And then he kisses me.
Not soft. Not gentle. This kiss is thorough—his mouth slanting over mine, his hand sliding into my hair, tilting my head exactly where he wants it. He kisses me like he’s staking a claim. Like he’s leaving something behind for me to remember while he’s gone.
My toes curl in my shoes.
When he pulls back, I’ve forgotten my own name. My face is burning. My knees have apparently decided they’re not interested in supporting my weight anymore.
“Be safe,” he murmurs against my lips.
And then he’s gone, and I’m standing in the middle of the room with my hand pressed to my mouth and my heart doing something completely unreasonable in my chest.
What was I supposed to be doing again?
Right. Function. Hosting. Queen duties.
I can do this.
I’ve got this.
I am going to absolutely crush this.
THREE HOURS LATER,and I’m fairly certain the world is crushing me instead.
The grand ballroom of Chaleur Estate is filled with people I don’t know, all of them watching me with sharp eyes and sharper smiles. The chandeliers cast everything in warm amber—2700K, my photographer brain supplies automatically—the kind of light that should make everyone look soft and approachable. It doesn’t.
I’m wearing a midnight-blue gown that Mrs. Lyme selected for me. It’s beautiful. Elegant. The kind of dress that saysI belong here.
I do not feel like I belong here.
The noble women circle me in slow orbits, their smiles showing teeth but never reaching their eyes. They remind me of a shoot I assisted once—a jewelry campaign where the models were positioned to look like they were at a party, but every angle was calculated, every gesture rehearsed. These women have the same practiced quality. The same awareness of exactly where the light hits their faces.
“So lovely to finally meet you, Your Majesty.”
“What asurpriseyour marriage was.”
“We’ve all been socuriousabout the new queen.”
Curious. Right. That’s one word for it.
I smile until my face aches. I make small talk about things I don’t understand. I try to remember names and titles and which territory each person represents, and I’m failing spectacularly at all of it.
And then I see Amos.
He’s standing near the champagne table with a woman on his arm—pretty, dark-haired, leaning into him like he’s the sun and she’s been cold for years. She’s laughing at something he said, her whole body turned toward him, and he’s...
Bored.
His smile is perfect. His posture is attentive. But his eyes are somewhere else entirely, scanning the room even as he murmurs something that makes her laugh again.
Something about it makes my skin prickle. I can’t articulate why. He’s being polite. Charming, even. But there’s a disconnect between what he’s doing and what he’s feeling, and the gap between them feels...wrong.
I turn away—I can avoid him, I can definitely avoid him—and that’s when it happens.
A woman in emerald green appears at my elbow. Her smile is apologetic. Her eyes are not.
“Oh no!”
Red wine splashes across the front of my midnight-blue gown.
