Page 83 of Hawthorne

When the invitation first arrived, I tucked it between all the paperwork I had to deal with, not wanting to be bothered with it. But now, the paper is burning my fingertips as I look at it.

It’s the perfect opportunity. I even got my personal assistant to book her a hotel room so she didn’t have to worry about anything else. I may also have told him to get to know the entire program of the reunion to try and understand if there was a way I could...accidentallyvisit.

That’s still not decided, though.

Camilla would probably be fuming if I showed up. It would also be suspicious—in her mind, at least.

At the very least, I’ll visit her when she gets to the hotel room.

First things first, official duties need to be done with.

The car comes to a halt, letting me know we’ve arrived at the palace. One of the employees opens the car door for me, guiding me through the giant staircase up to the main entrance, where another butler awaits.

All these formalities are annoying. The event is in full swing—yes, I’m late—I can already hear it from the outside, yet I have no desire to endure it, especially since I’m the guest of honour.

The things a man does for his woman.

Fuck, I can’t think like that.

Before I can thread into the dangerous currents of my mind, the double doors open, revealing the main hall of the palace.

I take a step forward and wait to be introduced. From here, I can see everyone who has already arrived at the ball. Every single one of them stops at the sound of the trumpets, looking up to see who it is.

The floor where they are is reachable by a Y-shaped staircase. It’s supposed to be down there, where guests are supposed to mingle and drink their flutes of champagne.

It’s not as formal and as big as it would be if it was a proper ball, but the attendants—the higher titles—are dressed to the nines in their designer clothing, over-expensive jewellery, and, oh, something extra today, Venetian masks.

Since it is our version of a carnival, I guess the king saw it fitting.

I see it as ridiculous.

As soon as the trumpets’ sound ends, and everyone’s attention is on me, the butler announces, “Tonight’s guest of honour, His Grace, Sir Vincent Leopold of Hawthorne, the Duke of Hawthorne, has arrived.”

With a deep breath, I straighten the Armani royal blue suit I’m wearing and start the descent to the main hall. Once I reach the lower floor, I am swarmed by a succession of formal greetings with other dukes, marquis and counts, and their respective wives.

They all congratulate me as if I am the one responsible for saving the royal line, even if it happened several centuries ago. Every time I am congratulated, I suppress the urge to scoff at their sycophant behaviour.

Sometimes, I hate my roots. My ancestors are, after all, the reason I am trapped in this joke of a life.

Once people finally start to clear out, I head to the throne where the royal couple is sitting, side by side. Placing my left foot in front of the other, I bow for the first time tonight, addressing them, “Your Royal Highnesses, I am honoured to be here today.”

Two taps of his royal sceptre let me know I can straighten up.

Crazy, right?

By tradition, the sceptre is only used on Coronation Day, but, for whatever reason I don’t even try to guess, King Charles hasdecided it’s fitting to use it at every and all formal ceremonies and events.

Taking in his aspect, I notice two things first: how pale he is and how much weight he seems to have lost. There’s makeup covering his face, but even that isn’t enough to cover the dark circles underneath his eyes or the wounds that are breaking out across his neck. His bland brown eyes are bloodshot and drooped down.

Even sitting down, his breathing is heavy, as if he’s tired from doing the sole chore of inhaling and exhaling. The last time I saw him, life was still cursing through his veins, but now...it looks like he could pass out at any moment.

He turned severely sick almost one year ago, but they said he was cured. Now, I am starting to wonder about the veracity of that royal statement all of those months ago.

“It’s an honour to receive the second most important and powerful family in the kingdom.” His voice is assertive and impassive, but the pause tells me a jab is about to come. “And also the most loyal, how could I forget.”

His tone is slightly sarcastic, but I answer him with a dazzling smile and a nod. He’d affect me—if only I cared.

Also, he is not saying any lies. I am loyal to the Crown. It’s my mother who ambitions it for me.

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