49
Camilla of Severna
E very single day since he walked out of this place, I regret not telling him everything that I wanted to say. On that day, I finally understood how much he was hurting and how much extra suffering I was giving him.
Just like me, his family betrayed him—except for Edgar—and I ignored that reality, too focused on my pain.
Still, he found the maturity not to blame me, while I was also guilty of a lot. I also lied—or omitted. He never knew of my lineage until it became public. And from how he said things went down with his mother, if I had said something to him earlier, maybe...all this mess wouldn’t have happened.
But I had to be too proud to give him a second chance. I let it sink like a lead balloon and did nothing about it. Now, I have lost him for good.
“You two stubborn airheads,” Edgar grumbles across from my desk, his left ankle placed on top of his right knee.
Idiot . My mouth opens to curse him, only to be cut off by three knocks on my office door.
“Come in,” I order, still glaring at my annoying friend.
Primrose’s head, who was lying on the couch beside us, rises, curious to see who is entering the division. Her tail wags when she recognises the person by the door.
“Your Majesty,” Joshua greets, bowing from the doorway. “Everyone’s wondering when will you be joining the ball?”
Ugh, of course.
After all these months, it still doesn’t get any easier, especially since I loathe these kinds of events. What good is it to be queen if my power is so limited?
“We’ll be right out,” Edgar singsongs to Joshua, who just thins his lips disapprovingly.
He has never been fond of my alone time with Edgar Hawthorne and has often advised me not to fall in love with him. I always laugh because how could I? He’s like a brother. A romantic relationship with him just gives me the ick.
“Why do I have to do this again?” I whine. “From what I understand, these were no longer organised.”
“Exactly, but that is because the previous rulers often accepted the offers on the table for them.” His matter-of-fact tone makes me want to punch him in the face, but I can’t now. I need to be classy. “You brought this upon yourself.”
“It’s only been six months,” I hiss. “You reckon they’d give me more time.”
“Well, if you were a man, they would,” Edgar tuts.
“Thank you for your honesty,” I grumble.
“I vowed for nothing less, Your Majesty.” His cocky smirk makes an appearance before he bows. “You look stunning, by the way.”
“Of course,” I mutter.
Trying to soften the blow with a compliment, very Edgar-like.
“Lead the way,” I request.
Experiencing a similar event to the night the duke’s mother attempted to murder me is unsettling. In theory, security has been reinforced and tightened. It should make me feel safe because I know that this time around, everyone is to be trusted. Still, sweat gathers on my forehead, and my hands tremble slightly.
Last time, Vincent risked his life for me. And I inherently felt safer with him present. Now, I just feel lost and alone, even if surrounded by dozens of people.
Rachel is somewhere here. I saw her once as soon as I entered the room, and she waved eagerly. While I wasn’t allowed to approach her just yet due to the formalities of the event, the night won’t end without it. She was finally able to visit the palace after Vincent’s mother was incarcerated. But after getting engaged to Charlie, she became too busy to come often. We have mostly been surviving off of texts and calls.
I miss her.
Looking around, I notice the decorations, way simpler than the coronation one but still similar. Is it obvious I told the staff to recycle? Of course. This isn’t— in any way —an important ceremony or event. This is a tantrum that the House of Commons and my office decided was imperative and urgent.
Honestly? I can’t believe these are still done...There’s no memory of seeing Mrs Elisabeth invited to one in all my years working and helping my mother out. Nor do I have the memory of watching them on TV. Quite surely, these stopped being organised in the late eighteenth hundreds .
Not to mention how ridiculous this is. Being paraded around this room, like a peahen to be fought over and chosen by the several peacocks sauntering around like they're the last biscuit in the pack. For fuck's sake.
Have I reached the bottom? Surely.
“I can’t see my brother,” Edgar tuts, breaking my inner monologue. Though the repetition of the same subject repeatedly irks me tremendously.
Why does he have to keep bringing him up?
“Because he’s not coming,” I hiss an answer.
“Didn’t you invite him?”
“All bachelors in the realm are fair game, according to Joshua,” I grit. “Even if I didn’t want to, I had to invite him. I invited you, didn’t I? I surely won’t marry you .”
