For a split second, Allegra wasn’t sure she’d heard him correctly.
Fine?
That was it? No thunderbolt? No exile? No dragging Nate away in handcuffs? Her knees nearly buckled from the sheer adrenaline crash of it. The fight drained out of her so fast she had to lock them to stay upright.
Nate’s fingers brushed hers, and she caught his hand, threading their fingers together before anyone could reconsider. She swallowed. “Thank you, Papa. I promise—”
“Putain, non!” Julien’s hands curled into fists, knuckles whitening as he strode forward.
Nate lifted a hand. “Julien, don’t—”
Then everything happened at once. Clara surged forward, champagne from her flute arcing through the air. The golden liquid splattered across the marble in a glittering wave, and Julien’s foot landed in the puddle.
Time did something strange. Allegra watched, horrified and mesmerized, as his foot slid out from under him. His arms windmilled. His face—oh God—his face registered betrayal. Not at Clara. Not at her. At gravity.
There was a sharp crack as the back of his head met the floor. He sprawled there, immaculate suit askew, like a toppled statue of wounded pride.
Clara blinked down at him, empty flute still in hand. “Oops.”
Allegra bit down on her lip so hard she tasted iron.Do not laugh. Do not laugh. Do not—
One of the guards looked faint.
Mathilde exhaled, long and put-upon. “Well, don’t just stand there. Roll him into the recovery position or something.” She turned to Heinrich, extending a hand expectantly. “And for the love of God, someone get me a drink.”
Epilogue
One Year Later
Allegra stood perfectly still at the top of the grand staircase. Below, the ballroom hummed with a hundred conversations that would fall silent the second she took her first step. She gripped the banister, knuckles whitening. The chandeliers above scattered rainbows across the marble, centuries-old spectators to royal indiscretions that were, frankly, quaint by comparison.
After all, this wasn’t just any party.
It washerengagement party.
To a man whose name still autofilled with NSFW warnings in every browser she owned.
She smoothed a hand down the length of her gown. Ivory silk, structured through the bodice, delicate enough for tradition, daring enough in its open back to remind the world—and herself—that she was not a commemorative figurine to be trotted out.
She scanned the crowd. Cabinet ministers whispered behind their hands, murmuring in low, serious tones near the string quartet. Society matrons glittered in diamonds, lips pursed with the faint promise of judgment.
Her family stood closer to the center, perfectly staged like a portrait. Her parents were deep in polite conversation with the Austrian ambassador, her mother serene as a lake at dawn, her father sporting that diplomatic smile reserved for situations hecouldn’t quite believe were actually happening. Clara hovered nearby, visibly thrilled at the spectacle.
Across the room, Nate’s family had already located the champagne tower. His mother and brothers leaned against the table, glasses in hand, laughter spilling across the room as though they’d planned to enjoy themselves, no matter what protocol asked of them.
At the far end, the press waited behind velvet ropes, lenses gleaming and hungry. Allegra could see the headlines taking shape in their heads:
Palace of Pleasure: Allegra von Wildern Gets Her Happy Ending.
Royal Engagement: Crown Meets Crown Jewels.
From Adult Empire to Actual Empire: How a Porn Star Won a Princess.
Aunt Margaret the Fourth would have fainted. The Archbishop of Valenstadt, loitering near the exit, looked like he was praying for divine intervention.
“Uh-oh.” Nate’s voice slid into her thoughts. “You’ve got that I’m-about-to-start-a-war look.”
She didn’t turn, but the corner of her mouth twitched.
