10. Elena
“Everything is fine,” Fletcher assures me, holding a phone to my ear.
I keep moving my bottom lip with my teeth and stare out the plane window, watching the light below disappear into the dark sky.
After saying our goodbyes, Alexei left with the leaders of the House and Parliament.
As he expected, they did not hesitate to isolate him, denying him all access, including phone calls, until this investigation ends and a judgment is rendered. Whether guilty or not.
Fletcher insisted I leave in the middle of the night. Fewer eyes. Less speculation. The cover of darkness providing the secrecy a bright day would deny.
I dislike this part of the plan.
I don’t want to leave Alexei, not to face this alone. I don’t want my people to think I’m admitting guilt by staying away, a silent confession of our fear. I want to fight these ludicrous accusations right alongside him.
But there’s a part of me, a smaller, more frightened part, that can’t shake the thought that Alexei and Fletcher might be right. That this, in fact, is exactly what Wendell wants. A distraction. A way in. A chance to get closer to people I love.
To punish me.
Hannah, Braydon, Blake, and Lance are all settled in the rear of the plane, with I’ve moved toward the front for a little privacy.
Meanwhile, Zoe decided to remain at the palace, adamant in her desire to keep her eyes and ears open, assuring me she’d let me know if she uncovered any leads that might make sense of this madness.
“How is he doing?” I ask.
Fletcher laughs softly. “He’s fine, Elena. Worried about you, though.”
“I’m okay.”
I cling to the phone, my grasp tightening as if the pressure of my fingers pushing into it will somehow make the lie true.
“Now, I know this can’t be easy—” There is a scramble on the phone line. “I’ll be right there,” he says, voice distorted, meant for someone else.
I straighten, letting my hand slide onto the armrest. “What’s happening?”
“Everything is fine, Elena. They’re getting ready to start questioning.”
I bite my lip until the pain becomes impossible to ignore.
“Don’t worry,” he goes on. “I promise you, I won’t let anything happen to him. This will all get sorted out.”
Relief slips into my chest. It’s fragile, but it’s there. Fletcher would never let anyone harm his son. “Lay low when you get to Petrova. I’ll call as soon as we know more.”
I exhale slowly. “Alright.”
“Everything will work out, Elena. You’ll see. I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
Voices rise in the background. Fletcher manages a quick goodbye before the call cuts off.
I lower the phone to my lap, staring at it as the miles stretch between me and my kingdom. Between my people and me. Between me and the man I love.
After Ivan was killed and Wendell was thrown behind bars, I truly believed the danger was over. That the running, the fear, the constant vigilance were finally behind us.
“You okay?”
I lock eyes with Hannah, her reassuring familiarity a welcome sight. She slides into the seat beside me, her presence a steadying force.
“Fletcher says the hearing is about to begin,” I tell her.
She takes my hand in hers, holding it tightly. “Everything will get straightened out. Everyone knows Alexei is not a traitor. Certainly not a thief.”
I manage a smile, but it feels tight. I know she’s right. Our family knows it. Our friends know it. Even our people, so far, know it. But support has limits, and scandals pile up faster than faith can keep up. I can’t help wondering how much more they’re willing to endure before demanding change.
And I can’t silence the Ancient’s parting words: one will fall.
I don’t know what that means. Death. Power. Love. Something has to give.
“I don’t like the separation,” I admit quietly.
Her gaze drifts toward the window as if she is looking at something in the clouds, much further away. “I know. But if the snake meant to attack when Alexei was locked safely out of the way, you have changed the rules by leaving.”
I pick at my nails. “Or I walked straight into it,” I whisper.
Her eyebrows meet. “Do you think Wendell anticipated you being sent away by Alexei?”
I lift my hand slightly, the motion barely more than a breath. “I don’t know anymore,” I admit. “But with Wendell, it feels dangerous not to think of every possibility.”
Hannah’s grip on my hand tightens. “I knew the Duke of Dough was evil, but not this evil.”
A surprised laugh escapes me. “Duke of Dough?”
She grins. “Yeah. You know… big, round belly. I’ve been workshopping that one for a while,” she says.
“You nailed it,” I tell her, laughing a bit more freely now.
“Yeah?” She settles back into the cushions, her chin lifting, sparkling eyes glinting with amusement.
“Yeah, it’s pretty good.” Her head turns, her cheek resting against the headrest. “I know the circumstances aren’t exactly ideal, but I really am excited to see Petrova.
And the king and queen. Almost like our own personal vacation. ”
I go back to the window. “Yeah,” I agree, but the word lacks her excitement.
