Page 27 of Coronation (Royally Forbidden #1)

Fifteen

Zelda

“ O h my god, am I going to be a bridesmaid at the royal wedding?”

My reflection, which is tastefully lit by the bulbs of the dressing room mirror, scowls. “That was just as not funny the first time you asked,” I tell Davina, who is seated beside me with her hair covered in a bonnet and her face streaked with fake dirt.

The scene we’re shooting today wasn’t scheduled for another few weeks.

When George got wind of our royal visitor, however, things simply had to be moved around.

God forbid the royal asshole not be treated to a highly entertaining show.

So, instead of the perfectly lovely scene where Davina’s character and I have tea in the garden, we will be working on the blood-soaked finale to the entire movie. The one where she kills me.

My wardrobe for the day, a black silk dress which is all but torn to shreds and caked with dirt, seems to mock me from the rack behind us .

“You can deny all you want, but I’m just saying, it seems a little coincidental,” laughs Davina, obviously still pleased as punch about this entire situation.

Her enthusiasm has hardly dimmed in the week since we were informed of the high-profile visitor.

Apparently, he is scheduled to be given a personal tour of the set by George and will be staying to watch filming for an hour or so, followed by a photo-op, before finally going on his way.

“It’s just a press thing. You’re being ridiculous.

” I’m not sure where Davina imagines he will find an opportunity to catch me alone in some secluded corner of the set, ravage me against the wall, and propose marriage.

These tiny details hardly seem important to my friend, however, and even with me glowering at her, her smile doesn’t fade.

The door to the makeup trailer clatters open, and Mel, one of the artists, appears, her face flushed with excitement. My stomach drops.

“Is he here?” Davina demands, whipping around in her chair, eyes wide.

Mel bobs her head in confirmation. “I just saw him,” she gasps. “George is showing him the cameras. You two should probably go.”

Davina is instantly on her feet, but I stay where I am, cold with apprehension. “We aren’t scheduled to be on set for another twenty minutes,” I protest weakly, watching as a few of the costume people duck inside, too, and make for my tattered dress.

Nobody is listening.

It takes a matter of minutes for me to be dragged into a dressing room, outfitted in my ghastly costume, and shoved back out for another finishing touch of blood splatter across my boobs.

This isn’t a slasher film outfit, either.

I’m not cute with a side of gore, I’m literally soaked in blood from head to toe, and there is an enormous fake wound in my arm.

Even my face wasn’t spared, and I want to cry as I traipse miserably after Davina, attracting looks even on a day when the actors aren’t the main attraction.

I make a mental note to tell my agent I’m never working with George again. Never. Actually, no men at all seems like a safer move.

Despite what I’ve been insisting for days, not reading anything into the king’s visit was pretty difficult.

I’d never admit it to her, but Davina is totally right about the timing being weird.

What are the chances that the palace would schedule a press event for him here, only a few weeks after our weekend together?

Every time my mind strayed in the direction of his presence here having anything to do with me, however, the idea was quickly dismissed.

This isn’t some tragic tale of star-crossed lovers; he took what he wanted from me and left.

Considering his position, if he wanted to get ahold of me in the three weeks since, he could have.

The man certainly didn’t come all the way to my movie set to see me. I’m sure of it. Which makes my current predicament—walking toward him in a tattered dress and covered with fake blood—all the more humiliating.

I’m thankful, at least that, while I may be a notorious nepo baby, my acting lessons began when I was about six.

If there’s one thing I can do, it’s smile for the camera and keep my true feelings hidden.

Even so, my acting chops get a fairly significant test when we file into the castle’s huge, magnificent ballroom, where most of this scene is to be shot.

Even for such a large space, it’s cramped. There are lights and people everywhere, even more than usual with the security posted discreetly amongst the crew. Cameras have been set up on rolling tracks along the center of the room, designed to follow the action as it occurs .

All of it seems to slow to a crawl as my eyes find the tall, bearded king standing in the center of it all.

King Benedict is listening to whatever the director is saying, his expression set and grim, and his hands clasped behind his back. Beside him, George is gesticulating wildly, his eyes bright with excitement.

