Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
ELLA
I stare at the painted ceiling of my designated bedroom for five minutes before pinching myself one more time.
I’m not dreaming. I’m not imagining it. Tomorrow, I will be doing an actual solo appearance as the fiancée of the Crown Prince of Northandria.
The handpicked, pitaka-inspired dress suit currently being pressed to perfection somewhere downstairs is proof.
There will be people shaking my hand and feeling honored because Ella Langford from the humble town of Ground Springs, Virginia, is giving them a medal.
I examine my perfectly retouched nails. My eyes involuntarily zoom in on the sparkling engagement ring. The one thing that got me into this whole situationship in the first place.
Technically, I won’t be lying. I’m just Ella Langford.
And that’s how the announcer will be welcoming me, as Ella Langford.
I’m not a royal highness or anything like that.
But I also sort of feel like those celebrities doing a cameo “as self.” Like I’m playing some larger-than-life version of myself that cannot possibly be real.
For a moment, I miss my parents. What would they have thought about this whole staged engagement? Would they be more excited that I get to play a role in a teenie-tiny slice of history, or would they be worried that I’m somehow getting used by powers beyond me?
For the first few years after they passed, I played these mind games often. Wondering what they would want me to do. Worrying if they’d approve of my choices. What would they say about my college major? Is a second date warranted with this guy or that?
That habit subsided after a while. But that doesn’t mean I don't feel sentimental whenever the milestones roll around. Graduation. Visiting Northandria. Getting engaged.
I sniff and roll off the bed before I spiral further emotionally. I shoot a glance at the glass balcony doors. Twilight is still lingering. I sometimes wonder if it ever gets dark in Northandria. A breeze jingles the carved door handle, almost like an invitation.
I guess a walk in the garden wouldn’t hurt.
It takes me a few minutes to find a light jacket that isn’t too ornate or specifically designed for one outfit or another. And it takes me a few minutes more to find decent footwear that aren’t heels. I don’t mind heels, but I’m not crazy enough to take a private garden walk in them.
So the shadows are a little longer than I would have preferred by the time I cut through Alya’s shortcut and reach the stone bench where Prince Archer and I first talked last week.
The sky is maybe one or two shades darker than when I first decided I needed to clear my head, but it’s still bright enough to not need the garden lights.
I slide onto the stone bench. And I breathe.
The last few days have been—interesting.
The first few days of the Games, along with all the prep days before, came with so many new experiences that I barely had time to process any of it.
But the last two days have been calmer, with just some spectating engagements and a dinner appointment or two. It’s more routine, more normal.
Or, at least, the sort of normal royals live.
Have I really assimilated this quickly? I sigh.
It’s both comforting and scary to think so.
There’s nothing more convincing than someone who’s convinced themselves, so at least Miss Fenway has nothing to be afraid of when it comes to portraying me as a realistic princess-to-be when I do the awarding ceremony tomorrow.
But the scary part is wondering how I can manage to go back to normal, Ella normal, after this.
Do I go back to work for an on-campus tea shop?
Do I head back to Ground Springs and eke out a living in my parents’ chosen hometown?
Do I do the typical American thing and head to a big coastal city to slave as an intern, hoping for a break?
Will having my name show up on European tabloids close or open doors? And do I even remember how to wave at people normally anymore?
Quarter life crises are a real thing, and mine is now royal-sized.
“Ella.”
I look up to see Archer, dressed down without his tie and his jacket unbuttoned, approaching me. For most college kids, the tailored jacket and pressed shirt probably are fancy enough for a graduation family party. But for Archer, this is chaotically casual.
And it’s really unfair that he looks just as charming this way as he does when he’s all starched up and making commanding speeches.
“Hey.” I smile. I try to stand up. He is a prince, after all. But he gestures for me to stay seated.
“May I join you?”
“Of course.”
I scoot over a little, and he sits down, his sleeve brushing mine. It’s the sort of physical contact that strangers in subway trains all over the world share every single day, multiple times a day. But my girly crush makes it feel like there are actual electric sparks.
I will be dealing with a major quarter-life crisis after this. Move over, college relationships that don’t survive graduation. My ex-boyfriend is a prince.
“Are you ready for tomorrow?” He asks, his voice kind, while he looks sideways at me.
Of course, he’s just here to advise me about royal duties. Why else?
I tuck away the disappointment.
“I think so? I mean—all I know is that I’m supposed to shake the athletes’ hands and then give them their medals in the order of bronze and then silver and then gold. Then I need to stand by reverently while the national anthem plays. Not much room for error, I think.”
“No, it’s pretty straightforward.”
“Should I put a hand on my heart if it’s the Northandrian anthem?”
He lets loose a single, sharp chuckle. “I don’t think we need to worry about that. Archery has never been our strong suit.”
“No?”
“We are miners, not hunters, here in Northandria. Our other Carvarell cousins are better with their weapons.”
“Like Greg and Eduardo’s countries?”
“Usually, it’s the Andovans doing a clean sweep, especially after we started allowing the professionals to join. The Andovan Guard is the most exclusive bodyguard club in the world.”
“You mean like the Pope’s Swiss Guards?”
Archer looks at me like he’s proud of me for knowing basic European trivia. “To an extent, but maybe without the colorful costumes.”
I laugh. He smiles. And we sit comfortably for a while, enjoying the silence.
The life of a Crown Prince might look glamorous, but it’s easy to see that it weighs on anyone who takes the task seriously.
