Page 2 of Heavy Crown

“Unfortunately,” my mother says, “she is now. Whoever she is.”

“What about Anna Samuel?” Nick offers from behind me.

“No,” I grit out. “I got my fill. Besides, I heard she’s married with children now.”

Brice passes me his phone. “She’s not bad.”

I look at the internet address and bark out a laugh. “This is an escort service.”

“Is it?” There’s a twinkle in Brice’s eyes when he takes the phone back. “Wouldn’t she be surprised to be escorted down the royal aisle?”

“Whoever Alex marries must either be of royal blood from another country or a native Bellerivian. No celebrities or models or whatever else from wherever else.” My father waves a hand. “Bellerivian or royal.”

The room falls into an uncomfortable silence.

After telling Nick I wasn’t sure I was cut out for romantic love of any sort, I should be grateful to have this obligation thrust upon me. I’ll need an heir. My duty to this country never ends. Nothing is ever mine—my privacy, my grief, and now my marriage are public property. There is no division between what I want and what’s best for the country. They are melded together, unbreakable. I’ve known this since I was a child, but sitting in this room having them all contemplate who’s doomed to marry me is one indignity I didn’t anticipate.

“I’ll formulate a short list,” Desmond offers. He drags his phone out of his pocket and opens an app. “I can, with permission, put out some feelers to royal families and wealthy Bellerivian nationals.”

Perhaps other people would refuse, claim they’ll only marry for love, but that’s not me. The prosperity of the country comes above all else. Besides, my expectations of marriage are low. I’m not cut out for the all-consuming love that seems to have swept my brother Nick and his fiancée, Julia, into emotional turmoil for years.

“She must be someone I can tolerate and who is good for the country,” I say.

“I knew you’d be reasonable about this.” My mother gives my father’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

“With Nick and Julia’s wedding just under three months away, it would be best if we could have you debut whoever you intend to marry there,” my mother says.

A chill runs through me. Three months to find a woman I can tolerate who is good for the country. Shouldn’t be too tall of an order, but I know it will be.

I’ve casually and secretly dated several of the daughters of the Bellerivian elite already. At diplomatic events in other countries, none of the other available royals have appealed to me. How will I find someone suitable?

“That sounds fine,” I agree. My stomach clenches at the reality of what I’m agreeing to.

In three months, I’ll be publicly declaring my intention to marry someone and to put up with the match for the rest of my life. Whoever I marry, we’ll be stuck with each other forever.

Divorce is outlawed for the royal family.

two

Rory

When I grab the mail from the box, I riffle through it, looking for anything from my parents. We haven’t spoken in months, but it would be like my mother to send a birthday card. While my father can hold a grudge forever, my mother is warmer.

Trailing Derrick, my boyfriend from college, back to Bellerive after graduation seemed like the right choice at the time. We’d been dating for a year, and I loved him. A lot. Maybe even the kind of love where you get married. He asked me to move here with him after we spent a magical week in Bellerive, living in his parent’s guesthouse, and musing about the future. The world was full of possibilities.

Bellerive would be an adventure, right?

Who wouldn’t want to live on an island that still has castles, palaces, and a prominent royal family? The green landscapes, open fields of animals and produce, and cities with an almost fantastical essence appealed to me.

In some ways, I fell in love with the country as much as I did Derrick.

Bellerive also happens to be one of the most expensive places to live on the planet, which I didn’t fully comprehend at the time.

There’s no card from anyone I know, let alone my parents. Sometimes choosing the adventure can be pretty isolating. I climb the stairs to the apartment I share with Derrick in the middle of Tucker’s Town. His parents own the studio space but make Derrick and I pay full rent. Maybe it’s petty of me to think some sort of family discount should be in order, but every month I’m surprised by the exorbitant cost.

We agreed to work for them at their golf club when we moved to the island. So it’s a constant exchange of money. They pay us; we pay rent. Round and round we go, and most months, they barely pay us enough to survive. When Derrick suggested getting our feet wet in the country under his parents’ guidance, I didn’t expect them to treat us like cheap labor.

Us? Who am I kidding? Me. They treat me like cheap labor.