Chapter 21
Kellen
My mother summoned me to the palace’s main sitting room early this morning.
For a room that should be comfortable, this space is anything but.
It’s always so freezing in here that I’m convinced the architect was a crypt enthusiast. In one corner, there’s a painting of my mother’s great-grandfather glaring disapprovingly at the opposite wall.
The queen is already waiting, perched on the edge of a sofa with her spine so perfectly vertical it’s probably achieved escape velocity.
She’s dressed for war—matte-black silk and pearl buttons aligned with military precision.
When she gestures for me to sit, it’s with the measured grace of someone who has never stubbed a toe in her life.
“Darling,” she says, as if the word is a particularly sour olive she must swallow for the sake of diplomacy.
“Mother.” I fold myself into the chair opposite hers. The seat is as unyielding as I remember. If you’re not a member of the House of Hale, you’re probably not meant to survive prolonged exposure to it.
My mother spends a moment pretending to consult the tea tray between us, an elaborate piece of silver that always looks on the verge of collapse under the weight of its own symbolism. She pours herself a cup in a flawless motion.
I clear my throat and wait to be acknowledged as an equal or at least as a sentient being.
She takes a prim sip, then fixes me with the blue gaze that has toppled prime ministers. “I won’t insult you by pretending this is a social call. You’re well aware why I summoned you here. The arrangement with Ms. Sumner. It was meant to be temporary.”
She says Piper’s name with the same intonation she’d use for “minor constitutional crisis.” It’s impressive, honestly.
“That was the idea,” I admit. “Except Piper’s not going anywhere, not if I have any say.”
Her expression does not flicker. “This isn’t a negotiation, Kellen. You understand the optics. After the fundraiser debacle—”
“‘Debacle’ is a bit harsh,” I interject. “It raised four million dollars.”
She set down the teacup and folds her hands. “Wonderful as that is, it cost us a decade of carefully managed PR. Your generation may find it charming, but the rest of the nation sees you as a cautionary tale.”
I don’t know what to say to that. If the cautionary tale is to not catch an omega when she nearly faints in front of you, or you might find and fall in love with your pack, there’s nothing to apologize for. “I’m honored, truly.”
Her hand twitches toward the tea, then away, as if she’s fighting the urge to pour it on my head.
Instead, she leans forward and lowers her voice.
“The Hale line is not a laughingstock. You are an alpha and the only heir, and you are going to marry someone suitable. You understand this is how it must be.”
“Incredible, isn’t it?” I ask.
The queen does not appreciate sarcasm as an art form. “You know why we chose Ms. Sumner for this charade in the first place. She was a useful distraction. But the public is moving on, and so must you.”
“She’s not a distraction.” I let more acid into my voice than intended. “She’s—” I stop. I will not use the word ‘love’ in this room. Not where it will be dissected, taxidermied, and placed on display for future monarchs to sneer at.
“She is a pop singer,” the Queen says. “A talented one, yes, but hardly pedigree. And more to the point: she is not an omega.”
That word hangs in the air like the ghost of a firing squad. I catch myself, every muscle suddenly alert. I make a mental note: the queen still doesn’t know about Piper’s designation, and neither will she learn it from me.
“Who cares about that anymore?” I ask. “Half the Parliament are mated to betas.”
Her eyes narrow, that ancient family talent for weaponizing disappointment in full effect.
“You don’t have to believe in tradition, Kellen, but you must respect it.
You will sever ties with Ms. Sumner by the end of the month, or I will do it for you.
And I assure you, my method will be less pleasant for her. ”
I glance at the painting of my great-great-grandfather, still glowering at the curtains like they personally offended him.
My mind was made up before returning from our yachting trip. “I’m not ending things with Piper. She makes me happier far more than all this.”
The queen’s nostrils flare. She studies me for a long moment, then reaches for the envelope perched on the tea tray. She slides it across the glass coffee table. My name is written across it in her signature script.
“Your trust fund review is next week,” she says. “I expect you to have reconsidered your position by then.”
We lock eyes. I almost want to laugh. She thinks I care about the money.
She actually thinks she can disown her prince son so easily?
Or that the public will like her any better for it?
I know better than to directly ask her these questions. Instead, I stand. “Is that all?”
She dismisses me with a flick of her hand. “For now.”
I stand and resist the urge to bow or otherwise make a production of my exit. The walk to the door is an obstacle course of lion-footed end tables. I manage to make it three paces before she calls my name.
“Kellen.”
I stop, back straight. “Yes, Mother?”
She’s looking past me to the windows, at something only she can see. Her voice is so quiet I almost miss it. “I just want you to be safe.”
It lands heavier than any threat could.
“I know.” I make way for the door.
Elliot is waiting when I reach the corridor. He’s mastered the art of blending into palace walls.
He falls into step beside me. “That looked brutal.”
“It was character-building,” I reply. To say the least.
We make our way through the palace. Elliot waits until we’re safely out of range before nudging me.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes. It’s just—” I run a hand through my hair. “She’s going to come after Piper. Hard.”
Elliot glances over, then fixes me with the look he reserves for my more harebrained ideas. “You can’t control everything.”
I control nothing.
I wonder if I’ve just declared war.
I wonder if I’ve already lost.