Page 23 of Coronation (Royally Forbidden #1)

Twelve

Zelda

N obody likes a line cutter.

Waiting your turn is one of the very first rules of civilized society. It’s drilled into us as children, and reinforced in every doctor’s office waiting room, grocery store checkout, and coffee shop as we go about our lives.

It’s not like anyone wants to be there. Every single person in that line wishes dearly it would move a little faster so they can get on with their day. Yet still, they wait, even if there are no laws that say you have to wait, or punishments if you don’t, because it’s the right thing to do.

There is no faster way to make a room full of enemies than to walk right to the front of all those people waiting, silently declaring that your time is more valuable than all of theirs.

That rule goes double when the line in question is for something really scarce and valuable.

Like, for instance, the most glamorous, desirable job in the entire world.

One that comes with nearly unlimited earning potential, international fame, respect, and a constant flow of free stuff appearing at your door.

Attaining such a prize could take years of hard work, a fair bit of luck, and even then, there are no guarantees.

There are still a fair few who would get in line for such a position, people who are willing to work and wait as long as it takes, just for the chance at an interview. That job, and the life that comes with it, are so seductive that there are plenty who would be willing to die trying.

Now, imagine if you could cut the line.

It sure would be a lot easier to walk right to the front, equipped with the knowledge of exactly what they want to hear, and the security of a personal relationship with the person holding that highly coveted golden key.

Such an advantage is obviously good for you, but for all those other people? The ones who are waiting in line, working their asses off, hoping and praying to be provided the same opportunities? Yeah, they’re not going to be such big fans of yours.

It’s not until after you make that choice that you realize it comes with a price. It won’t matter how hard you work, or how professional you are, or how capable. All anyone is ever going to remember is how you got there in the first place.

It’s not a very good feeling, walking into a professional environment with some of the most talented people in the world—people who are deserving of the opportunities they’ve been given—and knowing they’re all thinking the same thing: Nepo baby.

I should know.

It isn’t a title easily shed, and my father certainly isn’t interested in letting anyone forget it.

Owen Flowers might not be a star in the traditional sense, but anyone who wants to be anyone in entertainment will know the president of the largest production company in the United States.

This isn’t a man who merely hands out golden keys; he mints them, and it hasn’t just affected my career, but also every relationship I’ve had.

Until now, anyway.

My eyes haven’t even opened, and I’m smiling because I met someone . I met someone, and if there’s one thing I’m sure of, it’s that King Benedict of Stelland doesn’t give a damn about who my father is. He doesn’t need anything from Owen Flowers and has no interest in his golden keys.

It’s strange to be so excited, given all the extenuating circumstances I haven’t even begun to process, but Ben’s position doesn’t even feel that insurmountable given my own. We probably have a lot more in common than one would think, and I like him so much more than I should after only a few days.

Last night, though… When we returned to Fernmoor House, the man quite literally swept me off my feet, carrying me upstairs despite my laughing protests.

We’d undressed each other, trading deep, searching kisses as our borrowed garments hit the floor.

Then, he laid me back and—there’s literally no other word for it—worshipped every inch of my body.

It went on and on, until I was shaking and begging, and I almost cried with relief when he finally gave me his cock.

It’s laughable that only a few days ago, I was so insecure about my sexuality, when now I can’t get enough.

Still curled beneath the warm sheets and not quite ready to relinquish the last dregs of sleep, I feel myself smile.

I’ve never felt this way before. Ever.

Tomorrow, I’ll have to go back to work, and Ben will have to go do king things. Wyngate, the capital city, is a pretty easy drive, though. It won’t be a big deal if we want to make plans.

I’m still smiling as the prospect of organizing secret dates with a king has me opening my eyes.

The bedroom is warm and soaked with sunlight from the window beside the bed, and I roll over, staring at the rumpled sheets beside me where Ben slept.

He isn’t there now, but even when a quick glance toward the bathroom door confirms the space is dark and empty, I’m not concerned.

Yawning, I roll over, my toes finding the old wood floor before I straighten up, stretching.

I washed my blue dress in the sink last night, but I ignore it, picking up Ben’s white undershirt, which he left for me on the dresser.

I can’t resist dragging the neckline over my nose once it’s on, inhaling the heady, masculine scent of his skin as I start down the hall.

The house is perfectly quiet as I pad down the stairs, humming quietly to myself. Last night, Ben mentioned having some food brought in so we wouldn’t have to brave the pub again, and I’m betting I’ll find him in the kitchen sorting breakfast. When I enter the room, however, I find it empty.

