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Me:Are you getting ready?

Nova:Hour three of my hair and makeup. I might starve before they finish.

Her response made me grin.

Me:I’ll mourn the loss in my speech. Do I need a speech, by the way?

Nova:No. But you can still write something about me, anyway.

Me:Shouldn’t you write about me? I’m the one becoming king.

Nova:Nope. Do it to show your modesty. Make it poetic.

Me:I’ll write about how pretty you sound when you come. That’s poetry, for sure.

The word bubble popped up, then vanished, multiple times—she was typing, then erasing her response.

Nova:Saying bye before the makeup artist stabs my eye out because I keep giggling.

Turning my phone off, I spread out on my bed. She’d been joking ... but I didn’t think it would be hard to write poetry about Nova. The way she moved through my dreams each night was a sweet verse all its own.

I wasn’t looking forward to tonight.

But Iwaslooking forward to seeing her.

Even so, in the end, I waited until fifteen minutes after the party began to make my way toward the ballroom. All excitement aside, I knew any good socialite never arrived on time. Tweaking my cuff links, I rounded the hallway that spilled out by the foyer.

Nova was facing away from me by the stairs. Her dress was bronze, embroidered with silver diamonds around the shoulders and hemline. It hugged her the way a lover would in private. The wayIwanted to.

“Boo,” I said in her ear.

“Oh!” She jumped, giving me a disapproving squint. It was brief, though—I watched in wonder as she absorbed the sight of me. I did the same to her, loving how amazing she looked whether she was dressed up or lounging in a bathrobe.

“Come on,” I said, leading her into the gigantic ballroom. “You can ogle me inside. They’re waiting for us.” I didn’t need to say who; she knew I meant my family.

Silver strings of stars dangled from the arching ceiling. Along the wall were black banners with the red crown I knew so well. They were placed strategically, the majority of them clustered around an elaborately carved throne at the far wall.

It was where I would sit when I was finally crowned.

Seeing it, my blood began to race. Nova must have sensed my reaction, because she snatched two champagne flutes off the tray of a passing servant, handing me one. “Here, liquid courage.”

“Thanks.” I drank it down in one swallow. “Feel free to hand me those all night long.”

“I’m not sure you want your first impression as king to be you stumbling around drunk.”

“Why? At least these people would know what to expect going forward.” Handing off the empty glass to one of the many servants crisscrossing the room, I waved at my mother. She was standing among the growing crowd, talking to every single person who would give her their time. She’d always been good at these events.

“Whoareall these people?” I whispered into Nova’s ear.

She smiled, waving at someone as she whispered back, “Every important person this country has to offer. The guards outside must be doing overtime to make sure no one sneaks into this party.”

A bright flash on my left side half blinded me. “Important people includes the damn paparazzi, huh?”

“Of course. The locals are going to want to see pictures of you being crowned, Thorne.”

“Everything feels like a media circus here.” We’d reached my mother; I hugged her, nodding to the strangers surrounding her. “Ma, you’re looking lovely as usual.”

Grinning, she adjusted her peacock-green dress. “Always so kind. Thorne, this is Lane Southerbie, Earl of Ducop. Lane, this is my son Hawthorne.”