Chapter 7
7
Fiona
The Next Day
M y doorbell rings, and I groan. It's been a long few days. I've barely slept, and avoided countless calls and texts from Zara and Sean. I even kicked them out of my house when they came over last night unannounced.
The one saving grace came from my work. As usual, it's been hectic. Between mentoring Blue and moving forward on the upcoming spring line, it was the only time my mind wasn't thinking about what's ahead of me.
Am I really going to marry a stranger?
I can't.
I have to. My niece and nephew will be orphans if I don't.
The few moments I spent holding them last night before I insisted Sean and Zara leave didn't help me find a way to let them sink into the consequences of whatever they got themselves into.
How could my father create something so insane?
The rulebook Valentina insisted I memorize made me realize I didn't know my father. He seemed obsessed with the numbers 7, 13, and 666. He created laws so black and white there's no room for gray between them. And the punishment almost always is death.
How could he create peace if death is involved?
My curiosity got the worst of me, and I cornered Sean on my lunch break earlier today. He told me that the wars were so bad when we were kids that Dad created The Underworld to protect us. Yet I can't see how it can.
Sean also insisted our mom knew nothing about the secret society. So I question if she had any idea who the man she married really was, which only serves to break me.
It all hurts my heart. The moments in my life I've grieved for my father, remembering the loving, generous man he was to all of us tear through me. Somehow, this new realization taints my memories. And it seems even more unfair to my mother, who still carries pain over his death.
Did he really love her if he hid something so important to him? He grandfathered himself so he didn't have to have his wife at his side at the table, so it leads me to believe he must not have loved her.
The more I think about everything, the more pain I feel. Right now, I want to crawl into bed and not deal with anyone, especially Sean or Zara, who I'm sure are the ones knocking on my door.
The banging turns louder.
"Go away," I call out.
The doorbell rings several times.
I rush over to the entrance, angrily whip open the door, and scold, "Stop ringing and banging?—"
"Good evening, Ms. O'Malley," a bald man offers. He has several large packages next to him .
The hairs on my neck rise. "Who are you? And how did you get past my security?"
He smiles and holds up his fist, showcasing my dad's skull, but there's no color on it. It looks freshly branded and has plastic wrapped around it. He announces, "Don't worry. I'm just a messenger."
I wince, wondering why my father chose such a barbaric thing. It could have been a beautiful tattoo instead of a painful brand.
Why put himself and others through extra pain?
How could he not love my mom?
He did.
He couldn't have, or he would have brought her into what he created, especially since a lot of the laws are around spouses. He had to have valued marriage.
The man declares, "I have a delivery for you from the king. Can I bring everything inside?"
My pulse skyrockets. I blurt out, "What is it?"
He shakes his head. "I am not privy to that, ma'am." He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out an envelope. "This is for you as well."
Goose bumps pop out on my arms. I stare at the expensive cream envelope with my name written across it.
"Ma'am? Can I bring everything inside? I'm not allowed to leave until I can assure the king the items are safely within your possession," the man frets.
Not seeing any other way around this, and curious about what's in the packages, I open the door wider. I motion past me. "Go ahead, then."
He looks relieved as he nods. "Thank you," he says, and brings inside several garment bags and a white box with a gold bow around it. He carefully places the bags over the back of my sofa and sets the box on the coffee table. Then he turns and studies me.
"Sorry. Let me get my wallet to tip you," I say.
He holds his hands in the air. "No, ma'am. I apologize. I didn't mean to stare. I just wanted to get a glimpse of the future queen. I don't know if I'll ever be this close to you again. Please forgive me for any offense I may have caused."
I gape at him, shocked he knows so much about my situation and his enthusiasm to meet me.
"Please, don't hold this against me. I truly am sorry if I offended you," he begs.
"You're fine and didn't offend me," I assure, then ask, "What's your name?"
Nerves fill his expression.
I softly laugh. "It's okay. I just thought it would be nice to know your name."
"It's Vaughn," he offers.
"That's a great name."
"It is?"
"Absolutely!"
He blushes. "Thank you, ma'am. I look forward to the day I can call you queen."
I arch my eyebrows, stunned by this entire encounter.
He rushes past me and calls out, "Have a great evening." He exits my apartment, closing the door behind himself.
I turn and assess the packages, then realize I'm still holding the envelope. I debate opening it, then set it down, unzip a garment bag, and pull out a long, form-fitting wedding gown.
My stomach flips.
Is this really happening?
"I'm not wearing that," I mutter, holding the bright-white dress with a lacy floral design. I set it down and open the next bag. To my surprise, it's another one, only more wrong for me.
This one has way too much tulle and is also bright white. There's so much I'm sure I'd get lost under it.