I haven’t had another vision. But the feeling in my stomach is just as real as if I had. A warning without pictures. A knowledge that something bad is on the horizon.
I hope I am wrong.
It’s quiet.
Not the calm kind, but the sensation of drifting in a never-ending space where the existence of sound is merely a concept. Gradually, the silence shatters. Muffled voices begin to filter in.
My eyes snap open.
I sit up straight, breathlessly surveying my environment.
I’m back at the orphanage.
Portland.
The room is just as I remember, six narrow beds arranged in a line like soldiers at attention, thin blankets tightly tucked in, a slight whiff of disinfectant and wood in the air. Only one bed has an occupant.
By me.
Not me as I exist now, but me at twelve years old, sitting crossed-legged on the mattress, twisted into a human pretzel, head bowed. My fingers trace something in my palm with quiet reverence.
I step forward.
Then again.
And again.
Every movement is a struggle, as though I’m walking through syrup, until I’m standing at the foot of the bed, looking down at my younger self. From here, I can finally see what she’s holding.
My hand instinctively flies to my chest, slipping my hand under my blouse. My fingers clasp around the heavy familiarity of gold.
The necklace.
Younger me doesn’t take notice of my presence. Doesn’t flinch. It’s as if she knows I’m here, or as if I don’t exist at all.
The room is empty otherwise. No other girls. No noise. Just us.
I know this day.
I will always remember this day.
The day the foster family that promised to adopt Hannah and me decided they only wanted one of us. They wanted her, sweet, agreeable, easy to love. I was something else. Something inconvenient. Something problematic, like a dog they’d tried out and decided was the wrong breed to show off.
The door opens without a knock.
Ms. O’Hara strides in, lips pulled into their usual disapproving line. Her thick black shoes, designed for comfort rather than style, squish against the wooden floor as she approaches. Her once-dark hair is now threaded heavily with gray, pulled tight into a bun at the back of her head.
“Are you coming for dinner?” she asks bluntly.
She never bothers with kindness.
I look at her, remembering how displeased she was with me that day. She thought she’d be rid of me. And yet, here I was… returned.
“Not hungry,” the younger me murmurs, eyes fixed on my hand.
My fingers tighten around the charm at my chest in perfect synchrony with hers.
A single gold rose. Full stem included.
Ms. O’Hara’s eyes narrow. “This is your only opportunity to eat. The kitchen will be closed after this.”
Younger me shrugs one shoulder.
A definite “tsk” escapes Ms. O’Hara. “You know, child, it’s behavior like this that made the family choose to keep Hannah and not you.”
The words aren’t spoken with cruelty.
They’re worse than that.
They’re spoken like facts.
I see the younger me struggling to hold back the tears, the sting behind her eyes. I remember feeling the panic rise, knowing I was being left behind as Hannah, the only family I had ever known, was taken from me.
Ms. O’Hara exhales sharply, her patience thinning. “What is in that bloody hand of yours?”
“The only item from the parents that gave me up,” younger me and I say together.
The sound of my own voice echoes strangely.
I take note of my own chest and then examine the girl on the bed.
Her hand opens slowly, and the rose rests flat within her palm.
“It’s a rose,” she says.
“A rose?” Ms. O’Hara scoffs. “Why a rose? What does it mean?”
Younger me finally lifts her head, eyes narrowing with the first flicker of emotion. “I don’t know. I never met my parents, remember?”
Her lips are thin. “Well, there must be some reason they wanted you to have it. Even if they didn’t want you.”
Crushing silence settles between us.
Younger me closes her fist around the rose, jaw clenched tight. The words hit me now as hard as they did then.
“If I were you,” Ms. O’Hara continues, “I’d pawn it and keep the money. You’ll need it. You’ll likely remain here until you age out.”
No response.
She sighs and turns toward the door. “Fine. Stay silent. Keep to yourself. That’s why they returned you.
You showed no interest in being part of a family.
” Her hand rests on the doorknob. “Some families you’re born into, and some you create for yourself.
You could have had a family. You chose this instead. ”
The door closes behind her.
My attention snaps back to younger me as tears finally spill, splashing onto her clenched fist. She opens her palm, the lamp beside the bed catching the gold, making it glint. She angrily wipes her cheek, then slaps the necklace onto the side table and rolls onto her side, turning her back to me.
My eyes drift to the table.
To the rose.
To Ms. O’Hara’s words.
Something about this moment claws at me. There has to be a reason I’m seeing this now. Something I’m missing…
“Elena? Hey… El?”
My shoulders jolt as hands shake me gently.