His brow furrowed. “Then… why?”
Clara sighed, the sound so Allegra it made his chest ache. “I don’t know. Because she thinks people-pleasing is a personality trait. Because she’d rather martyr herself on the altar of poor decisions than admit she wants something for herself.”
Nate shook his head, even though she couldn’t see him. “That’s complete bullshit,” he muttered.
“Welcome to my family.”
For a moment, silence hung between them.
“Tell me something, Nate. Do you care about her? And spare me the noble crap. I’m not asking if you remember her fondly. I’m asking if you’d be willing to fight for her.”
“Yes,” he said. Then, because it wasn’t enough, because Clara von Wildern would know: “Fuck, yes.”
“So she deserves to hear it,” Clara said, and damn if she didn’t sound like she was handing him a live grenade with the pin already pulled. “Whatever she does after—that’s on her.”
He groaned and tipped his head back against the couch. “Minor complication. She very obviously does not want to hear my voice.”
“Still,” Clara said, and he could practically see her waving a dismissive hand, “if she could just see you—”
“Even if she wanted to—which she doesn’t. I’m here, and she’s there. And I’m fairly certain every airport and border crossing in Valenstadt has my mugshot taped up next to the words Deport on Sight.”
A beat.
“Okay,” Clara said. “But I have a plan.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
The first rule of royal engagements? Never let them see you sweat.
The second? Smile like you mean it.
Allegra was breaking both.
The palace ballroom shimmered like a jewel box, all gold filigree, glittering chandeliers, and polished marble. She stood in the middle of it, Julien’s hand resting at the small of her back, his thumb moving in slow, precise circles. Her cheeks ached from the effort, fingers cramped around a flute that had gone tepid hours ago. Her hair, finally free of dye and back to its riotous red, caught the light in fiery sparks. She looked luminous—if you ignored the faint shadows under her eyes, smudged like charcoal.
Her strapless dress was a mauve Valentino Atelier number that cost more than most people’s rent and weighed roughly the same as a small child. It was also, Allegra was fairly certain, cutting off circulation to her left leg. But suffering was elegant, or so her mother had always said.
Across from her, the coach of Georgia’s national rugby team—Lasha, or Giorgi, or possibly Bidzina—was holding court, his voice booming as he recounted the tale of his team’s near-victory in the European Championship. Allegra had stopped listening three paragraphs in when she realized he was the kind of man who used the word “domination” unironically and often. Now, she just nodded along, her mind drifting—to the ceiling, that vase, the exit.
Her gaze wandered over the crowd: diplomats and athletes, and who even were these people? All apparently happy for her. For them. The golden couple who’d briefly lost their way and found it again, like a fairytale with a tasteful third-act wobble.
“—and that’s when I told him, ‘If you want the ball, you take the ball!’” Bidzina—or whatever—finished with a roar of laughter, clapping Julien on the shoulder like they were old war buddies instead of men who’d met twenty minutes ago.
“Incredible,” Julien chortled, jabbing Allegra in the hip. “Isn’t that right,chérie?”
Allegra blinked. “Hmm? Uh-huh.”
Her father approached with the Prime Minister at his side, both wearing identical expressions of cordial triumph.
“You look radiant,” Heinrich said, his attention lingering long enough to confirm nothing was out of place. “Don’t you think, Prime Minister?”
“Very much,” Voss replied, nodding. “I was just saying how relieved I am the wedding is happening again. How relieved we all are.”
Relieved. Allegra chewed the word in her mind like something sour.
“Your Highness and Mr. LaRoche,” Voss went on, “are exactly what Valenstadt needs—stability, with a contemporary face.”
Heinrich inclined his head. “The ring, Allegra.”
