Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
ELLA
It’s a trap.
It’s a practical joke of such epic proportions that my brain can’t even properly process what’s going on.
If it weren’t for the fact that I’m halfway around the world, I would have thought Mr. Schwagen’s prankster of a cousin had decided to make me his latest victim.
Since he’s not here, and probably stubbornly refusing to leave his farm, it can only mean there’s been a mistake—a very public mistake, by the looks of the crowd crammed into this room.
I’ve never been the sort to be paralyzed by public attention, but I’ve never been the type to look for it either.
But whatever it was the person at the microphone mumbled when my mysterious new friend pushed me into the room, the packed crowd and their cameras seem to believe that I deserve 100% of their attention, my well-meant effort to return the ring to its supposed rightful owner somehow worth commemorating.
Do secret camera shows in Europe somehow have bigger budgets? Do they still even do secret camera shows these days?
“She’s over there,” Alya whispers in my ear. I turn and follow her finger to the stage. A tall man in business formal wear stands stiffly beside the podium, frowning sternly. A slightly shorter, stouter woman stands in the center, her face unreadable.
She’s the owner of the ring? And I’m somehow supposed to walk up to her to do that? I don’t exactly know the justice system of Northandria, but public shaming seems a bit much for a ring I didn’t even steal.
Clicks and hushed whispers surround me. Alya rolls her eyes, grabs me by the elbow, and marches me up to the two people on stage.
The man resists at first, blocking our way, shoulders still as stone, while he scrutinizes me, and then glares at Alya.
There’s something about his face that feels familiar—an expression or something that feels like the memory of a dream.
It slips away when he abruptly steps aside, leaving me face-to-face with the older woman who seems very much in charge of the room. Wait, isn’t this the queen? Why did I have the impression that I was being ushered to see some royal jeweler or security guard?
Alya shoves my shoulders. Her voice is somehow both excited and commanding in my ear. “Show her the ring.”
I step forward. More murmurs rise across the room. Then I lift my hands like a child and slowly unfurl my fingers.
The woman that I strongly suspect is the queen catches her breath.
The crowd gasps. The tall man leans over to see what I’m holding, and the murmurs and camera clicks crescendo.
Before I realize what’s going on, he places a light hand on my shoulder, looks up to smile at the crowd, and announces, “Thank you for your good wishes. Now, if you would please excuse us.”
Then I’m shuffled off the stage and out some sort of back door with the two most important people in the room.
The doors behind us barely shut before Alya bursts into laughter.
“This is not my idea of a joke!” Prince Archer thunders as soon as the doors to ‘The Blue Room’ shut behind us. I wince.
It hadn’t taken long for me to realize my suspicions had been right.
And it didn’t take long after that for me to figure out what, or at least who, I’ve managed to entangle myself with after our unceremonious exit from what had to be the palace press room.
There are only so many people in the world who answer to ‘Your Majesty’ and ‘Your Highness.’ It explains a lot, actually—the commanding airs, the fancy clothes, the sheer amount of attention.
What it doesn’t explain is why I’m still here, holding onto the ring.
Alya, Princess Alya, plops into a chair near me, apparently totally unbothered by her brother’s outburst. The queen walks ahead and seats herself, regal even while sighing, in the largest, most ornate chair in the high-ceilinged room.
The prince stands and glowers—at his sister, at the many secretaries or bodyguards or whoever they are, and then at me.
I swallow.
At least he doesn’t look particularly angry at me. Just angry. In general.
“How did you get the ring?” he asks.
I once more lift it up and open my hand. It’s starting to feel like the one ring of power at this point. I really, really want to throw it into the fiery mountains in Middle Earth.
“A woman gave it to me,” I say. “I was just touring the back gardens. But she ran out of the palace, and then she asked me to bring it back.”
“I corroborate her story!” Alya says readily in that posh accent the whole family seems to have.
“I take it you have a hand in the disappearance of my actual fiancée?” The Prince glares at his sister again. There seems to be a theme here.
“Just an eyewitness to her departure.” Alya shrugs. She shoots her brother a saucy look. “Come on, Arch, it’s not as if you wanted to marry her.”
“That is beside the point.”
“You needed a fiancée today. I found you one.”
“You cannot ask a stranger—”
“Your sister has a point,” the queen says.
We all pivot towards her. There’s something natural about command when you’re a hereditary monarch, I guess.
“We gathered the press for a betrothal announcement. And as unorthodox as the woman’s attire or entrance might be, her presence allowed us to make sure there was still a betrothal to announce. ”
“I am betrothed?” The words fall out of me abruptly. Everyone stills and stares at me. Me and my gaping mouth. I force it shut and then swing back to look at the prince. “To you?”
Instead of looking offended, he comes the closest to a smile I’ve seen all afternoon. Not that thirty minutes of damage control is much by way of acquaintance.
“I take it you are as surprised as I am,” he says.
“I didn’t mean—I just thought—I—” I turn to Alya. And this time, even I am tempted to glare. “You said I just had to return the ring to the rightful owner.”
She shrugs, as if she wants to pretend she didn’t care. “If you’re engaged, then you’re the owner.”
“But I’m not engaged!”
“You are now,” says the queen.
“But, ma’am, Your Majesty, Your High—I cannot be engaged!”
“Are you married?” She stares me down. It’s sort of impressive, given that she’s sitting and I’m standing.
“No.”
“Are you in a relationship with another person?”
“I am not.”
“And your name?”
It’s sort of ridiculous that we’re talking engagements before names. “I’m Ella, Your Majesty. Eleanor Langford.”
“Langford.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Of Langford Castle?” Her eyes narrow. I can see why this can sound scammy, now that I think about it.
“My father’s side is part Northandrian. My great-grandfather was born here.”
“I suppose an ancestry test could readily—”
“That’s who you are!” the prince interrupts. My eyes swing back to his. They’re ice blue and as focused as ever, but there’s suddenly a slightly softer look in them this time. “You’re the girl from the airport.”