Chapter Twenty-Three
The first rule of royal engagements? Never let them see you sweat.
The second? Smile like you mean it.
Allegra was breaking both.
The palace ballroom shimmered like a jewel box, all gold filigree, glittering chandeliers, and polished marble.
She stood in the middle of it, Julien’s hand resting at the small of her back, his thumb moving in slow, precise circles.
Her cheeks ached from the effort, fingers cramped around a flute that had gone tepid hours ago.
Her hair, finally free of dye and back to its riotous red, caught the light in fiery sparks.
She looked luminous—if you ignored the faint shadows under her eyes, smudged like charcoal.
Her strapless dress was a mauve Valentino Atelier number that cost more than most people’s rent and weighed roughly the same as a small child. It was also, Allegra was fairly certain, cutting off circulation to her left leg. But suffering was elegant, or so her mother had always said.
Across from her, the coach of Georgia’s national rugby team—Lasha, or Giorgi, or possibly Bidzina—was holding court, his voice booming as he recounted the tale of his team’s near-victory in the European Championship.
Allegra had stopped listening three paragraphs in when she realized he was the kind of man who used the word “domination” unironically and often.
Now, she just nodded along, her mind drifting—to the ceiling, that vase, the exit.
Her gaze wandered over the crowd: diplomats and athletes, and who even were these people? All apparently happy for her. For them. The golden couple who’d briefly lost their way and found it again, like a fairytale with a tasteful third-act wobble.
“—and that’s when I told him, ‘If you want the ball, you take the ball!’” Bidzina—or whatever—finished with a roar of laughter, clapping Julien on the shoulder like they were old war buddies instead of men who’d met twenty minutes ago.
“Incredible,” Julien chortled, jabbing Allegra in the hip. “Isn’t that right, chérie?”
Allegra blinked. “Hmm? Uh-huh.”
Her father approached with the Prime Minister at his side, both wearing identical expressions of cordial triumph.
“You look radiant,” Heinrich said, his attention lingering long enough to confirm nothing was out of place. “Don’t you think, Prime Minister?”
“Very much,” Voss replied, nodding. “I was just saying how relieved I am the wedding is happening again. How relieved we all are.”
Relieved. Allegra chewed the word in her mind like something sour.
“Your Highness and Mr. LaRoche,” Voss went on, “are exactly what Valenstadt needs—stability, with a contemporary face.”
Heinrich inclined his head. “The ring, Allegra.”
She held up her hand, the enormous diamond throwing prisms across the faces of the surrounding men.
“Magnificent,” Heinrich said. “So, have you settled on a date?”
Julien’s arm slid around Allegra’s waist, pulling her closer. “That’ll depend on my World Cup commitments. Those don’t move for anyone.”
Allegra laughed politely and shifted, easing his grip away. “Oh, excuse me,” she said, pitching her voice to Apologetic but Important. “I need to step away for a moment. The champagne. You understand.”
“Sure, sure. I’ll be right here,” Julien said.
She abandoned her flute and fled into the corridor, the music dulling behind her. The walls closed in with oil and canvas: hunts frozen mid-chase, dogs straining at leashes, animals caught in the moment before flight failed. Allegra exhaled for what felt like the first time in days.
“Wow,” a voice said. “You look like a Fabergé egg about to roll off a table.”
Allegra stopped short.
Clara was propped beneath a painting of a hound gripping a pheasant, one heel hooked against the wall. She held a champagne flute, but the liquid inside was cloudy, like a science experiment gone awry.
Allegra wrinkled her nose. “Why is your drink haunted?”
Clara held the flute at arm’s length, studying it. “Oh. I spiked it.”
“With what?”
Clara shrugged. “Absinthe.”
“Not enjoying the festivities, then?”
Clara rolled her eyes so hard Allegra worried about permanent damage. “Please. I’ve been to three diplomatic events this month and one funeral that was more fun than this.” She paused, sharpening her gaze. “What the hell are you thinking?”
Allegra stiffened. “Hello to you too. I’m well, thanks.”
“Don’t,” Clara said flatly. “Do not bullshit me. I know that face.”
Allegra’s hands fisted in her gown as she closed the distance between them. “I’m doing what needs to be done.”
Clara stared at her for a long moment, then shook her head. “Christ, Allegra. This is your life we’re talking about.”
“You wouldn’t understand, okay?” she fired back, something brittle snapping in her chest. “I’m next in line. That means it falls on me to keep this whole shitshow going. It fucking sucks, but that’s how it is.”
“But with Julien? You could have—”
“I overreacted!” Allegra cut in. “We’ve been to a couple’s therapist. He’s trying. He—he actually is trying!”
Clara pushed off the wall, the murky champagne spilling onto the floor. “You don’t really believe that, do you?”
“Look, if you can’t be happy for me, just go, okay?”
“Fine, I will.”
“Fine.”
“Ugh.” Clara whipped around and stomped down the corridor, footsteps cracking like gunfire.
Allegra paused for a breath, tugged lightly at the bust of her dress, and sauntered back into the ballroom. A server appeared as if summoned, tray at the ready. She snatched a champagne flute and tipped it back, draining it in one deeply un-princess-like gulp.
“Danka,” she said, shoving the empty glass back and immediately taking another.
“You’re welcome,” said a familiar drawl in flawless English. “But seriously… maybe reconsider the whole ‘rest day’ thing?”
Allegra froze, the flute halfway to her mouth.
“What the—”