Page 30 of Coronation (Royally Forbidden #1)

Seventeen

Zelda

O ne night after a particularly grueling day of filming our first movie together, Davina and I decided to get drunk.

We sat side by side in the hotel’s bar, sharing a hummus platter and a bottle of wine, swapping unfortunate tales of our respective dating histories.

It was easy to laugh about it with her, to roll my eyes at these men and pretend I was long over it.

If someone had overheard, they would never have suspected that below the surface, the wounds had not quite healed.

That’s the attitude I’ve been trying to have, privately, of course, whenever my thoughts have strayed to King Benedict of Stelland over the past week.

His visit to set complicated my resolution to hate the man until the end of time, and my sudden determination likely has something to do with the prospect of seeing him again, whether I like it or not.

I considered calling out sick .

I considered throwing a diva-worthy tantrum about the humidity.

I considered hiring a kidnapper to keep me for the duration of the event.

Unfortunately, it seems I don’t have the nerve for any of those things and would prefer to torture myself rather than let anyone down.

The possibility of secretly wanting to see Ben again did briefly occur to me in one of my more self-aware moments, but I dismissed it as quickly as it came.

I don’t want to see him again. He doesn’t care about me.

If he was hoping for anything the day he came to set, it was a quick fuck, and I won’t allow myself to be sucked into that trap again.

I really need to get back into therapy. My deep attraction toward a man who seems pretty unanimously disliked in this country is worrying.

The entire week is a blur of distraction, mixed emotions, and giving myself pep talks in the bathroom mirror.

Every day that passes seems to notch my anxiety a little higher.

So, by the time I wake on the Saturday of the garden party, I’m so nauseous that just stopping myself from puking is a pretty big accomplishment.

Apparently, it shows.

“You look like you’re going to be sick,” Davina points out as we get into the back seat of yet another town car, her hair perfectly curled, and wearing a dress she probably wrestled directly off a model at the Valentino show last week.

“What is your deal with this guy? When he showed up on set, you wouldn’t even look at him. Was the sex that bad?”

I would laugh if I didn’t think it would come with a pretty high chance of vomiting.

“The sex wasn’t the issue,” I retort, staring determinately out the window. “Can we please just drop it?”

Helpfully, the driver chooses this moment to pull open the front door, and Davina falls silent .

It lasts for an entire five minutes before she breaks, jamming her finger on the button to raise the divider between the front and back seats, and rounding on me. “Come on, I’ve been dying to find out what happened, and you haven’t given me anything. I’m getting a little worried here.”

Reluctantly, I turn to face her. “There’s nothing to tell.”

“I thought James had his sights set on you. I turned my back for one minute, and when I looked around, you two were standing at the bar. The man looked like he wanted to eat you alive,” Davina recounts, her eyes wide.

It’s become challenging to swallow. Eating me alive is a pretty accurate way to describe what happened every time Benedict put his hands on me.

I bite my lip, trying to decide how much I want to tell her. “We had a good time,” I finally confess, prompting an exasperated hiss from the woman beside me.

“And?” she prompts, clearly done with me withholding information.

“ And what?”

“And, what happened after that? I knocked on your door Saturday morning to get the tea, but you didn’t answer.”

Probably because I wasn’t there. It’s kind of a relief that Davina still hasn’t pieced that together, and I certainly have no intention of clueing her in. That information would lead to a lot more questions, ones I’m even less interested in answering than these.

“Nothing,” I lie. “I went home. End of story.”

Davina’s brows arch skeptically. “The guy couldn’t take his eyes off you, Z. It was seriously some insta-love shit. Did he ask for your number?”

“Nope.”

She looks genuinely baffled by this. “Seriously? He’s single, you’re single, what’s the problem?”

I scoff, looking away. “Apart from him being way too old for me, and a literal k—” I stop speaking before I can finish the word, and shake my head with a grimace. “We aren’t going to see each other again.”

Davina’s head tilts to the side as she studies me, a little frown in place. “Is that why you’ve been off? Because you liked him and he blew you off after the sex was over?”

Ouch.

Her words hit me like an actual, physical blow.

