Page 26 of Coronation (Royally Forbidden #1)

Fourteen

Zelda

M y sister and I were never alike.

With only thirteen months between us, our parents undoubtedly believed they had created built-in best friends, but that wasn’t how it turned out.

Some of my earliest memories are of begging a disinterested Sybil to make flower crowns with me, or her beating me at chess—the only game she was ever interested in playing.

Monica, our kind but no-nonsense nanny, was forced to mediate a lot of bickering, and even as adults, we’ve never quite seen eye to eye.

She thinks what I do is frivolous, I think what she does is dull, and we’re both proud of each other.

Not that either of us will ever admit it.

Doing so would mean forfeiting the twenty-three-year-long standoff we’ve had going over who is more annoyed with the other, and if there’s one quality we definitely share, it’s stubbornness.

So, naturally, I had my agent negotiate two days off in my Dark House filming schedule so I could spend an afternoon in the most boring way possible: watching my sister cream some old guy at chess.

The hotel hosting the tournament was clearly chosen for its modern aesthetic.

For a game that has stood the test of time for centuries, it seems kind of pointless for the chess association to go through all that trouble to rebrand the game.

Even the boards are sleek and contemporary, adorned with playing pieces made of glass instead of wood or marble.

Dramatic, black-and-white posters of the players line the hall, all of them glaring into the camera as if prepared to go in for the kill.

Sipping the coffee I purchased from the airport, I pause before the one of my sister, staring up at her intensely focused expression. People are moving past me in the hall leading to the hotel’s ballroom, talking earnestly about the matches they’d like to see, or who will be besting who.

“Hot, right?”

Looking around, I find Sybil standing just beside me, staring fondly up at her own likeness. I snort. “A little melodramatic for my taste.”

My sister smirks, turning to look at me through blue eyes that are precisely the same shade as my own. “Wow, and this coming from the girl who did a movie where she shaved off all her hair because her horse died?”

“I made almost a million dollars off that movie. Remind me, what’s the prize if you win today?”

“Ha. That’s cute. I will most certainly win, and the prize will be more than enough to pay for your funeral when you inevitably succumb to Botox poisoning.”

We hug.

“Come on, let’s get something to eat,” Syb offers when the unpleasantness is over, nodding toward the glass-fronted hotel restaurant. “I still have a few hours to go before my match starts.”

“Are you nervous?” I ask, falling into step beside her.

People are looking our way, obviously starstruck, but with this crowd, I know better than to imagine it’s for me.

Anywhere else, maybe, but my sister is chess royalty and has been since she unseated a reigning world champion at thirteen years old.

Sybil flips her curtain of dark hair over her shoulder. “If I was nervous, I would be upstairs working on my end game, not down here buying you organic tofu or whatever it is you actually eat.”

Ordinarily, I would have a sharp response to that. Maybe I’d tell her that eating organic tofu might get rid of her frown lines or ask if there was a specific designer she favors who happens to only make clothing in gray or black. Unfortunately, today I can’t quite work up the energy for it.

It’s been just over two weeks since I woke up to find myself alone in Fernmoor House, and I still haven’t quite recovered.

In fact, I’m not sure I ever will, not after falling asleep in Ben’s arms, filled with hope and excitement for what the morning would bring.

Though it seems impossibly naive in retrospect, I wasn’t afraid.

I was so sure he was as invested in this tiny ember of a relationship as I was.

The lack of fight must raise some red flags for Sybil, because she frowns at me when we stop before the vacant hostess stand. “What’s wrong with you?”

My lips twitch because it’s so like my sister to express concern in the most hostile way possible. “What makes you think there’s something wrong?”

“You haven’t insulted my shoes.” We both look down, and I’m horrified when I feel my eyes begin to burn. They’re so boring. I can’t believe I missed that.

Before I can formulate an explanation for this oversight, however, the hostess arrives.

