Page 29 of Coronation
It should have been him, not me.
An ugly thought, and a cruel one, but I can’t convince myself it isn’t true. If my father—the selfish fuck—had acknowledged Damien as his true-born son as he always promised, my life wouldn’t be like this. My brother would make a better king than me, is better suited to it, and unquestionably the sort of man who inspires love in his people rather than disappointment and disdain.
“Make sure there’s a car waiting to take her wherever she needs to go,” I snarl as I fist the handle to the passenger side door, ripping it open with unnecessary animosity.
The bedroom we occupied was on the opposite side of the house. There is no possible way she could hear a car door closing, and yet as I slam mine, I allow myself to imagine Zelda awakening to the sound.
In the deepest, most self-loathing parts of my imagination, I picture her opening her eyes at the noise and getting to herfeet. She would cross to the window and look out in time to see the black car making its way down the drive toward the road.
Even knowing I could be the only passenger, she would turn to look at the empty place where I slept, searching for a way to deny the cruelty of the only logical explanation: That I left her alone in a cold, empty house, in a country that isn’t her own.
It wouldn’t matter that the driver I requested for her would arrive in minutes, or that she could surely get herself home if need be. In that moment, Zelda Flowers would feel abandoned, all because I was too weak to look her into those eyes the color of the morning sky and tell her there was no place for her in my life.
In the end, it doesn’t matter whether or not Zelda were to see me driving away or not. Not really, when, regardless of my intentions, or how much I liked her, or the way she made me feel… I am truly every bit the cold asshole the entire world knows me to be.
For the first time since I realized I would be king, I wonder if I damn well deserved it.
Beneath me, the engine of the car rumbles to life. I stare straight forward, the acrid taste of bile filling my mouth as Damien fiddles with the radio, his demeanor unhurried and unbothered.
“Would you drive the fucking car?” I snarl, registering a start of surprise from my older brother, and not caring.
Damien lets out a low whistle, his hand dropping to the gear shift. “Of course,Your Royal Highness,” he replies cooly, dripping sarcasm from each word. The car begins to move. “Should I kiss your ass while I’m at it?”
I ignore him.
The weight on my chest is crushing, a million times worsethan I imagined it, and it takes all my self-control not to tell my brother to stop.
I could go back in. It isn’t too late.
What would be the point, though?
My hands curl into fists at my sides as something deep inside me goes cold. “Just drive.”
Twelve
Zelda
Nobody likes a line cutter.
Waiting your turn is one of the very first rules of civilized society. It’s drilled into us as children, and reinforced in every doctor’s office waiting room, grocery store checkout, and coffee shop as we go about our lives.
It’s not like anyone wants to be there. Every single person in that line wishes dearly it would move a little faster so they can get on with their day. Yet still, they wait, even if there are no laws that say you have to wait, or punishments if you don’t,because it’s the right thing to do.
There is no faster way to make a room full of enemies than to walk right to the front of all those people waiting, silently declaring that your time is more valuable than all of theirs.
That rule goes double when the line in question is for something really scarce and valuable. Like, for instance, the most glamorous, desirable job in the entire world. One that comes with nearly unlimited earning potential, international fame, respect, and a constant flow of free stuff appearing atyour door. Attaining such a prize could take years of hard work, a fair bit of luck, and even then, there are no guarantees.
There are still a fair few who would get in line for such a position, people who are willing to work and wait as long as it takes, just for the chance at an interview. That job, and the life that comes with it, are so seductive that there are plenty who would be willing to die trying.
Now, imagine if you could cut the line.
It sure would be a lot easier to walk right to the front, equipped with the knowledge of exactly what they want to hear, and the security of a personal relationship with the person holding that highly coveted golden key.
Such an advantage is obviously good for you, but for all those other people? The ones who are waiting in line, working their asses off, hoping and praying to be provided the same opportunities? Yeah, they’re not going to be such big fans of yours.
It’s not until after you make that choice that you realize it comes with a price. It won’t matter how hard you work, or how professional you are, or how capable. All anyone is ever going to remember is how you got there in the first place.
It’s not a very good feeling, walking into a professional environment with some of the most talented people in the world—people who are deserving of the opportunities they’ve been given—and knowing they’re all thinking the same thing:Nepo baby.