Royals might look like born influencers.
But when that influence can actually have real-life, national impact, there’s a whole lot more to the role than looking pretty.
“Do you ever wish not to be a prince?” I ask, as if it’s the most normal question to ask a guy you may or may not be dating.
He doesn’t answer right away, and I’m about to tell him to forget I ever asked the question when he says, “No, not really. I have wished, at times, to escape the responsibility of it. I’ve had my turns at complaining about the chafing expectations, especially when it comes to my personal life.
My teenage years were not the most carefree.
But there is a purpose to this job, a noble calling, some might say.
And I don’t take the privilege lightly.”
“Northandria is lucky to have you.”
His laugh is hollow. “I don’t know if they see it that way.”
“Why wouldn’t they?”
“A prince might have all the noblest intentions in the world, but I am still failing at the primary role of a royal.”
I frown. “Like what?”
His blue eyes lock on mine. “Marrying. Securing the line of succession.”
“As far as I know, you’re engaged. That’s a step.”
This time, his laugh feels a little more real. I smile too, happy to have helped him relax.
“But then they will be disappointed to hear it’s all a sham,” he says. “No one actually wants to marry me. Princess Kya literally ran away.”
He can’t really think that about himself, can he?
I try to keep my tone light. “I find it hard to imagine that a modern-day prince cannot find a bride. I’m pretty sure I can put a sign-up sheet in any US city, and you’ll be inundated with applicants.”
He winces. “Not the right kind.”
“No?”
“Girls, women—they all tend to want the title. Not the man. And most definitely not the responsibilities that come with the man.”
“You make it sound like a punishment to marry you.”
‘Sometimes, I think it might be.”
“Archer.” I bump his shoulder. “Are you always this morose?”
“Morose? No. Just realistic.”
“As far as I know, your parents’ marriage was a happy one.”
The side of his lip ticks, just a little. “I like to think so.”
“They were united, I think? I mean—they’ve obviously raised you well in terms of caring for Northandria as much as they did.”
He pauses for a bit. “Yes, they did.”
“It must have been hard when your father passed.”
He meets my eyes again. And this time, there’s a depth to them that I never saw before. “You understand.”
“Of course.” I reach out and squeeze his hand. Just briefly. A touch of empathy. I’m not a moron enough to tempt myself beyond that. “I am glad, for your sake, and Alya’s sake, that you didn’t lose both of them at once the way I did. But I can’t imagine it having been easy for your mother.”
His brow frowns the tiniest bit. “I suppose not.” A beat passes. “Although the way she carried on could have fooled anyone.”
“Archer, you can’t mean that.”
“I don’t know if I do.” He leans back a little. If there had been a wall behind him, I’m pretty sure he would have hit the back of his head on it. “But it was just all business with her: meetings and summits and a frowning, tearless face throughout all the funeral events.”
I let him talk, let him process his pain.
“I’d like to think that she misses him,” he says, his face harder to see now under the greying sky. Maybe it does get dark in Northandria. “But it’s hard to tell under all the ceremonies, all the hardness, all the queenness of it all.”
“Did she ever say anything about it?”
“No. Nothing.” His face hardens for a moment before unraveling into something more pained. “She just continued her work. And she piled more work on me. And she just stopped parenting Alya altogether.”
I nod. Grief hits different people differently. And it can’t have been easy to bear it while juggling the weight of the crown.
“But at least she’s still alive,” I say quietly.
I feel Archer’s gaze slip back towards me.
I try to smile. I don’t know if I succeed. “And as long as she’s still alive, there’s still a chance for things to get better.”
Regret covers his features. “Ella, I’m so sorry.”
“No, no, don’t be.” I swat at a few tears. “I lost my parents abruptly, but I know they loved me. And I know they loved each other. And maybe it’s for the best that they didn’t have to figure out how to live life without the other person.”
“But then you had to figure out life without both of them.” His hands find my back. “And just because you have managed to become such a wise and kind woman doesn’t mean it was right to have had to figure that out by yourself.”
“Wise? Kind?” I almost laugh. What am I—a good witch in a fairytale?
“And beautiful,” he says it so readily that I am once more completely confused how this man is still single. “And observant and elegant and a total natural at being a royal.”
Now it has to be a joke. And I laugh. His hands slip off back to his sides.
“You can’t mean that.”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” he says confidently. “Do you know how hard I’ve had to work to make people not think I’m a snob? Do you know how much trouble Alya still gets into for forgetting protocols all over the place? But you—you make it look effortless.”
“I highly doubt that.”
“You have seen in your brief time here how ridiculous some royals can be. And yet, you rise above it all.”
“You make me sound like a Phoenix.”
“Is that not very elegant?”
“And very scaly.”
“The Phoenix is a symbol of feminine beauty.”
“Strength, maybe. But beauty?” I scrunch my face.
“My mother loves being compared to a Phoenix.”
At that, I forget my tears and outright giggle.
Archer had the good sense to blush a little. “I suppose that it’s a good thing you do not prefer the same comparison then,” he says a beat later.
I laugh. “No, I don’t. And yes, probably a good thing.”
He looks abashed, and I squeeze his hand again, if just to show that I don’t mind. But this time, he turns his hands and snatches my fingers, keeping us linked.
He seems to think for a bit before saying, “You will do a spectacular job tomorrow.”
It means something, to have him feel so certain of my success. “Thank you.”
“I cannot wait to see it.”