“Pfff, I am a great catch,” he snarks back.
“Right,” I agree sarcastically.
Leave it to Edgar to remind me of my broken heart. He’s an amazing friend, a pure heart underneath that funny, womaniser facade. Those who get to meet the real him will know this is not the kind of person you allow to walk away from your life.
If only I had realised that sooner with his brother as well.
“He’ll show up,” he mutters.
“Shut up,” I growl. “And stop giving me hope. He won’t care. Not after everything.”
And it’s my fault.
I couldn’t forgive him when he so quickly did. Ultimately, we both were wrong, even if it was to protect the other.
I miss him. So bloody much. And even with everything going great and that old witch locked up for good, there is a hole in my heart. And that’s because I can’t seem to get over him, no matter what I try or how long it is.
His spot is still here, waiting for him.
“How does this work?” Edgar whispers in my ear. “Should I keep my distance as a possible suitor?”
"You’re not a suitor," I grit out.
“Oh, uh-uh,” he tuts with his mocking tone. “The magazines very much disagree with you. I’m no longer the underdog or the forgotten Hawthorne rebel brother. I am the possible future king.”
“Shut up,” I hiss, trying to keep my composure as a gentleman from across the room bows to me with a slick smile.
I can’t possibly fathom who the hell he is. And I am sure I was shown pictures and portraits of everyone invited. I hate Joshua for this. He knows I won’t choose anyone from here.
“Is there a line we need to wait in to be introduced like they used to in the Middle Ages? Where should I stand?” he asks as that same gentleman strides towards us.
I chuckle. “You know that in the Middle Ages, they weren’t introduced to each other until after they got married, right?”
“What?” he gasps, horrified. “What if they got a minger?”
A resigned sigh escapes my lips. “Too bad for them.”
“Thank goodness I was born in the right era,” he sighs before doing the phew sound and movement.
Oh, yes. I imagine Edgar being slapped by women and hunted down by many men if he were to exist at least one hundred and fifty years ago.
“I’d pay to see that.” I smirk.
Looking in the direction of the gentleman, who is already close to us, his expression changes, and he whispers to me as I sip my champagne, “I’m going to get some more drinks. Lord Farquaad is coming.”
I choke and spit champagne onto the floor. Classy.
“Oh, my goodness,” I babble. “I am so sorry!”
Luckily enough he was still far away enough that I didn’t splatter it all over his expensive suit.
“Your Majesty.” He bows again. “May I have a dance?”
“Oh, uh...I—” I stutter. “Yes.”
The song is already playing, with other guests dancing graciously through the hall. His arms rise in position, waiting for me to take his lead. And I do. He’s about my height, making it highly uncomfortable since he seems to be looking at me without blinking.
He leads me across the hall in a refined grace, even if my body is stiff and my eyes look everywhere but him. There aren’t any mistakes. No stepping on feet; no moves outside the rhythm. Nothing.
Yet it feels like nothing . I feel dead inside. It doesn’t even catch up to the way I felt while dancing in his arms all those months ago.
It goes on until someone steps in to ask for a dance with me. And a third man. Then, a fourth. By the time I am finally given a break—by the sixth dance—I feel dizzy and hungry.
“I need to be excused,” I tell the last man I am dancing with, not giving him or anyone else a chance to approach me.
Through one of the doors, I head to my office, where some food awaits me.
“Finally,” I groan, popping half a biscuit inside my mouth.
“That’s not very ladylike.” A low baritone voice tsks, and I gasp, startled, letting the other half fall to the ground. Primrose jumps from the person’s lap, eating it right away.
“Fucking hell, Edgar,” I bristle. “What the hell are you doing in here?”
“Waiting for Miss Monera to get tired of all those candidates.”
“Happy now?” I groan, stretching my legs.
They’re starting to hurt. At this point, everything hurts—even my soul.
“I want to go to bed.”
“So early?” he gasps. “What kind of queen are you?” The nerve!
“I will not stay here and put up with this,” I grumble, picking up another biscuit. “Take good care of my princess.” I tilt my chin, nodding at Primrose.
With that, I head for the door. Though, he follows.
“Has he arrived?” he casually asks as we cross the long corridor to the party.
