Page 8 of Fallen Crown

I wince at her phrasing before setting my wine on the coffee table and putting my head in my hands. “Mother, if King Alexander ever heard you say that, he’d banish you from the island without a second thought. Have you heard how he talks about his wife?” While I might think the whole arrangement is convenient and scandalous, there’s no doubt King Alexander would wage war for his wife. He’s already gone to war against the Bellerivian press more than once about libelous or slanderous articles they’ve written about Queen Aurora. I can only imagine what he’d do to Celia Tucker if he heard her speaking ill.

“Who’s going to tell on me? You? I think not.” She takes a last gulp of her wine and sets her glass on the table. “Have you spoken to Caitlin about filing the separation paperwork?”

My parents never liked Enzo, and as soon as he fled the country while I was still sick and recovering, that was the final strike against him. They might not have been the most loving and dedicated parents while I was growing up, but the small island mentality of protecting your own still runs through them. We’re fractured and close all at the same time. A mass of contradictions.

“Marriage is a commitment I take seriously,” I say.

“Clearly, he doesn’t.” Mother rises and removes a lipstick from her purse, lining her lips while she peers down at me. “You’ve always hated to lose, but digging into your own unhappiness isn’t any way to win either.” She sails past me to the door. “Besides, Prince Brice is no poor woman’s prize. No shame in panning for that gold.” She winks at me as she opens the door to my top-floor apartment and disappears in a puff of expensive perfume.

Guess Mom and Dad are still angling for that royal title after all. The target for their firing squad just became me. Awesome.

Chapter Five

Brice

At three thirty in the morning, Jag drives into the marina parking lot on the outskirts of Tucker’s Town with the SUV loaded with equipment. Since Coach Tucker was a sore loser and didn’t want to give me any indication of what to bring, I went overboard. There is nothing she can ask me to give her that I haven’t got somewhere in the oversized SUV. Finding it might take a minute, but I can guarantee it’s in here. Paddles, life jackets, safety equipment, water, electrolytes, first aid kit, water shoes, a cushion for my butt or knees, and the list goes on from there.

When I arrive, there’s a lone vehicle in the parking lot. The Mercedes-Benz G-Class isn’t the most expensive SUV someone could own, but it doesn’t exactly scream money conservative. Has to be Maren. Arriving half an hour early was supposed to guarantee I’d be first and be able to watch the others roll in. A good first impression. An indication I’m taking this seriously, despite the lies Maren has probably already fed them.

They’ve all been racing together for years. I went down that internet rabbit hole last night before bed trying to determine exactly how tough it’ll be to win some respect. Discovering Tucker’s misstep in their last race, one that put her in the hospital, should have made me happy. Something to tease and goad her about when she’s, undoubtably, riding my back over the next six months. Instead, a strange queasiness stirred in my stomach at the notion of her being hurt. A worthy opponent shouldn’t have such an obvious weakness. One accident isn’t going to soften me to her when her dislike of me is so clear and sustained. I’ve never done anything to deserve her distain, but I receive it, nonetheless.

Jag gets out of the SUV first and approaches the other car. The driver’s window rolls down, and he exchanges a few words with the driver. Bellerive is the safest place in the world for me usually, but one can never be too careful. The referendum on assisted dying has stirred up strong feelings in people, and my family is a big force in legalizing it.

Maren exits her vehicle, and she points up the road to Jag and makes a few other motions, which look like instructions or directions. He nods his head along with her and then glances down at his feet.

Not willing to wait any longer, I get out of the SUV and wander over to hear what they’re discussing.

“It’s about 8 to 10k in total,” Maren says when I get close enough.

“Should have brought my runners,” Jag says.

“If it’s vital for you to be near, you can always trail us in the vehicle,” she says.

“What’s going on?” I check my watch. There’s still twenty minutes until everyone else should arrive.

“We’re going on a run,” Maren says. “I hope you brought the right shoes.”

They’re on my feet, if she cared to look.

“We train two components at a time some days. Never know what you might face on the racecourse. A quick run, and then we’ll paddle out with the rest of them.”

A run isn’t a big deal. I’ve been jogging around the estate to clear my head since Dad’s diagnosis months ago. “Where’s everyone else?”

“They’ll be here at four thirty.” She gives me a sly smile. “Need to grab anything before we get started?”

Four thirty? She either expected me to be late or deliberately gave me an earlier start time. The sun hasn’t even begun to peek out of the horizon, and the streetlights are still on. She’s got a headlamp perched on her forehead, but I didn’t bring one of those. There’s a flashlight somewhere in the back, but I’m not running with that clenched in my hand. The run wasn’t on the itinerary she gave me.

I tug my lightweight sweater over my head and pass it to Jag. My T-shirt rises with it, the morning breeze off the ocean causing goose bumps to rise across my skin. Maren glances away. She really does hate every part of me.

“You following?” I ask Jag.

He nods and climbs into the driver’s seat again. Maren tips her head toward the sidewalk and begins a light jog. We stride beside each other for a minute in silence, but the longer we run, the faster she seems to be going. The changes in pace are subtle, but as we ascend the first hill, I realize how flat the royal estate is. My breathing is coming out rough, and my chest is tight. But there’s no fucking way I’m stopping. Jag can pick me up off the sidewalk and rush me to the hospital if I collapse, but I’m not giving Maren the satisfaction of besting me on the first day.

I grit my teeth and increase my pace to match hers. Her breathing is elevated, but her strides are long and easy, as though she runs like this every day. I’ve never run at this pace for a sustained amount of time. Apparently, I’ve been too easy on myself. After today, that stops.

We run in silence, partly because there’s no way I could speak even if I wanted to. But the longer we go, the more I realize I won’t be able to keep up. The best I can hope to do is nip at her heels as she weaves us through the narrow, sleepy streets of the villages along the coast of Bellerive on the outskirts of Tucker’s Town.

Why is it so fucking hilly? I swear to God she picked the most difficult route. If we’d gone toward the city, I’m convinced it would be flatter. When we make a left-hand turn, and I spot the hill on Warner’s Road that I’d never attempt at a walk, let alone a run, I let out an audible groan.