“Crown” - Camila Cabello Grey
When I was first crowned, I used to look forward to big events. There was something about the air of anticipation back then. These days, things are a little different.
I hold still as Daphne ties the stays at the back of my dress. It will take some assistance getting through doorways in this thing. The gown is enormous. My stylist thinks if they can’t spot me from across the room, I’ve become invisible.
The outer layer is dove-gray tulle that has been hand-embroidered with gold silk in a beautiful foliage pattern. The bodice dips down into a sweetheart neckline while still remaining modest. It’s one of the more exquisite creations I’ve worn, and that’s saying something.
Daphne drapes a diamond-and-onyx necklace around my neck, but before she can fasten it, Henry joins us in the dressing room.
A jolt zips through my stomach. He looks incredible in his tuxedo and white tie, his hair freshly cut and styled, with just a hint of stubble further emphasizing his jawline. In a word, he looks devastating.
“I’ll get it,” he tells Daphne.
She nods and squeezes my shoulders before leaving us alone. It’s something I try to avoid these days if I can help it.
Henry removes the gemstone-encrusted necklace and places it on the dressing table in front of me. “I got you something.”
He holds out a box the color of cotton candy. Inside is a delicate gold chain holding a small flawless diamond. On either side of it is a tiny pendant, one in the shape of an H and one a C. The chain is so fine it looks invisible.
He slips it from the box and drapes it over my collarbones, then clasps it in the back. I touch the simple stone. It’s a much better match for my dress than the heavy piece lying on the table.
My skin prickles where he touches it. I find his reflection in the mirror, but he’s still fiddling with the necklace and doesn’t look up. I’m hit with the sudden memory of our first ball together as a married couple, the second time around.
My dress was big then too—let’s be honest, they’re always big for these things—and he didn’t see me until we were walking down the staircase together. He stumbled on a step when he caught sight of me.
Once I was close enough, he yanked me toward him and whispered, “I’m already planning ways to get you out of that thing.”
The words, his scent, the brush of his voice on my neck all gave me goosebumps. We entered the ballroom soon after, and I lost sight of him in the large sea of people dancing and mingling.
He found me within half an hour, though, his hands on my waist from behind and that intoxicating voice in my ear. “Come with me.”
I followed him out like we were two kids sneaking behind the school for a smoke, my nerves a tangled mess. What if people noticed we were gone? What if they got suspicious? What was he planning to do to me in the middle of a ball?
He led me into a small room down the corridor, rarely used but elaborately furnished all the same.
“What are we doing?” I whispered.
He sealed his lips over mine, and I forgot all my concerns. Kissing Henry is like that—all-consuming, a hotbed of passion and ecstasy. Within seconds, he was fumbling for the zipper at the back of my dress.
“What are you doing?” I said again, laughter in my voice. “Someone will catch us.”
“Let them,” he growled. “I need you, baby.”
Those words, combined with the desperation in his eyes, never cease to make me weak at the knees. I surrendered to him, but the zipper got stuck partway down.
“I can’t get this damn thing,” he said. After struggling for a few more minutes, he gave up, and we both began to laugh. I laughed so hard tears ran down my face, and he had to help me wipe away the mascara under my eyes.
I’m startled out of my memory when Henry brushes his fingertips over my collarbone. “You look beautiful,” he says. “As always.”
I meet his eyes in the mirror. “Thank you.”
How did we get to this place? From lovers to strangers, as though we simply lost touch with each other over the years. But how do you explain falling out of touch with the person lying next to you in bed?
He helps me to my feet but doesn’t drop my hands once I’m standing. Instead, he tugs me closer to him, as close as the dress will allow.
My heart catches in my throat as he leans in, cupping my face in that way I used to love and pressing his mouth over mine. He tastes of spearmint, and the familiar flavor sends my body into a frenzy. It knows what to do in this situation, even if my heart doesn’t.