Yes. That’s exactly why. Granted, there’s more to the story, but even this is more than I’m willing to admit to.

I wish I could laugh it off and pretend I wasn’t bothered.

There’s nothing I would like more than to assure her a man I knew all of two days hadn’t hurt me more than any other person in my life.

God, why can’t I just feel things at an appropriate level, on an appropriate timeline?

“No. That’s not why I’ve been off . Please drop it.” I turn away, staring out the window at the landscape flashing by, sick to my stomach and trying not to cry.

Davina drops it.

The historic home of Stelland’s royal family, Ashwell Palace, is located in the city of Wyngate, several hours south of Dalmore.

I’ve seen pictures, of course, but none of them do the place justice.

I allow myself to get lost in the elegant mix of old and new as the car takes us through neighborhoods that still have cobblestone streets, only to turn a corner and find myself staring up at a massive, contemporary skyscraper.

The palace is hidden behind high brick walls, crawling with ivy.

Every ten yards or so, there is a pillar, inlaid with a gleaming brass medallion of some kind.

It’s only when we stop beside a set of tall, burnished gates, the car idling as the guards show through a car in front of ours, that I can see it’s actually a family crest, accompanied by the words Officium Ante Omnia.

“Good afternoon, Miss Flowers. Miss Lovette,” a guard greets us when we roll down the window, showing much more smoothness in his management of us than one typically sees in people hired to ensure you aren’t terrorists.

“If you’ll kindly step out of the car, one of our footmen, David, will show you through.

” We do as he says, and as I straighten up, my heart vaults into my throat as I get my first proper view of the palace.

It looks as old as the city itself, a towering structure composed of the same stones which make up the wall and appointed with dozens of pointed baroque windows along the first and second floors, all gleaming in the late morning sunlight.

Drawing closer to Davina, I drag my eyes away from the magnificent structure.

I’d known that Benedict was king, of course. It’s not exactly a position one can hide. On the other occasions we were together, however, that fact didn’t hit me quite as hard as it does now. Apparently, it’s one thing to know it and another to see it.

This is the place where the man I called Ben lives, and in retrospect, it’s so preposterous that I even hoped for more from that man than sex.

Did I think he would fall in love with me and make me his queen?

Ha . Everything about this place is regal and historic, a testament to the nation of Stelland and its royal family.

By comparison, the house I grew up in has an infinity pool and movie memorabilia on the walls.

He’s a king, and I’m a Hollywood nepo baby.

It’s good I came today. I needed to see this.

“Zelda?” Blinking, I turn to face Davina and the very proper guard, plastering a polite smile on my face.

“Sorry. It’s so beautiful, right?”

They both nod, and the man sweeps his arm out, showing us toward a guardhouse off to the side, which is discreetly placed behind the wall and a large tree.

I’m not sure what I was expecting when the title of footman was mentioned, but David turns out to be a sixty-year-old man with many frown lines and a stiffly pressed blue uniform.

He greets us both and leads the way to a golf cart parked alongside the structure.

Davina and I get on, and my stomach churns ominously as he takes off, driving around the palace’s corner.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Davina asks under her breath. “You don’t have to do this. It wouldn’t make very good press if you passed out in front of everyone.”

It’s too late to turn back now, though. We’ve arrived at the edge of a great garden, where a striped marquee has been set up to shade the dozens of guests from the sun.

Pea gravel crunches beneath our feet as Davina and I thank David, making our way toward the entrance to the party area, where a pair of men dressed in the same uniform are waiting.

The king is nowhere in sight as Davina and I take glasses of lemonade, making our way toward the small group of familiar faces at the edge of the gathering. George is clustered together with our co-stars, Killian and Harris, all dressed in light summer suits and deep in conversation.

George beams when he sees us, and the three of them shuffle to the side so we can join their circle. “Good morning, ladies. Quite the press stop. I’ve got to admit, this is a first for me.”

“There’s a labyrinth over there. Can you believe that shit?” Harris tells us, pointing out a line of high shrubbery which abuts the far end of the garden. He winks at Davina. “Want to get lost in it with me?”

My friend glares at him. “Could you try not to be completely uncivilized, Harris? Just this once? We’re at a literal royal garden party.”