"Is this all they can do for a queen?" I sarcastically mumble, then unzip the third bag. I pull out the dress and freeze, unable to take my eyes off it.
I've never seen anything so unique. The intricate placement of crystals and pearls is fabulous, and the lace is soft, which means it's top-of-the-line and hand-sewn. There's a dove on the corset. Best of all, it's a creamy white, hinting toward gold.
For several moments, I run my fingers over the bodice, studying every unique part of the design.
"So couture," I praise, continuing to talk to myself.
I glance at the tag, trying to see who the designer is, but it only reads in a script font, Queen Fiona.
I carefully set it down and then look inside the other dresses. The others have no labels on them.
Queen.
I'm dreaming this entire situation.
No, I'm having a nightmare.
I glance at the dove dress and can't stop my smile .
At least I'll look amazing.
I open another garment bag, and my heart races faster. It's another fabulous piece of fashion, but this time, in the form of lingerie. I slide my fingers over the tiny flecks of gold and blue, admiring the piece.
He thinks he's going to fuck me.
He's not.
"You've got a lot of balls, thinking you're going to touch me," I scold the king, even though he can't hear me.
I'm going to have to change my morals and become a cheater. There's no way I'm not having sex for the rest of my life, and I'm not letting that man touch me. I don't care if he's the king or not.
I put the lingerie next to the dress and then sit down. I pick up the white box, carefully remove the gold bow, and open the lid.
There's a gold key and matching box with my father's skull design on it. My chest tightens.
What is this?
I unlock the box, remove the lid, and my mouth turns dry.
The biggest marquise diamond I've ever seen, with a gold band, is nestled inside.
I pick it up and swallow hard, examining it closer. It's beautiful and unlike rings most women have. The diamond appears flawless. The inside of the band has something engraved on it, but it's too small to see.
I curl my fist around it, taking deep breaths, trying to wrap my head around everything.
I can't. It's all too much.
I haven't read the letter .
I open my fist, put the ring back in the box, and pick up the envelope. I turn it over. There's a seal with a gold skull on it. I carefully pop it off, pull out a matching piece of paper, and unfold it.
What the heck?
Someone ripped the top off. I assume it's the king's letterhead.
This secrecy is ridiculous.
I take a deep breath and read.
My dearest Fiona,
This is the fifth letter I've written to you today, and I'm going to have to trust whatever I write will be the correct thing. As we both know, time is running out. The moon will soon be ripe for your coronation, and you must make the biggest decision of your life.
For that, I'm sorry.
You deserve better. If I could get you out of this, I would. Please believe me when I tell you I've tried. Yet your father's world gives no one full power, even the king.
However, I will take full responsibility for this situation. I waited too long to choose a queen, not wanting to subject any woman to my flaws. When you find out who I am, you will realize what this means, but this has put you in a position I do not wish for you. Again, I extend my sincerest apologies.
In a few days, you must choose to take your seat or not enter The Underworld. I won't blame you if you decide not to take your place at my side. Yes, there are consequences, but you have the right to not accept your crown.
My peers tell me you are leaning toward taking your rightful seat. If this is the case, please choose the dress you would like to wear. I picked one, and the seamstress chose the other two. If all three are horrible to you, please let me know. I will fly back to Monaco and retrieve more.
I just realized I didn't give you choices on the lingerie. The same applies, and I extend another apology. I know you value beauty and uniqueness and have your pulse on what's fashionable and what's not. I will admit to you I claim to know nothing. If my personal shopper didn't select my outfits, I wouldn't know what to wear. So, full disclosure, if you marry me, you'll be the fashion expert in our relationship.
It was merely a gut feeling that made me choose the dress and lingerie, but I know I might be wrong. I can see you in it, but let me know if you don't like it. You'd look incredible in anything or nothing. Okay, I'll stop this part of the conversation before I have to crumple this up and write a sixth letter.
The ring is also your choice. It is my wish that you love it and are proud to wear it, but if it is not to your taste, I will get you another one to wear in public.
Regardless, you should have it. This ring was your father's. He had it made for your mother. It's seven carats. Your father had a thing for numbers, but I'm sure you already know that from memorizing the Royal Doctrine. By the way, I'm super impressed with how quickly you memorized it. It took me a lot longer. Seems like you've got brains and beauty.
Anyway, there's an inscription on the gold band that can only be seen with a magnifying glass. It reads, Mine for eternity.
Your father was going to present it to your mother when he was assured it was safe enough to tell her about The Underworld. It was always his vision that she would sit by his side, but not until it was safe for her.