The kiss is sweet, nothing like the passionate one I was just remembering. His soft lips moves over mine like an embrace, like he’s comforting me in the only way he knows how.
Tears well up behind my closed eyes. There’s something about the feel of his mouth and the way I’d recognize his scent anywhere. The way he’s so gentle with me, like he doesn’t want to hurt me any more than he already has.
The realization is so simple, so clear.
I miss him.
He pulls back, and I open my eyes to find him smiling down at me. I give him a shaky one in return, and the words are there, dangling on the tip of my tongue.
I haven’t been honest with you.
I don’t want a baby. Not yet.
I do love you, even though I’ve pushed you away.
I open my mouth, and there’s a flicker across his brow, like a shadow crossing a window. “I—”
The trilling of my phone from the dressing table chases anything else I might have been able to say out of the room.
“It’s Preston,” I say, and answer it.
“You haven’t forgotten about the documentary, right? The camera crews have arrived and are setting up in the east gallery right now.”
“I remember. We’ll be down soon.”
After I disconnect the call, I turn to Henry, who is waiting to escort me downstairs. “They gave the green light on the documentary. Filming begins tonight.” I reach up to adjust his collar.
He looks less enthusiastic than he should. “Is that the one Preston’s been subtly-not-subtly hinting about for ages?”
“This is going to be huge for the family once it’s streaming,” I say. “People will get the behind-the-scenes view they’ve always wanted.”
He closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. “If you say so.”
The ballroom is stuffed with people, like the streets of the city during the King Frederick’s Day parade, making navigation in a dress the size of mine all the more difficult.
Light gleams from the chandeliers and the sconces on the walls, illuminating the damp faces of the people around me and increasing the heat in the room.
I could take a seat on my throne at the head of the room, but I’d rather mingle with the crowd.
Besides, I’m currently stuck in a conversation with several cabinet ministers about the advantages of changing the current parliamentary process of introducing new members.
Should they be formally introduced at a Parliament session or should a party be given each year in honor of the new members?
While my face is currently expressing what I hope is a modicum of interest, my eyes are scanning the room. As if there’s a neon arrow above each of their heads, the members of the royal family stand out to me from each of their respective locations.
Rosalind is talking to the prime minister, likely berating him for a recent political debate that he had nothing to do with.
Henry’s mother, Olivia, is dancing with a naval captain who appears to have her captivated, but she has the unique ability to make anybody feel like the most important person in the room.
Beatrice is not on the dance floor as I’d expected, but sitting in a chair near the wall, sipping punch. Her face is drained of color despite layers of makeup. She smiles at the men swarming her, but even from here it looks weak.
Henry is exactly where I expect to find him: at the center of a gaggle of women of all ages, with a predominant skew toward those in their twenties. He throws his head back and laughs, which causes a ripple effect in the group, each of them seeking to emulate his actions.
One of the blondes places her hand on his arm. I imagine her nasal voice saying, “Oh stop it, you funny thing.” She says something to him quietly, causing him to laugh again. Once he has composed himself enough to respond, they titter around like Lydia Bennett and her militia officers.
I stiffen my jaw and return my gaze to the men and women I’m supposed to be listening to.
I murmur a quiet assent to whatever they’re saying, but at the sound of that familiar laugh, I look up again, and Henry’s gaze catches mine.
There’s a stilling of the universe as we stare at each other, mirth lingering in the corners of his eyes.
While I’m still trapped by that magnetic gaze, he says something to the women, and they part the Red Sea for him. I watch his approach, unable to look away, and when he stops behind the group I’m speaking with, I catch my breath.
“I’m so sorry,” I say. “If you’ll excuse me.”
They all bow their heads and make room for me to slip past them, although there’s not much slipping to be done in a dress this big. Henry leads me from the room, and once the doors close behind us, the sounds are immediately deadened, leaving only a still silence in the gallery outside.
