Rhys
1 week later
“Your Highness!” Erhall’s assistant jumped up from her desk, her eyes wide. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened, but we don’t have you on the calendar. There must’ve been a mix-up—”
“It’s all right,” Bridget said with a gracious smile. “I didn’t make an appointment, but we would like to speak with the Speaker. Is he available?”
“Oh, um.” The flustered-looking woman rifled through her papers before she shook her head. “Yes, of course. Please, follow me.”
She led us through the Speaker’s chambers toward his office. The thick blue carpet muffled the sounds of our footsteps, and my muscles knotted with tension.
We’re really doing this.
I wasn’t scared of Erhall, but this would be my first time seeing him since I found out he was my father. Biologically, anyway. He hadn’t done jack shit to earn the honor the title deserved.
Erhall’s assistant knocked on his door. No answer. She knocked again.
“What? I told you not to disturb me!” he barked.
The woman flinched. “Mr. Speaker, Her Highness Princess Bridget is here to see you. And, um, Mr. Larsen.” She cast a quick, awed glance in my direction.
I fought a grimace.
After the past week, everyone in Eldorra—hell, everyone in the world—knew my face and name. They’d taken over headlines from Tokyo to New York, and the footage from Bridget’s press conference, as well as the “candid” photos and videos of us kissing afterward, had played on repeat on every news channel.
The press spun the story as a reverse fairytale about a princess and her bodyguard, and the commentators ran with it, penning entire articles and op-eds about love, duty, and tradition.
The public ate it up. According to Bridget, Parliament had been inundated with calls about repealing the law, and the hashtag #LoveOverCountry had been trending all week on social media.
Love was the most universal emotion. Not everyone experienced it, but they all wanted it—even those who said they didn’t—and Bridget’s press conference had tapped into that core need. She wasn’t just a royal anymore. She was a human and, more importantly, relatable to every person out there who couldn’t be with the person they wanted for whatever reason.
There was nothing more powerful than power people could relate to.
Bridget’s plan had worked better than we could’ve hoped, but it was disconcerting seeing my face all over the newsstands and having people stop and stare wherever I went.
But I’d agreed to the plan knowing it would destroy any semblance of privacy I had left, and if stepping out of the shadows and into the spotlight was what it took for us to be together, I’d do an interview with every goddamned magazine out there.
Bridget, Erhall’s assistant, and I waited for the Speaker’s response to Bridget’s visit.
I heard the slam of a desk drawer followed by several beats of silence before the door swung open, revealing an irritated-looking Erhall.
The knots in my muscles doubled. My father. I didn’t know what I’d expected. Maybe a tug in my stomach at the sight of the man who was technically one half of me, or the loathing that had simmered beneath the surface for over three decades, waiting for the day when I could unleash it in a hail of fists and blood and curses.
Instead, I felt nothing. Nothing except a vague distaste for Erhall’s overly coiffed, gel-slick hair and anger at the tight, bordering-on-disrespectful smile he gave Bridget.
“Your Highness. Please, come in.” His tone indicated he was less than pleased by the surprise, and he didn’t acknowledge me as we stepped into his large, oak-paneled office.
Bridget and I took the seats across from him. The office reflected the man, cold and empty of any personal effects except for the framed university degrees hanging on the walls.
I studied Erhall, trying to see the resemblance between us. I spotted a hint of it in the angle of his cheekbones and the slope of his forehead. It wasn’t obvious enough strangers would look at us and guess we were related, but it was there if one looked closely enough.
I blinked, and the resemblance disappeared, replaced by a pinched visage and cold, calculating eyes.
“So.” Erhall steepled his fingers beneath his chin, his lips as pinched as the rest of his face. “The crown princess herself visiting me in my office. To what do I owe the honor?”
“I have an agenda item for Parliament’s next session.” Bridget radiated authority, and pride flashed through me. She’d come a long way since the day we sat in her hotel suite in New York, watching Nikolai’s abdication on TV. She’d looked like she wanted to throw up during his speech, but there was no trace of that scared, uncertain girl today. “Open the motion to repeal the Royal Marriages Law.”
Erhall stared at her for a second before laughing. Loudly.
A snarl rumbled in my throat, but I forced myself to remain silent. This was Bridget’s show.
“I thought this was another citizen write-in issue,” Erhall said. “I’m afraid I can’t do that. The law is one of the oldest in Eldorra, and as…moving as your press conference was, it’s tradition. Not to mention, we have far more important issues at hand, including the water pollution problem you brought to our attention last month. You want clean drinking water for the people of Hedelberg, don’t you?”
Bridget smiled, not blinking an eye at his heavy-handed threat. “I’mafraid you misunderstand me. That wasn’t a request, and I trust Parliament is competent enough to handle more than one issue at a time. If it’s not, I suggest a change in how you run the chamber, Mr. Speaker…or a change in the Speakership altogether.”
Erhall’s chuckles vanished, and his face hardened. “With all due respect, Your Highness, Parliament consults the Crown as a courtesy, but no one, not even His Majesty, dictates the law.”
“Then it’s a good thing I’m not dictating the law.” Bridget crossed her legs, her posture flawless as she stared him down. “I’m telling you to repeal one. It is outdated and holds no practical value for the country or the people. Without value, tradition is nothing but an imitation of the past, and the people agree. A recent poll put public approval for a repeal at ninety-three percent.”
Erhall’s chest puffed with indignation. “I beg to differ. Tradition is the foundation of this country, this office, and your office. We cannot go about tearing it down willy-nilly. So no, I’m afraid I cannot bring the motion to the floor. No matter how many souvenir T-shirts they’re selling with Mr. Larsen’s face on them,” he added with a small sneer.
Bridget and I exchanged glances.