I cannot tell you how sorry I am he was unable to fulfill that wish. Your father was a great man. He helped me at a time when I was at my lowest. If it weren't for him, I would not be here. It was very painful for me, and still is, to think about his demise.
Now that I've written this long, drawn-out letter to you, please know that tomorrow morning, before work, the courier will arrive to collect the packages. Feel free to write back to me regarding your wishes.
Sincerely,
The King
P.S. - If you choose to accept the items, I've fulfilled something old, new, and blue. I'm still working on the borrowed. Please forgive me. I'm struggling a tad with that one.
A short laugh comes out of me as tears fall down my cheeks. I reread the letter and then reach for the ring. I slide it on my finger, and it fits perfectly.
My father did love my mother.
How could I have doubted it?
More tears fall, blurring the diamond. And maybe it's the stress of the last few days, but my tears turn to an outright sob.
After a few minutes, I pull it together. I keep the ring on my finger, then read the letter so many times I could recite it from memory.
Something about it rips through my heart while also frightening me.
What flaws are so bad that he doesn't think he deserves a wife?
Is he a horrible man?
I reread the letter again, deciding he can't be. If he were, why would he keep apologizing? And something about him sending me a letter seems overly kind. How could any man who took the time to write five versions of this letter be unworthy of having a woman by his side?
I stare at his handwriting, wondering what he looks like and what his name is. Is he as old as my dad since they knew one another?
I wrinkle my nose. Older is fine, but there's a point I don't want to cross. I'm unsure what it is, but I know anyone my parents' age is too old.
I don't have a choice.
He's funny and complimentary, at least.
I stare at the writing, smiling at different parts, then finally set the letter down. I pick up the lingerie and the dress with the bird. Then I take them into my bedroom.
I take off my clothes, slide into the lingerie, and stand in front of my full-length mirror. Butterflies break out in my belly, and I mutter, "For a guy who claims to have no fashion sense, you have a knack for sexy lingerie."
Because he wants to fuck me.
The butterflies mix with dread. I swallow hard, then carefully undress. I pick up the dress, spend several minutes figuring out how to open it, then step into it. I secure it as best as I can and then return to the mirror.
More conflicting emotions erupt within me. The dress is a stunning piece of artwork. It showcases every curve I have in a tasteful way. The attention to detail is superb, better than most high-end pieces I deal with at work.
My mom would flip over this.
Oh my God! My mom!
A rush of panic and guilt fills me. Sean and Zara almost killed my mom when they got married without her .
I hightail it to the kitchen, grab my phone, and hit the button to call Zara.
It rings once, and she softly chirps, "Hey! I was hoping you'd call."
"My mom needs to be at the wedding," I blurt out.
Silence fills the line.
"Hello?" I fire in an irritated voice.
Zara replies, "Fiona. I'm sorry, but that can't happen."
"I'm not doing to her what you and Sean did!" I spout.
"Trust me. If it were possible, I'd tell you how. But it's not," she claims.
"Then I'm not doing it, so find a way!"
"I'm telling you the truth. No one can be present unless they're part of The Underworld. Your mom knows nothing about it, so they won't let her be there. And if you tell her anything, they'll kill you and her. Loyalty and secrecy are not negotiable," she warns.
"It's unfair for her to endure this again."
Zara lowers her voice. "I know. And I'm sorry. Maybe you can change the rules once you're the queen."
"How's that going to help my mom?"
Tension buzzes between us over the line.
Zara finally offers, "It won't help your mom. But if you become queen and change the rules, it could help other mothers avoid going through what she will."
I snap, "Gee, thanks. That makes me feel better."
"Fiona—"
"Thanks for ruining my life and hurting my mom," I snarl, then hang up .
I toss my phone on the counter, pace the room, then return to the bedroom. It takes a bit to figure out how to get out of the dress, but I finally do. I put my clothes back on. Then, I return to the living room and repackage the garments.
My phone dings. I pick it up and read the message.
Zara: I hate myself for being the reason you're in this situation.
Me: Then why don't you tell me what was so bad that my own brother had to promise me to a stranger?
Zara: I can't until you're the queen. I know you don't want to keep hearing me say that, but if I tell you, I'm dead. So are you.
"Whatever," I mumble and turn off my phone, not wanting to hear any more excuses. I put my cell down and stare at the huge diamond still on my finger.
My mom will go nuts when she sees this.
It should be hers.
I feel guilty. I glance at the gold box but can't seem to take the ring off. Instead, I go to my desk, sit, and open the drawer. I pull out a piece of paper and reach for a pen in the holder.
For several moments, I think about how to start. Then I realize it doesn't matter. I'll make a different version if I'm not happy with it.
Dear Stranger The Underworld Calls King...