If I had any choice at all, I would run for it.

For a week, I’ve been talking myself through this, determined to be unaffected by this man’s presence, yet one look at him, and I am most certainly affected. Not in the way I was before, all fluttery and excited when I actually believed the man liked me.

Now that I know better, I just feel stupid.

Perhaps catching the flurry of movement as new people enter the space, the king turns, his eyes finding mine for a fraction of a second.

My pulse leaps in my throat as he looks down, obviously taking in the finer details of my grisly costume.

Then, apparently unfazed, he turns back to George.

The set seems to spin around me as I watch him lean in close to hear what the director is saying, seeing and dismissing me in seconds.

Scratch that, I don’t feel stupid. I feel small .

Right now, nothing would make me happier than being swallowed up by the floor, never to be seen again, and it takes every single bit of control I have to keep my face from reflecting it.

“Zelda! Davina! Good,” comes the voice of Carol, the AD.

She’s appeared out of nowhere, looking flustered as she stops before me and—I’ve only just realized she’s still beside me—Davina.

“George wants to go over the blocking for your fight scene one more time before we roll. Don’t forget the etiquette stuff when you meet him. ”

A tutor appeared on set two days ago to walk us through the proper protocols to adhere to when being introduced to a member of the royal family, none of which I’d even remotely followed the actual first time I met King Benedict.

Carol all but shoves us in the direction of the two men, and I feel like a spotlight is following me as I pick my way over taped cords and past transport boxes.

“It’s going to be fine,” whispers Davina under her breath, and I see her looking at me out of the corner of my eye, a hint of regret in her expression. Probably because she witnessed the king’s total disinterest in me and is now rethinking all the royal wedding jokes.

There isn’t time to respond, though, because George has noticed us.

“Ah, my two leading ladies,” he booms, waving us closer with a wide smile.

George is in his sixties, with a bit of a belly, and still dresses as though he’s a twenty-something in the ’80s in washed jeans and graphic tees, apparently dedicated to projecting the image of a down-to-earth artistic type.

The contrast between him and the stern-faced, handsome King Benedict is almost laughable.

“Your Highness, allow me to introduce Miss Davina Lovette and Miss Zelda Flowers. Both of whom are bound for great things, mark my words.” He winks at us as both Davina and I sink into the curtsy we practiced with the tutor.

I’m grateful for the tiny respite and the chance to get my shit together as I stare at the hem of my costume.

When I have no choice but to look up, King Benedict appears as cool and disinterested as he is in every picture I’ve seen of him.

The man couldn’t be more unenthusiastic about this “introduction” if he tried.

If I didn’t know better, I’d say I was a piece of gum stuck to the bottom of his royal shoe.

“A pleasure to meet both of you,” he tells us, without a hint of warmth. People are all over the place, looking right at us. I didn’t expect a hug, but even the smallest indication he doesn’t despise me would have been nice.

God, I knew I was a poor judge of character, but I’m not sure I’ve ever felt the sting of it quite as harshly as I do right now; standing in front of a man I slept with and immediately caught feelings for, who happens to be the King of Stelland, drenched from head to toe in fake blood.

I’m staying single forever. It’s decided.

Now that the pleasantries are over, George announces he’s going to take us through the blocking.

I move through the scene with George and Davina, pretending to be so thoroughly engrossed in my job that I do not notice the presence of King Benedict.

He doesn’t say much, watching from the side like a dark shadow as cameras roll, action is called, and we get to work.

Each cut is shot with painstaking repetition, ensuring every angle is exactly right, then doing it again just to be sure.

It’s the climax of the entire movie, and a ridiculously physical scene.

Davina is kicking my ass, and even with a cushioned mat to break my fall, getting thrown to the ground over and over again starts to hurt after a while.

I try my best to ignore the onlooker, who watches it all unfold, as unimpressed as ever.

Most of the cast and crew are union, so everyone breaks for lunch at noon. Ordinarily, people practically sprint for the door. Today, though, I notice a lot of lingering, undoubtedly due to our VIP guest’s presence.

Not me.