My smile slips. “Ben?” I call, turning back toward the hall that leads out the back of the house.

We explored the house thoroughly yesterday and discovered there’s a beautiful, if horribly overgrown, garden out there.

I poke my head out the back door, surveying the terrace, and find it quite devoid of stern-faced kings.

“Ben!” I call again when I step back inside, a little louder now.

He wouldn’t have left, would he?

I dismiss the thought immediately. Of course he wouldn’t have left. There’s no way. The man spooned me to sleep, gently murmuring ideas for how we could spend the day today and kissing my bare shoulder.

Where is he , though?

I stop in the foyer, staring around at all the halls and rooms that branch off from it. “Ben!” I yell, and my voice echoes off the high, wood-paneled walls as I turn slowly on the spot, straining my hearing for a response that never comes.

My heart is beating faster now, and my limbs are oddly stiff as my gaze finds the front doors.

I lurch forward. The old metal handle is difficult to maneuver.

Thus far, Ben has dealt with the thing while I stood back, and I grit my teeth as I bear down on it until it gives way.

When I get the door open, however, I wish it hadn’t.

A black SUV, just like the one we arrived in, is parked ten yards from where I’m standing. A man in a dark suit is standing beside it, his hands folded formally in front of himself, and when he sees me, he quickly averts his eyes.

“Oh!” I take a step back, crossing my arms in front of my chest, very conscious of the fact I’m dressed in nothing but a men’s T-shirt. “Um. Hello?”

“Hello, Miss Flowers.” That’s all he gives me.

Bordering on hysterical now, I look back and forth along the front of the house, as if I’m expecting Ben to pop out of the woods. When there’s no other choice but to look back at the unknown man, I feel my bottom lip tremble. “Is Ben–King Benedict here?”

Still staring at a point above my right shoulder, the man shakes his head, a hint of pity in his expression now. “No, Miss Flowers. He left several hours ago. I’m here to bring you home.”

I feel the words as he says them. One after another, they seem to hit me like physical blows, leaving me no choice but to accept the devastating reality that any other person probably would have assumed a lot faster than I did.

He left.

He left without saying goodbye or leaving a note. He doesn’t want to see me again, and I… I am so, so stupid .

“Of course,” I manage, my words a ragged whisper as I take a step back. “I’ll just get my things.”

“Please take your time, miss.”

That is the last thing I want to do. I don’t want to linger in this place even one second longer than I have to, and if it didn’t mean facing the hotel lobby dressed in only the king’s discarded T-shirt, I wouldn’t bother .

He left.

The words echo through my mind over and over again, like lyrics on a skipping record, as I make my way back upstairs. The house feels painfully empty and cold with only me in it, and the moment my feet hit the upstairs landing, I’m walking so fast that it’s almost running.

He left me here.

I won’t cry. I won’t. This has all been pitiful and humiliating enough without letting the driver see me come back outside with eyes rimmed in red. When I reach the back bedroom, though, and am hit by the scent of sex and Ben— King Benedict, that is—it gets a lot harder.

Tearing off his T-shirt, I let it fall to the floor as I stride into the small, outdated bathroom. My sink-washed dress is stiff and wrinkled, but better than the alternative, and my eyes burn as I pull it back on, staring at my pale reflection in the mirror as I do.

That first night at the party, after we had sex for the first time, I saw a hint of something in him that I didn’t like, and I almost left.

Instead, I allowed myself to be persuaded into staying, thinking that what followed was a moment of vulnerability for a man accustomed to keeping his true feelings hidden away.

God, it actually made me like him more when, in reality, he just wasn’t finished with me yet.

Wiping my eyes with the back of my hand, I sniff, willing the tears to recede. I’m a professional actor, for god’s sake. I might not be able to stop the way I’m feeling, but I can pretend.

Even so, it takes longer than it should to get myself together as I stoop to pick up my shoes. I force the breath in and out of my lungs, slow and even, as I put them on. When I straighten up, my reflection is a different person, a better person.

Her shoulders are squared, her expression is flat. She looks strong and capable, the kind of woman who calls people on their bullshit and knows when she’s being lied to. This woman would never let a stranger break her heart. She’s going to leave this place and never, ever look back.

I watch her do just that, floating through the house in unhurried, measured steps and offering the bemused driver a brilliant smile as he opens the back door for her.

It won’t last forever. Sooner or later, my character will break, and I’ll be right back to being poor, sniffling, overly emotional Zelda.

Until then, I’ll be her.

It’s better this way.