Page 49 of Modern Romance Collection February 2025, 5-8

Yet what confessions could she make when no one believed her? They’d whisper that she was attention seeking, not telling the truth, trying to avoid the consequences of her actions for her friend and the crown.

‘Why do I need to marry?’

She’d been prepared to marry for duty six months ago, but the near-death experience had brought her life into sharp focus. Why should she settle down, be stuffed back into a box everyone had created for her, rather than one she’d designed herself? Especially to someone whose name she didn’t know. She’d planned for Caspar, after having been pushed in his direction—she had at leastlikedhim—but now she found herself wanting more. Why wasn’t she allowed to find love?

Her mother stalked up to her and Ana almost took a step back. Queen Beatrice reached out and tugged at Ana’s fringe over her temple, adjusting it some more, eyes narrowing. Had she been able to frown, Ana was sure one would have bisected her mother’s brow. Yet her mother would allow nothing to crease her flawless skin, no lines at all—smiling, laughing, nothing.

‘You well know the answer to that question.’

The fire in Ana’s belly guttered and died. It was true; she did know the answer.

When she’d seen Hakkinen in the casino that night, she’d been sure he was following her. She’d caught glimpses of him in every club they’d visited, lurking in the shadows, as if waiting to strike. She’d been terrified. She’d needed to get away before he did something terrible to her, to Carla.

They’d hurried into a cab. The driver was unlicensed, had drunk too much and taken prescription medication. Ana hadn’t known, or she wouldneverhave entered the vehicle. Her family had had to spend a fortune to buy the horrible, grainy pictures of her being extracted after the accident so they would never hit the news services. Scrubbing the internet. Photos of her dress as red as the blood marring her skin, Hakkinen by her side...

During her recovery, the news stories about her had become even worse. There’d been talk of her being a ‘precious princess’, shirking her duty when all she’d wanted to do was hide from the looks of pity from the doctors, nurses and palace staff, because of her scars. As if all the charity work she’d done was meaningless in the face of her imperfections, even the new charity she’d started to little fanfare: the Cygnet Centre. It paid for children in medical need around the world to have life-changing reconstructive plastic surgery. Despite everything, she hadn’t been allowed time to recover from the wounds to her body and her soul. Not to mention wanting to hide away from her fear that the man who’d been pursuing her might be lying in wait...

Then the focus of the press had turned onto Gabriel, Halrovia’s Crown Prince—her somewhat uptight brother, yet a person who cared deeply about his country. They’d searched for flaws in him, ones he and his family kept hidden. Palace courtiers had fears for her family’s very existence.

Those were cracks she’d brought to the family’s foundations. And now? The atonement was hers to make. She needed to become perfect again to save the royal family’s reputation.

She wrapped her arms around herself till her mother gave herthe look, one that froze like the winter wind. So she adjusted how she stood, as she had been taught, arms relaxed by her side, though everything about her was wound tight.

‘Who is this man I’m supposed to become betrothed to?’

It seemed important—shouldbe important. Like every princess who was required by their family to marry a suitable prince if humanly possible, she knew who the available ones were. The ones you hoped might be chosen, the ones you didn’t...

‘Willbecome betrothed to, Anastacia. I’m sure you’ll be satisfied with him. He’s acceptable in almost every way.’

‘Almostevery way?’

The Queen’s lips pursed, as if she’d tasted something unpleasant. ‘He’s a commoner. However, his mother and I knew each other at school.’

Her mother still hadn’t given her a name, but it was pointless asking again. When the Queen didn’t want to do something, she didn’t, end of story.

‘You and Father said I’d be expected to marry a prince, or at the very least nobility...’ Ana’s voice sounded somehow distant, as her mind worked through the possibilities and came up with nothing.

Her mother tilted her head to the side and gave a tight half-smile. Ana hated that look. It screamed of pity, that her daughter wasn’t the vaunted beauty any longer, as if her scars had somehow tarnished her worth. Because in the end what Ana had learned was that all anyone had truly cared about was how flawless she’d appeared—her mother most of all. What that look of the Queen’s told Ana was that no available prince must want her.

Who she was inside didn’t matter at all. Yet she was more than how a dress might hang on her body, or her good skin, shiny hair or anything that had to do with how she looked.

Her mother’s private secretary entered the room without knocking, giving a discreet cough. ‘Ma’am...’

Her mother checked her elegant platinum watch, then pinned Ana with her glacial gaze. ‘It’s time.’

With those words she began walking to the door and Ana followed. The Queen’s heels clicked like daggers striking the marble floor of the hall, tap, tap, tap. Ana felt as if the sound was counting down the time to her doom.

‘Halrovia’s royal family has been the country’s bastion for over four hundred years, upholding everything that is right and good. Each of us must do our duty for the family, Anastacia. Your turn comes now. Yoursecondchance to do your duty.’

A terrible sense of unfairness overwhelmed her. Before the accident, she’d accepted that her life was in many ways her country’s. Had worked tirelessly with charities, even the one she’d recently established on her own. She’d done everything that had been expected of her. When had it ever been enough? She’d toed the line, had never stepped out of bounds. She’d come to realise that the love and acceptance of her parents was entirely conditional.

Bile began to rise to her throat.

‘Caspar wanting Cilla was not my fault.’

The sharpness of her mother’s responding gaze would have eviscerated anyone else. Once, Cilla had borne the brunt of her mother’s disapprobation; now it was turned on Ana.

‘Yet why did he choose her over you? What did you do?’ The accusation stung because it was the question everyone else was asking too, and the question that was unasked:what is wrong with you?

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