I follow her and Sybil mutely through the restaurant to a table at the very back.

My sister quickly deems it unsuitable due to its proximity to the daylight spilling in from a nearby window, so we’re shown to another, half-hidden behind an oversized fern.

“This isn’t about Xaden again, is it?” asks Syb once we’ve been seated and our glasses filled with water.

I shake my head, staring at the bizarre modern painting on the wall behind her. “It’s nothing.”

My sister purses her lips. “Can we not do the thing where you pretend everything is fine, and I have to pry whatever it is out of you? There are only a finite number of hours in the day, you see.”

To some, her words might seem blunt, and they are. There’s a familiarity to this dynamic, though, and it’s strangely comforting. I agreed to meet her in London months ago, long before I needed a bit of home, but now I’m so grateful I did.

“I met someone,” I admit, finally looking away from the painting to meet my sister’s eyes. “I liked him.”

Sybil’s head drops a few degrees to the side, studying me. “I’m noticing the past tense here. He didn’t like you?” she presses, a flicker of indignation in her expression.

“It wasn’t a big deal,” I insist, feeling as though I’m trying to convince myself right along with her. “We spent a few days together, just a spontaneous thing, you know? It’s not like he was my boyfriend or anything.”

Voicing that out loud in such a casual way—as if the words don’t fill me with self-disgust all over again—is like a punch to the stomach.

No, Sybil, he wasn’t my boyfriend. Just a literal king I met at a rich-people sex party that I felt a bizarrely intense connection with, and who left without so much as a “see ya, pal” when he was done with me.

God, I’m so embarrassed. Over and over again, I allow myself to be treated like shit, and I never learn. The only difference between King Benedict and my ex was that Benedict had no interest in my father or his golden keys .

Apparently, my body was good enough for him on its own.

Sybil lowers her gaze to the menu before her with a thoughtful hum. “I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, because this particular quality is one of the least shitty things about you, and I almost tolerate it.”

I snort. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” She looks at me again, and I can see the worry now.

“You give too much, Z. You give and give and give, you put your whole heart out there, and don’t expect anything in return.

That’s a really beautiful thing, but it also puts you in a position of weakness.

It gives them all the power, and it’s why you keep ending up hurt. ”

My little sister approaches everything, even life, like it’s a game. Every piece has its role to play; every move is made to facilitate the next five. Meanwhile, I’ve followed my heart, and it’s brought me nothing but hurt.

I wish I could argue with her, or deny a single thing she’s just said, but I know I can’t. Giving and giving and giving is what I do. It’s what I’ve always done, but it isn’t a really beautiful thing; it’s pathetic.

Across from me, Sybil shifts in her chair, looking a little concerned by my silence. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

I shake my head, offering her a watery smile. “No, it was definitely tough love time. I was so stupid, Syb. I really thought…” I trail off, not able to bring myself to say it. I really thought he liked me.

“Not stupid,” she assures me, unfolding her napkin and laying it neatly over her lap. “Just an idealist who seems to operate under the assumption that everyone has the same intentions you do.”

Damn her for being the smart sister. If I’d been born with even an ounce of her pragmatism or foresight, I’d probably be a lot better off.

As it is, I’m twenty-five years old, and not one man in my entire romantic history has wanted more from me than what I could give them, whether it be my connections, my money, or my body.

It’s high time I face the fact that I am the only common factor.

I’m never going to let it happen again.

“Now, what’s this about organic tofu?” I joke weakly, flipping open my menu as the waitress arrives to take our drink orders.

We linger at the table for over an hour, eating our lunch and sparring playfully, neither of us mentioning the almost sisterly moment that just transpired.

Sybil and I used to see a lot more of each other, but my filming schedule has been intense, and since she became a Grand Champion, there seems to be an unending list of tournaments or matches for her to play in.

It’s June now, and realistically, I probably won’t catch up with her again until Dad’s birthday in September.

