The privy council chamber smells of old leather and older power. I stand outside its carved doors, memorizing the names Daniel drilled into me an hour ago.
Lord Ashworth. Lady Pemberton. Duke Harrington. Each one a pillar of the establishment that never expected someone like me to exist.
"Remember," Daniel says, stepping closer. Close enough that I catch his cologne—cedar and something darker, something that makes my thoughts scatter momentarily. "They will test you. Question your competence. Your right to be there."
His grey-green eyes hold mine with an intensity that makes my pulse skip unexpectedly.
"Let them underestimate you. It's an advantage they're giving away for free."
"And if they don't stop at questions?" My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "If they decide I'm simply unfit to rule?"
"Then you remind them that bloodlines aren't earned through approval." He adjusts my collar—a gesture so intimate I forget to breathe. His fingers are warm against my throat. "You are the Queen's granddaughter. Act like it."
The touch is professional. Practical. But his fingers brush my neck, and warmth spreads through my chest like spilled wine. My skin tingles where he touched even after he withdraws.
I step back before I can analyze why my heart races.
"I'm ready."
Daniel nods, something unreadable flickering across his features. Then the doors swing open, and I enter alone.
The chamber falls silent. Twelve faces turn toward me—eleven men and one woman—their expressions ranging from skeptical to openly hostile. I feel their judgment like a physical pressure.
I take my seat at the head of the table. The chair feels enormous. My grandmother sat here for decades. My mother should have sat here after her.
Instead, I occupy it like an imposter wearing borrowed authority.
"Your Highness." Lord Ashworth's voice drips with barely concealed condescension. "How generous of you to join us."
"The privilege is mine, Lord Ashworth." I keep my tone neutral despite my racing pulse. "I understand there's much to discuss regarding the transition."
Murmurs ripple around the table. Lady Pemberton exchanges glances with Duke Harrington. They expected timidity. Tears, perhaps. Not composure.
The meeting proceeds through procedural matters—security protocols, diplomatic correspondence, the upcoming coronation timeline. I absorb every detail, filing away information for later use.
I listen. I nod. I file away every sideways glance and whispered aside.
Then Lord Ashworth raises the matter of crown finances.
"The treasury reports require your signature, Highness. Standard procedure. I trust you'll find everything in order."
He slides a leather folder across the polished wood. His smile suggests he expects me to sign without reading. The arrogance in his expression makes something harden inside me.
I open the folder instead.
Numbers swim before my eyes—columns and figures I've trained myself to understand over the past week. Daniel's late-night tutorials. My grandmother's meticulous records. Hours of study paying dividends now.
Something doesn't match.
"These disbursements to the Valdren estate." I trace the line with my finger, heart pounding against my ribs. "They're listed as charitable contributions. But the amounts exceed what any charitable organization could reasonably require."
The silence that follows is absolute. I can hear my own breathing.
"Highness," Lord Ashworth begins, his composure cracking slightly, "these are routine allocations that have been approved for years—"
"Routine." I meet his eyes without flinching. "For nineteen years, specifically. Coinciding precisely with my placement in the Valdren household."
His face drains of color. A bead of sweat forms at his temple.
"I wonder," I continue, my voice carrying edges I no longer hide, "if the council was aware these funds originated from my mother's personal accounts. Funds meant for my care. My education. My future."
Nobody speaks. The woman, Lady Pemberton, stares at the table surface. Several councillors shift uncomfortably in their seats.
"I'll require a full audit." I close the folder with deliberate precision. "Of all crown finances connected to the Valdren family. Immediately."
The meeting concludes shortly after. Council members file out with mumbled excuses, avoiding my gaze like I've become something dangerous.
Perhaps I have.
I wait until the chamber empties before allowing my composure to crack. My hands shake as I grip the table's edge. The hostility in that room pressed against me like physical weight.
I survived it. I even fought back.
So why do I feel like I'm drowning?
The corridor outside is mercifully empty. I lean against cold stone, pressing my palms flat against the wall, forcing air into lungs that won't cooperate.
"Christina."
Daniel's voice reaches me before his footsteps do. I don't turn around. Can't trust my face not to betray the chaos beneath my skin.
His hand lands on my shoulder. Warm. Steady. Grounding me the same way it did when I was sick in the study. His thumb traces a small circle against my shoulder blade.
"You handled that better than any royal I've served." His voice is low, meant only for me. "Better than your grandmother in her first council meeting, and she was twice your age."
"I thought I was going to vomit." The admission escapes before I can stop it. "Right there on the table. On Lord Ashworth's precious financial reports."
"That would have made an impression." There's warmth in his tone. Almost amusement. "Though perhaps not the one we're aiming for."
His hand remains on my shoulder. I feel each finger through the fabric of my blazer. Feel the heat of his palm seeping into my skin like slow fire.
Too long. This is lasting too long.
I pull away first, the warmth in my chest confusing and unwelcome.
Daniel's arm drops to his side. Something passes across his features—disappointment, perhaps—but he schools it quickly behind his usual composure.
"The audit will take time," he says, shifting back to business. "The Valdrens will learn of it within hours. They'll prepare countermeasures."
"Let them prepare." I straighten, willing strength back into my spine. "I have nineteen years of evidence on my side."
He studies me with those grey-green eyes that see too much. Whatever he's searching for, I don't know if he finds it.
"Rest," he says finally. "Tomorrow brings more battles."
I nod and walk toward my chambers, feeling his gaze follow me until I turn the corner.
The door barely closes behind me before my stomach rebels.
I make it to the washroom just in time, knees hitting cold tile as everything comes up. The retching is violent, relentless, leaving me gasping and trembling on the floor.
Morning sickness. The phrase seems absurd for something that strikes at all hours without warning.
I press my cheek against cool porcelain and let the tears come. Not from grief this time. From the impossible weight of secrets pressing down on me.
Hunter's child grows inside me while I plot his family's destruction. The council already views me as an interloper—what would they say if they knew their future queen carries Valdren blood?
The audit I demanded will unravel years of theft. The coronation approaches like a wave about to break.
And beneath my borrowed authority, beneath the crown I haven't yet worn, a secret grows that could destroy everything I'm building.
I curl around myself on the bathroom floor, one hand pressed against my still-flat stomach.
How do you become a queen when your body is already betraying you to the enemy?
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