He opens another door and holds it for me to enter. I step inside and recognize the same room we slipped away to two years ago. My cheeks heat. This is what he pulled me away for?
He shuts the door behind him with a click. The only light in here is coming from the moon, streaming in through the windows on the far wall. I’m suddenly nervous to be alone with my own husband.
I turn to face him. The moonlight accentuates that jawline, and I fight the urge to trace it with my fingertips. “What are we here for?” I say, my voice coming out sharper than I intend.
“What do you mean? You’re the one that wanted to leave.”
“You interrupted my conversation.”
“Yeah, because you were giving me the let’s-get-out-of-here look.”
“That’s what you thought?” I laugh. “Try I’m-going-to-snip-your-bollocks.”
He takes a step closer and squints down at me. “That sounds decidedly less pleasant.”
“Trust me, it’s not intended to be pleasant.”
“You want to tell me what I did now, or am I to stand here and guess?”
“Do you need me to spell it out for you?”
There’s a flicker in his eyes as his jaw hardens. “Apparently.”
I shake my head and half turn away. “Unbelievable.”
“Come on, Celia. Get it off your mind. I’d rather you let it all out now than let it build up steam for the rest of the night.”
I shoot him a glare. “I shouldn’t have to. We’ve had this conversation often enough. Since you can’t put two and two together, I’ll tell you, but only because I need to get back to my guests.”
Henry spreads his hands in front of him, as though saying, Go ahead then.
“You were flirting, you asshole. Again.”
His mouth pulls down at the corners, in sync with his eyebrows. “I wasn’t.”
“You were!”
“I swear to you, I wasn’t.”
“Oh my god. Are you actually going to stand there and defend yourself? I saw you.”
“I don’t know what you think you saw, but it wasn’t flirting,” he says.
“Let’s go ask all those women their opinions, shall we?”
His mouth drops open, but he clamps it shut again. He thrusts his fingers into his perfectly styled hair out of habit, mussing the whole look. “You thought I was flirting with them?”
“I thought we’d covered this.” I cross my arms.
“I was being friendly,” he says.
“There’s friendly, and then there’s flirting. You must not know the difference.”
“What? Because I was laughing? I was trying to be nice. God.” He turns away and walks to the window.
“Do you have any idea what your brand of friendly looks like to everyone else?” I say to his retreating back.
He stands motionless, looking out at the moonlit gardens surrounding the palace. I think he’s not going to answer me, that this conversation will end the way most of them do, with one of us storming off and the other not able to find the words to apologize.
But then he says quietly, “If you cared half as much about this marriage as you do about what people think about this marriage, we’d both be a lot happier.”
It’s as if someone has dropped a bowling ball into my stomach. The weight of it hits, and I reach for the mantle to keep myself from swaying.
“Is that what you think?” My words are barely above a whisper.
He turns around slowly, those broad shoulders filling out his jacket as though it’s been painted on him. “Yeah. It is.”
I lift my chin. “Is that why you told Adelaide to talk to me? Because you’re unhappy?”
“No.” The moonlight behind him leaves his face in shadow. I can’t read his expression, but I can imagine it well enough. “I asked for her help because I don’t know how to make you happy anymore.”
The pain in my chest feels like stepping into a hot bath with cold feet. “I’m happy,” I say.
“Good. I’m glad.” He nods, but even a stranger on the street could see that we’re both lying.
Henry walks to the door and opens it. For a second, I think he’s going to hold it for me, but then he steps through it and leaves me alone in the room.
I blink before the tears can fall. I can’t go back into the ballroom with red eyes or streaks in my makeup, especially not with the film crews here. I take a deep breath, doing my best to push his words away.
Because, while he may be right in saying that I’m more concerned with people’s perceptions than with reality, the truth is, their perceptions matter a whole lot. If we don’t retain their support, this country will crumble in a heap of dust as it pulls itself apart once more.
And just because I saved her once, doesn’t mean I’ll be able to do it a second time.