Her color was high and bright, but not the dusky rose of her earlier embarrassment, and she looked as if she was casting about for a reason to linger. Frustration poured off her, and Zayn was momentarily comforted by the return of his ease in reading her.
Finally, she said, “When can I expect my new personal devices?”
She was grasping for power and control over something, and they both knew it, but instead of irritating him, the pointless effort stirred something like pity inside him.
He glanced up at the clock. “They should be waiting for you in your office, along with your new secretary, by the time you return there.”
Again, the dismissal was blunt—and again she stayed where she was.
“You’re certain there’s nothing we can do?” she asked after another long pause.
He almost didn’t hear the quiet question. The note of defeat and vulnerability in her voice called out to him, but he reminded himself that pity did her no favors. A queen had to be impenetrable.
“I am certain. Now, I suggest you return to your office. Please select your causes soon, and inform your secretary so that we may update the royal website. And, please, for the love of God, assign someone to your wardrobe immediately.”
As he’d intended, she pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes into outraged green slits. Gone was the air of fragility, replaced with the heat of anger and the spark of determination he’d seen her muster so many times in their brief interactions.
She stood stiffly and he almost smiled, relieved to see the fire radiating from her. She was going to need fire like that if she was going to make it as Queen.
CHAPTER THREE
“ANDPLEASE,FORthe love of God, assign someone to your wardrobe...”
A week and a half later, standing in front of her new closet, staring at the same old four black cocktail dresses she owned, the King’s words still stung.
It was the morning of the ball and, while she might not have taken his advice in the time since their meeting, she had taken d’Tierrza’s.
Like a fairy godmother, Roz Chastain had turned out to be everything Mina hadn’t known she needed.
Roz wore a uniform that consisted of a long-sleeved boat-necked black shirt with black skinny jeans and leopard print loafers. Her mind was as sharp as a sword, and—a fact Mina could personally attest to—her tongue even sharper.
Mina could scarcely believe the day of the ball had arrived as she settled on the sleeveless dress. The dress’s design was plain, but suitable, as were the simple black ballet flats she would wear with it. Both had served her well through years of parties, publication celebrations, and galas.
With the task of choosing her ensemble complete, she glanced at the clock. It was early—just past seven in the morning—and, after Roz’s efforts and hers, she had the whole of the rest of the day to relax before the big event.
Grabbing her mug of tea from the side table where it rested, she made her way onto the large wrap-around balcony of the Queen’s Wing and considered trying her mother’s phone again.
Since her father’s death, her mother had run the family farm business on her own, ferociously protecting Mina’s study time by refusing to allow her to help—even if that meant working from dawn to dusk to maintain the thriving business and the house in support of the dreams of her daughter and her late husband.
In anticipation of how busy Mina would be, preparing for her parliamentary interview, her mother had taken a rare trip back to Germany. They were to reconnect when she returned in late summer.
But what would she say to her?Hi, Mom. I got married.
She would be heartbroken—not just because she had missed one of the most important major milestones of her daughter’s life, but also for the same reason Mina was. Her father had kept this secret from both of them. Of that fact Mina was of no doubt. There was no way her mother would have kept her betrothal from her. She knew her too well to leave her that unprepared. And now, in addition to swallowing her daughter’s marriage and becoming Queen, her mother would also have to reckon with her husband’s great secret.
It wasn’t something Mina was willing to do over the phone. No, it was better to wait until her return and to break the news gently, in person.
So instead of calling her mom she took a deep breath of sea air.
Overlooking the stunning Mediterranean, the smooth architecture of the balcony was timelessly elegant, although it was a bit chilly. Mina wore a pair of slouchy boyfriend jeans, wool socks, sandals, and a knit sweater, and still the sea breezes found their way to her skin.
Her long braid, dangling down the center of her back now, had loosened over the past nine days. It was just one of many signals that her life as a scholar was over.
The thought brought an ache to her chest.
Looking out to sea, she wondered what, if anything, her colleagues had learned of her humiliation.
The ball was to be her debut as Queen, so no information about her identity had been publicly released. Neither had she found anything about her dramatic parliamentary interview online, or in any of the city’s newspapers. Not that she had had much time to look, ensconced with Roz in event-planning as she had been.