Will he melt? Or will he freeze her?
Palace sources report that photographer Josef Benedetti repeatedly begged the Prince to show “any emotion at all.” One footman claims Benedetti actually said, “Your Highness, could you perhaps look less like you're attending your own funeral?”
I mean, really. I've seen more chemistry between strangers waiting for the bus.
The palace insists this is a love match, but these photographs scream “contractual obligation” to me.
What happened to the couple from that hospital photograph? That genuine smile on the prince’s face? Were we sold a romance that doesn't actually exist?
Right now, this engagement feels as though it has all the authenticity of a three-dollar note,and I challenge the Prince and his fiancée to show us otherwise.
Astrid
I holdthe telephone receiver tightly in my hand, my knuckles whitening as Mama chatters on.
“—after which your sister and her husband threw us the mostfabulouslunch?—”
“Mama,” I interrupt gently.
“Yes, darling?” she asks. “Are you all right?”
“What if—” I trail off, unsure how to frame the question that’s been circling my thoughts since the moment I met Frederic. I draw a breath and force the words out before I lose my nerve. “What if this doesn’t work out, and I need to come home?”
There’s a pause on the line. “What’s happened?” Mama asks, her voice instantly edged with concern.
“Nothing, nothing,” I blurt. “Well—nothing really. It’s just—” I think of Frederic and his binders, his control, the way he holds himself like a man braced against life rather than moving through it. I think of the fleeting moments when something softer seems to surface, only to disappear just as quickly. “I’ve only seen brief flashes of the person I hope he might be.”
It’s not that I want to change Frederic. Not really. I don’t want to take away his lists or his binders, or dictate what music he listens to. He can keep his order and his control and his perfectly planned life. I just want to see the real him.
“If something’s wrong, sweetheart, you know you cantell me,” Mama says.
I press my lips together, chewing on the inside of my cheek as my throat tightens. “I’m not sure Frederic and I are all that compatible,” I admit. “I knew he was very different from me when I agreed to this, I truly did. My voice wobbles despite my best efforts. “But it feels like the mountain might be a little too high for me to climb.”
There’s a pause, and my eyes begin to sting. I sniff back a sob.
“Darling,” Mama says, her voice soft. It does nothing for the lump in my throat. “Are you having second thoughts?”
I let out a shaky breath. “Yes. No. Oh, I don’t know.” I squeeze the receiver harder, as though it might anchor my emotions. “I just keep wondering if I’m the only one going into this with my whole heart open.”
There’s another pause. Longer this time.
“Are there other options for our country if Ledonia doesn’t work out?” I ask.
“You mean if you don’t marry the prince?”
My chest tightens. “Yes.”
I’ve never been good at pretending. I’ve never known how to soften the truth or dress it up so it doesn’t hurt. I call a spade a spade, as they say—even though I can’t imagine Frederic has ever held one in his life. And right now, the truth feels frighteningly simple: I’m scared that I’m offering my whole self to a man who may never do the same.
“We can find another way. If this isn’t what’s right for you, then come home, Asti. Really, come home.”
At the wordhome, tears spring to my eyes, and tension in my chest tightens. I’ve only been here a matter of days, and yet this homesickness feels overwhelming. I ache to be surrounded by people I know. People who knowme. People who understand me without effort, who don’t require careful planning, performance, or constant consideration of how I’m being perceived. People I don’t need to impress.
There’s a loud rap at the door, and before Anya can respond, it bursts open. Francesca strides in, eyes wide and blazing, a newspaper clutched in her hand.
“Asti! There you are,” she says without preamble.
Anya shoots me a startled look.
