“Don’t try that with me, Eleanor. We’ve coddled you for too long.” Lilian brought her hand up to Ele’s cheek and smoothed her thumb along her cheekbone. Then, as if a switch had been flicked, she stood, regal queen. “We’ve arranged an engagement.”
Ele swallowed hard, trying to keep the emotion off her face. She couldn’t have dreamed this scenario in a million nightmares. She couldn’t even talk, for fear she would open her mouth and she would speak in tongues. No thought could coalesce.
“At the Christmas gala, we will announce your betrothal.”
Finally, Ele strung a thought together. “Do I get to know who I am to marry?”
“Lord Matthew Parker Bennington—”
“Of Nava, I presume?” Ele interrupted.
The queen pinned her with a sharp stare, the point of which made a sheen of sweat break out on Ele’s face and beneath her arms.
“He is currently at sea with our Royal Navy. When he returns from his tour in December, you will officially be engaged. And of course, from Nava. We are in a battle for the future of the kingdom. The independence of Nava would cause a ripple effect not only in our country, but in global politics and economies as well.”
“And there are no stipulations for me to get out of this? Some mandated counseling or secret jewel buried somewhere in South Africa, which I have to find to release me from an ill-fated marriage?” Sarcasm dripped from every word. Now that she’d released her tongue, words spewed from her mouth in a torrent of indignation, disbelief, and desperation.
Ele had expected something like this for years. And the need for a political alliance had grown steadily over the last five. It made perfect sense. And she would have accepted it for what it was. A political alliance, a part she was chosen to play. But some unfulfilled part of her rebelled while she worried about her future husband’s reaction to her “condition.”
“This isn’t some fairy tale, Eleanor.”
“What if I schedule every appearance from now on at 12:17 p.m.? Would that earn me an out?”
“If it were that easy, I would have insisted on it eleven and a half years ago,” Lilian droned in a tone one hairbreadth away from a call to her security detail to lock Ele in the dungeon.
Ele thrust her shoulders back, refusing to give in to the desire to ooze into a puddle of despair right in front of one of the most powerful women in the world. “Am I free to go?”
“No.” Lilian perched against the side of her desk, her tailored wool suit as unflappable as her icy glare. “James is going to America for the World Championship Cup as part of the delegation of support for our national team. Their success can draw visitors here in droves. Seeing the crown prince supporting the team is excellent press.”
Ele stared straight ahead, barely listening to the queen.
“You will join him there for the first game of pool play.”
Ele’s spine snapped straighter as she dropped her gaze to the floor. America. World Championship Cup. National Team. Tristan.
“From there, Jamie will make some goodwill visits, using the United States as his base of sorts. Of course, you know your twin. He hopes to make every game. But in case he can’t, you will go in his stead. We will adhere to protocol. If he is at the game, you will not be there.” She waved her hand, as if the protocol established after the assassination of her parents were merely an item on a grocery list—common. “I suspect I will not be able to keep Juliana here. Thus, she will be your responsibility. If she gets herself in trouble, I will hold you accountable.”
Ele kept her gaze trained on the floor, afraid if she lifted her head, the queen would read every emotion in her eerily similar eyes. Ele couldn’t afford that, as the price for treason was still death.
“Eleanor!”
Ele’s head snapped up. “Yes?”
“You may go now.”
Ele stood and walked to Lilian. She leaned down and kissed her grandmother’s cheeks. When Lilian held out the crown jewel on her hand for Ele to kiss, Ele resisted the urge to spit on it.
She walked to the door, turned, curtsied, and left. She hurried down the hallway, concentrating on the clip-clop of her heels on the floor. She ducked around the corner and leaned against the wall, safe from prying eyes. Robert followed, maybe three steps behind. He warily eyed her, trying to judge her mood.
“Your Highness?” he inquired quietly.
She scooted over and nodded to the space beside her. When he settled against the wall, she sighed.
“What do you know about Matthew Bennington?” she asked in a hushed tone.
Robert’s eyes slanted in her direction, but he kept his body rigid. “Nothing—yet.”
Ele nodded, confident he would find out whatever she needed to know. “Seems we’re going to America.”
“Yes.”
“I owe someone an apology.”
“Yes.”
“Set it up, please.”
5
7 June
Willis Tower, Chicago
“I need an us-ie,” Tristan proclaimed.
“What the bloody hell is an us-ie?”
“More than a selfie. You know, me plus my bros. Us”—Tristan waved his hand between himself and Rowan and Caleb—“ie.”
Rowan shook his head in chagrin, but he squatted down a bit, allowing Tristan to capture him in the photo. “The caption had better not be stupid,” Rowan grumbled.
Caleb cackled beside him. “But you love the caption this segment.”
Tristan snickered as he grabbed his junk and stuck his tongue out. “Caption this, Ro.”
“Why do I subject myself to you?” Rowan said with a shake of his head. “Wankers at Willis Tower.”
“Good one, Skipper,” Caleb said on a howl.
Tristan squatted down, his phone clutched in his hand, laughing.
“If only your princess could see you now,” Rowan teased.
“Ooh, low blow,” Caleb narrated.
“Not my princess,” Tristan jabbed, but the smile fell away from his face. Straightening, he focused his attention on his phone. He loaded the picture of Rowan, Caleb, and himself with the city of Chicago as a backdrop. “Still want me to say Wankers at Willis Tower?”
He tried to hide the hard feelings behind his happy-go-lucky persona. But every once in a while, something reminded him of his encounter with Ele—her picture on the cover of a magazine, the mention of the royal family on the news—and he would get mad all over again. It was stupid really. Yes, they’d shared some incredibly hot kisses. But he’d shared hundreds of kisses since his fifteenth birthday. His memory of it shouldn’t be more poignant than every other sexual encounter in his life. He could chalk it up to her celebrity or the disparity between her public persona and the reality of who she’d appeared to be on their visit. Something about her intrigued him.
Not that it mattered. He’d never see her in person again. Which was good because if he did, he would either berate her for the shitty way she’d treated him or kiss her until her lips were swollen and sore. As much as he hated to admit it, he wondered if she was thinking about him or if she watched any of his games or if she was sorry for what had happened. But worse, he worried about her. The panic attack or anxiety or asthma—whatever—was one of the scariest things he’d experienced. Seeing her gasping for air, watching the fear in her eyes, had torn him up. He hated thinking about her experiencing it often, but he knew, based on the way her staff had reacted, that it wasn’t an unusual occurrence. Even as he felt a bit sorry for her, it was hard not to pass judgment. Really, what could be so bad for her?