“I should get in there,” she sighs at last, glancing toward the hotel lobby, where people have been filing in as we had our catch-up. “The guy I’m playing always has horrendous breath. The sooner we start, the sooner I can breathe through my nose again.”

“Maybe it’s a strategy,” I muse, getting to my feet with a stretch. “A passive way to choke your opponent. Do you want me to ask the kitchen to send out a plate of garlic so you can give him a taste of his own medicine?”

Sybil scoffs. “You’re a lot more diabolical than you let on, Z. Bring that energy for the next idiot who tries to fuck with my sister.”

As we begin to make our way out of the restaurant, my gaze catches on a newspaper left abandoned on a table by the bar, and I stop dead, struck by the sensation of icy cold crawling up my spine.

Beneath a headline touting a joint international aid mission by the UK and neighboring Stelland is a black-and-white photograph of the nation’s two kings, the men shaking hands.

“What?” asks Sybil from a few yards away, obviously confused as to why I’ve stopped dead in the middle of the restaurant to stare at a newspaper.

With some difficulty, I swallow, dragging my gaze away from the scowling face of King Benedict.

“Nothing,” I tell Sybil with a tight smile, moving away from the newspaper as she starts talking about the bad-breathed opponent who is about to play his hardest, and still be absolutely decimated in twenty moves or less.

We’re just entering the ballroom, which is set up with small groups of chairs lined up before the shiny glass chessboards, when the quiet chime of my phone in my purse makes me pause.

Incoming Call: Davina Lovette

My stomach twists uncomfortably. Davina and I are pretty exclusively texting friends.

The only time I remember her calling me was when her ex-boyfriend broke up with her, and she was so drunk that texting was definitely off the table.

Officially concerned, I look up at Sybil.

“I need to take this.” I wince in apology.

My sister waves me off. “You’ve got ten minutes. It’s fine.”

Nodding, I turn, stepping out into the hall as I accept the call and bring my phone to my ear. “Hey, is everything okay?”

My worry is quickly dismissed at the sound of a delighted laugh. “Okay, you officially need to quit being stingy with the details and tell me what happened between you and the special guest the other weekend.”

God, if I could go ten minutes without being reminded of King Benedict of Stelland, it would make getting over him a lot easier.

I weave past a group of excitedly chattering Spaniards who are heading for the front doors of the lobby.

So far, I’ve been able to dodge Davina’s questioning about what happened between me and the king, thanks to how intense our work schedule has been.

Mercifully, she hasn’t given any indication of knowing we left together, and I’m determined to keep it that way.

“I really can’t talk. My sister’s match is about to begin. ”

“Oh, no. You’re not getting out of this,” Davina squawks as I shoulder open the glass front door, stepping out onto the bustling, central London street. “What did you do to that man? Please tell me, I promise only to use the power for good!”

“I didn’t do anything to him! We did the same stuff everyone else did, then he left.

” There was a little more that occurred between those two agenda items, but I feel terrible enough about myself without other people knowing the full story.

I’m pretty confident the NDA I signed doesn’t cover any activities undertaken outside of that house, but it doesn’t matter.

I’ll go to my grave without telling a single soul what transpired between me and the king.

Davina whistles. “Okay, but, like, which sex stuff? Do you give lessons?”

“No!” I object, looking around wildly, as if someone on the street is going to overhear the conversation going directly into my ear. “What are you talking about?”

“You haven’t checked your email?”

Considering I had to get up at six to meet my flight and have been caught up in a self-pity spiral, checking my work email hasn’t been a top priority. “No,” I admit, curling an arm around my waist and watching as a nearby set of businessmen bicker over a cab. “Care to fill me in?”

My friend cackles. “ Apparently , we’re scheduled to have a royal visitor touring the set next week. ”

I freeze, the noises of the street fading away, overshadowed by the blood rushing in my ears. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, girl, I hope you keep condoms in your trailer. The king is coming.”