[Christina’s POV]
The coronation preparations hit like a freight train the following week.
My phone buzzes constantly now. Calendar notifications. Email chains with seventeen people CC'd. Group chats I never asked to join. Apparently becoming queen means your inbox becomes a war zone.
Every morning brings new demands. Protocol sessions where I learn which fork goes where (spoiler: there are seven). Meetings with advisors who talk over me like I'm furniture. Press briefings where a woman named Margaret coaches me to smile without showing too many teeth.
"You want approachable, not unhinged," Margaret says, demonstrating. Her smile looks like a hostage situation.
Today brings something different: the first consultation for my coronation gown.
The royal seamstress arrives at precisely ten o'clock—I know because my phone alarm screams at me thirty seconds before she knocks. Madame Beaumont is ancient, elegant, the kind of woman who probably has strong opinions about fast fashion and polyester blends.
"Your Highness." She curtsies like she's been doing it since the Victorian era. "Shall we begin?"
The fitting room adjoins my chambers. Mirrors everywhere. Some sadist's idea of interior design.
I step onto the platform in a silk slip that costs more than my entire wardrobe from Before. The mirrors multiply me infinitely—pale skin, dark hair, grey eyes with bags underneath that no concealer can fix. I look like I haven't slept in a week.
I haven't slept in a week.
Madame Beaumont circles me, tapping measurements into an iPad that looks comically modern in her weathered hands. Even grandmotherly seamstresses have gone digital, apparently.
"Arms out, please."
The measuring tape whispers across my shoulders. Down my spine. Around my waist—and I hold my breath without meaning to, like the tape might somehow detect the secret I'm keeping.
The dizziness hits without warning.
The room tilts. Mirrors blur into a kaleidoscope of light. I grab the platform's edge so hard my knuckles go white.
"Your Highness?" Madame Beaumont's voice sounds underwater. "Are you well?"
"Fine." The word scrapes out. "Low blood sugar. Skipped breakfast like an idiot."
She doesn't argue, but I catch her look—quick, assessing—at my pale face. At the shadows under my eyes. At the way I'm breathing through my nose like I'm trying not to throw up.
Which I am. Trying not to throw up, that is.
“Don’t say that,” she says quietly, but impartially. She doesn’t really care, but she knows damn well how royalty’s supposed to act. “At least not out loud. Not in front of others.”
The implication is clear. Don’t give them weapons.
"The gown will take about a month," she continues, carefully neutral. "Several fittings as we progress."
A month. Thirty days of hiding this while my body changes. Thirty days of blaming stress and nerves and skipped breakfast while something grows inside me that could destroy everything.
"Whatever’s needed," I manage.
When she finally leaves, I collapse into a chair and press both palms against my stomach. Still flat. Still secret. The dizziness fades slowly, replaced by exhaustion so heavy it feels like gravity doubled.
My phone buzzes. A text from an unknown palace number: Guest list meeting in 20 minutes.
Of course. No rest for the recently-discovered royal.
A knock. Daniel's voice: "Christina? May I come in?"
I shove my phone in my pocket and force my hands into my lap like a normal person who definitely isn't having a crisis.
"Yeah. Come in."
He enters carrying a leather folder, looking like he stepped out of a catalog for expensive men who have their lives together. Dark suit. Silver cufflinks. Not a single hair daring to be out of place.
His grey-green eyes scan me—quick, concerned—before settling into that infuriatingly calm expression he always wears.
"The fitting went well?"
"Peachy." I gesture to the chair across from me. "What's up?"
"The coronation guest list." He sits, crossing one leg over the other like we're discussing wine pairings instead of my trauma. "We need to finalize by end of week. Invitations have to go out."
He spreads papers across the table. Names everywhere, organized by family and political importance. A seating chart that looks like a conspiracy board.
"Most are straightforward," he says. "Old allies. Parliament. Foreign dignitaries who've already RSVP'd."
"Most." I catch the word he's dancing around. "But not all."
His jaw tightens. Almost imperceptibly—but I've gotten good at reading Daniel Cromwell's micro-expressions.
"The Valdren family." He says it like swallowing glass. "Protocol suggests they should receive invitations. Excluding them would be... noticed."
"Good." The word comes out sharp as a slap. "Let people notice."
"Christina—"
"They stole nineteen years of my life." I lean forward, anger rising hot and familiar. "My inheritance. My identity. Everything. And you want me to invite them to watch me take it back?"
"I want you to control the narrative." His voice stays maddeningly calm. "Excluding them entirely makes you look petty. Vindictive."
"I am vindictive." I'm on my feet suddenly, not remembering standing. "They made me believe I was nothing. They fed me scraps from my own table while their daughter called me worthless."
"And now you're queen." Daniel rises too, his height suddenly imposing. "You have power they can never touch. Why let them know they still get to you?"
"Because they do get to me!" The admission rips out before I can stop it. "Every time I look in a mirror, I see my mother's face and remember they knew. Every time someone calls me 'Highness,' I remember being called nothing."
Daniel steps closer. His cologne hits me—cedar and something darker—and my pulse does something stupid.
"You think I don't get it?" His voice drops low. "You think I haven't watched you fight through every meeting, every fitting, every conversation where some old man underestimates you?"
"Then why—"
"Because I find your stubbornness infuriating." Another step. We're almost touching now. "And impressive. But fury without strategy is just noise. You're better than noise."
"And your calm superiority makes me want to throw things." I'm breathing harder. Heart slamming against my ribs. "You stand there with your perfect composure, looking at me like I'm a puzzle—"
"You're not a puzzle." His grey-green eyes burn into mine. "You're the most formidable woman I've met in twenty years. And you're going to rule this country whether or not the Valdrens watch."
Six inches between us. Maybe less.
I feel heat radiating off him. See the pulse jumping in his throat. His lips part slightly, and my gaze drops to them without permission.
What would they feel like?
Daniel steps back first. While I wonder what the fuck is wrong with me.
The distance opens like a wound. He runs a hand through his silver-threaded hair, composure cracking just enough to show something raw underneath.
"I apologize." His voice comes out rougher. "That was... inappropriate."
"Was it?"
The question hangs there. I don't know why I asked it.
"We should discuss this another time." He gathers his papers without meeting my eyes. "After we've both... reflected."
He moves toward the door. I should let him go.
"Daniel."
He stops. Turns.
"The Valdrens." I hold his gaze despite my racing heart. "I'll consider it. The strategic inclusion thing."
Something shifts in his expression. Not victory. Something closer to respect.
"Thank you, Your Highness."
The door closes.
I stand alone, one hand pressed against my heart. The other rests against my stomach without me deciding to put it there.
Everything has shifted. Between us. Within me.
I'm just not sure what it's becoming.
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