“Shut up.”
“He’ll be here,” he states as if he knows something I don’t.
“No, he won’t.”
My hand reaches the doorknob, with a couple of guards right next to us. By now, they know of Edgar’s free range around the palace. It’s unusual, as they claim. But he’s everything I have left. He’s family.
Edgar cuts my thought by leaning into my ear, “Believe me, little Milla ,” he taunts, his voice so similar to Vincent’s. It almost makes me shiver. Almost. “You can lie to yourself all you want, but I can bet you a title as the next Duke of Hawthorne that by the end of the night, my brother will slam that door open, storm inside the hall, and haul you onto his shoulder so he can claim you as his.”
“What are we? In a romance story?” I mock. “Your imagination goes wild sometimes.”
The door opens, and everyone swirls, looking at us. Again, the centre of attention. Ugh, I hate this.
“Your Majesty,” someone calls, and I turn to them. Another man, a count... I can’t remember any more than that at this point. “Could we—”
Bang!
The entrance doors that lead to the staircase through which all guests enter, slam open, revealing a dark-haired, fit, tall man. He’s dressed in a dark green classic three-piece suit with a long tail, giving those late 1800s vibes.
The man by my side disappears as I focus on the one on the opposite side of the room. Everyone quiets down—even the music stops playing. There’s no resistance to him. The guards know him, and he’s on the inside list. He gets free range as well.
Vincent. He’s here.
With the weight of the silence surrounding everyone, his steps echo through the room. Strong. Rhythmic. Confident.
A silent gasp escapes my mouth as I remember Edgar’s words. No.
Stealing a glance at my best friend, he smirks. Surely, he wouldn’t. Of course, he bloody did!
Two guards rush to him as they notice him approach me without hesitation but just a move of my hand freezes them in place, letting him continue.
“Wha—” I am cut off by his hand, grabbing my jaw while pressing our bodies together. His nose touches mine, sending little electric shocks through the touch.
His hot breath mixes with my ragged one as he whispers to me, “I’m miserable. My life’s not worth living without you in it.”
It’s visible. One, because I feel the same. Two, because his otherwise shiny eyes are dulled, and the dark bags underneath his eyes show me how much he has been struggling. As much as me. The difference between the both of us? Make-up.
“Vince-”
“I love you.” His voice comes out strained, pained. “I regret it all. Everything. But what I regret the most is not fighting harder for you.”
“No,” I yelp. “I was too harsh on you...I messed up, too. I–”
“Marry me,” he whispers, his dark brown eyes staring right into my soul.
“What?”
“What?” he mimics me with a scoff. “Are you going to marry any of these wankers?” He cocks his eyebrow before smirking. “Look at them.” He chuckles sarcastically. “They don’t stand a chance.”
He’s not wrong, but...I still have a part to play.
“Well,” I trail off, freeing myself of his hold. “This is just a party to get to know prospects,” I answer. “It’s not a proposal party.”
Vincent’s eyes widen. Shock flashes through them, and then rage swirls before he glances at his brother, who is watching his brother with a guilty smile.
Of course, Edgar.
“Well,” he sighs, suddenly resigned. “It is now.”
What?
My mouth falls agape at the sight before me. One knee silently hits the marble floor, and a red velvet box appears in front of me, revealing a huge blue sapphire over a white gold band where tiny crystals are encrusted. It’s gorgeous.
“It was my aunt’s engagement ring. It felt...fitting,” he explains softly, looking at it, too. “If I was once capable of letting all of it go for you, I can surely take it on for you. Though you may not need me, I need you. And you can have it all. Wealth, power, the Crown, and me . Because there is no me without you. No world or universe I’d want to live in if you weren’t there. You’re my better half and there is nothing capable of changing that. Marry me.”
Stunned in place with buzzing ears, I try to convey the strength to come up with an answer. Sure, I didn’t want to be here in the first place, but did he have to be so eccentric? And in front of the whole court to witness...
“I...” My heart beats through my body, the pulse slamming in my ears as I look at the Duke of Hawthorne, my former boss and lover, kneeling before me. Not just for the loyalty pledge but for love, too. To wed me.
“Yes.”