I wish Frankie was here. Not that fiancées are generally invited to this sort of meeting, but if she were here, she would make it fun. She'd watch everything with a beautiful docile expression and then turn her face so that only I could see her, and wrinkle her nose.
She'd whisper some quip about how Sir Charles looks like Santa Claus's thinner younger brother. Or how Mr. Green would be her top suspect in a murder investigation. Something wacky and wonderful. Mr. Green in the throne room with the garrote. She'd waggle her dark brows. Or was it the guillotine? And she’d smile.
And then I'd get hard, and spend the rest of the assembly pondering how to sneak to an unused room and fuck her senseless on an antique brocade chair.
But Frankie’s gone. And all my fun went with her. My life stretches in front of me a long chain of endless meetings. As Crown Prince, I'll have even more responsibilities. Responsibilities I’ve prepared for all my life—but why? For what? What is it all for?
Frankie's face comes to mind. But she's gone, and I can't have her.
The queen raises a finger, summoning me. I nod and make my way to her side.
In a minute, the queen is going to declare me her official heir. I look out over the sea of prune-faced nobles, hanging on the queen’s every word. Sycophants. They’d stab me in the back and wipe their shoes on my fallen body on their way to more power.
Is this what I wanted?
I’m a fraud. Everything about my life is fake. Frankie was the only thing that was real, and I let her go.
“And now we're pleased to make the next announcement,” my aunt says.
“No,” I blurt out and she startles, her head whipping around to me.
“Benedict?” Her eyebrow arches, wrinkling her forehead.
My whole life depends on what I say next. How much should I sacrifice for love? My position? My standing? My whole kingdom?
Frankie didn’t think she was worth it, but she was wrong. She’s worth this. She’s worth everything.
I lean down so my lips are level with the queen’s ear. “I'm sorry. I'll support you in any way I can. But I can’t do this anymore.”
And I turn to face the room.
“I have an announcement to make.” There’s a giddy rush like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff, then I leap. “I'm a bastard.”
Dead silence. It stretches on for a few seconds, then someone mutters, “Well, we knew that.” It’s a joke, but no one laughs.
I clear my throat. “I'm illegitimate,” I clarify. “I cannot inherit the throne.” I pause a moment to let that sink in, and then project my voice over the growing murmurs. “Not unless you overturn the laws. Even if you did, I'm not sure I want it. I prefer my post in the Ministry of Finance. And I intend to support Her Majesty’s decrees. I love this country, and I wish to serve, but I can't live this lie any longer.”
Loud arguments break out in the room as I straighten and walk off, heading down the red carpet towards the back of the room, near the windows. The nosebleed section, where I belong.
My arms swing easily as I go. A great weight has tumbled from my shoulders. I float along, enjoying the lack of pressure. From the sounds behind me, the cabinet members have surrounded the throne, already in full discussion. I don’t look back.
I pass Mr. Cawthorne, who looks like he’s sucked a lemon. My enemies have nothing on me, I realize with a dizzy wave. They aren't going to get what they want.
I stop at the end of the room and look down onto the rose garden below. The press is waiting beyond them for their invitation inside. Daniel is out there. He’s going to be relieved and pissed at me in equal measure.
I can’t wait to tell Frankie.
“Well,” drawls a nasal voice. “That was unexpected.” Chadwick Cawthorne approaches me, hands in his pockets. He sidles up and surveys the rose garden below. “My father was wondering how you'd handle it. Didn’t think you’d have the balls to come clean.”
I blink, unable to believe what I’m hearing.
The billionaire viscount’s son seems all too willing to overshare. “He told me if the Winnie Bennett scandal didn't work out, he had something else to hang over your head.” I turn slowly, blood beating a battle rhythm in my ears.
Chad shrugs. “But you just gave it all up.”
The advisors thronging around the throne are getting louder. I glance back to see if the queen’s okay. My aunt looks tired, slouched in her grand chair with two fingers pressed to her temples. My great aunt Ursaline elbows her way into the fray, standing between the queen and the members of cabinet most likely to spit when upset. Lady Ursaline catches me watching and gives me a big wink.