“Something about my image,” I say, my response sounding more like a question.
After sitting in this room for the past six hours, my mind is complete mush. Color-coded schedules. Social media. Etiquette classes. Self-defense instruction with a special ops team.
“Not something about your image.”
I look at Pippa, the head of my dedicated PR team, which consists of five people with strong opinions about everything. Inadequacy fills me as I compare myself to this group of people who look more like they just stepped off the runway at Paris Fashion Week. They’re all beautiful, stunning, the picture of confidence. Tall frames and slim bodies, not a single hair out of place. Even with my own personal stylist doing my hair and makeup in the morning, I feel awkward and frumpy next to them.
“Everything about your image.” She gives me a tight-lipped smile, masking her obvious annoyance. “Which is why we need to ensure it’s squeaky clean. From now on, your social media accounts are no longer controlled by you. In fact, we’ve taken the liberty of deactivating all your personal ones. The only social media you’ll have now will be of your…royal life.
“Tomorrow, after your morning instruction, you’ll go out with our team of photographers to spruce up your social media presence. They’ll stage photos of you exploring the city. Going forward, you won’t go anywhere without my social media guru, Daphne.” She nods at the heavily made-up woman to her right. “She’ll capture everything you do, from etiquette classes to wedding planning, and everything in between. It’s my job to make the public think you’re princess material.” She gives me a contemptuous smile. “That you’re worthy of marrying Prince Gabriel. And this is how we do it. By making you appear likable on social media.”
Unable to stop myself, I bark out a laugh. My entire PR team stares at me in obvious disapproval that I’d even dare to question their plan.
“Not to sound rude, but wouldn’t it be more beneficial if people saw me connecting with the community? Volunteering perhaps? I don’t see how staging photos of me doing things no one can relate to will make me likable. Isn’t it more important for them to find me…I don’t know…relatable?”
Pippa keeps her back straight. “Making them view you as relatable is the absolute worst thing you can possibly do as a potential new member of the royal family.”
I scrunch my brows. “Why? I—”
“Because it’s our job to make people think the crown is divine,” a firm voice interjects, carrying through the room.
Everyone snaps their eyes toward the source, jumping to their feet, bowing and curtseying with a chorus of “Your Majesty”.
I don’t even have to look to see who it is. Of course Anderson’s grandmother would walk in at the precise moment I’m no longer being the obedient puppet they wish I were.
On a deep inhale, I pull myself to my feet and turn, greeting her with as sweet of a smile as I can muster. “Your Majesty.” I curtsey.
“Do you know why the crown is divine?” she continues.
“No, ma’am.”
“Because it’s a position ordained by God himself. This may be a difficult thing for you to understand, considering your country was founded on the notion of separation of church and state, although one questions the effectiveness of that little experiment. However, in a monarchy, the king is not only the head of the country. He is also the head of the national church. He draws his power from God himself. Not the people.”
I part my lips, fighting to bite my tongue. She’s right. This is a difficult idea for me to wrap my head around. I’ve lived my entire life in a country where the people elected who they wanted to lead them. Although you could argue that’s less and less true these days, considering the amount of corporate money that finds its way into elections, particularly on the national level. But to say the role of the monarch and royal family in general is divine? I don’t fully understand.
“Right then. I believe it’s time for a chat.” She looks at the man appointed to be my private secretary. Like every other private secretary I’ve met, he’s obviously former military, clean cut and authoritative, yet still obedient to the Crown. “Lieutenant Thomas, would you be kind enough to send word to have tea prepared for us in the rose garden?”
“Ms. Tremblay hasn’t been instructed on proper tea etiquette,” Lieutenant Thomas interjects, his posture stiff. “Perhaps it’s best if—”
“Then I shall take this opportunity to do just that. Tea. Rose garden.”
He bows his head. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
She fixes her steely gaze back on me. “Come with me.” She doesn’t wait as she spins on her heel and strides away.
Acting the part of the trained dog I am, I rush to catch up, my steps quick.
“Once you begin your etiquette classes, you’ll learn that when Prince Gabriel becomes king, you’ll need to remain two steps behind him at all times.”
“Does the reason for this go back to the whole divine and ordained by God thing?”
“Yes. And because no one should ever be seen to be on equal footing as the king.” She pins me with a glare. “Even his wife. The sooner you dispense with any feminist notions of maintaining equality in your relationship, the better.”
I falter for a minute, her statement hitting me hard. Harder than I thought it would. I knew once Anderson took on the role as king, I’d have to show a certain level of deference to him. But to never be able to walk beside him in public? Never be able to hold hands as we stroll the streets? It’s borderline sadistic to take that away from a couple.
What other rules will I have to follow? What other rules will dictate our relationship?
I try to not allow my mind to wander. Instead, I remain the silent, obedient future crown princess Queen Veronica wants me to be as we walk through the hallways.
Palace attendants are stationed every few yards, their black and red uniforms blending into the wall. It reminds me of that scene in Annie when Daddy Warbucks takes Little Orphan Annie to the movies for the first time. How theater attendants lined the pathway from the doors all the way down the aisle as a show of opulence and overindulgence.
This feels the same.
As we approach a pair of double doors, an attendant magically appears. After bowing toward Queen Veronica, he opens a door, and we step onto the palace grounds.
If it were any other time, I’d take a moment to appreciate my surroundings. Grass so green I question whether it’s real. Fragrant flowers of a dozen different varieties. There are even a few butterflies flitting about from flower to flower, as if the famous Lamberside Palace gardens aren’t picturesque enough already.
A man in black tails and white gloves escorts us past a large, marble fountain and toward a more secluded area, overhanging trees creating the feeling of a private alcove. A single table with two chairs sits in the center, and the man ushers us in its direction.
“Your Majesty…” He pulls out a chair for her.
“No, Michael. Ms. Tremblay first. I’d like to see how she sits.”
I stare at her smug expression, as if she’s expecting me to collapse into a heap on the chair, completely uncivilized. I didn’t realize there was a proper way to sit.