Page 35 of Coronation
God, I’m so embarrassed. Over and over again, I allow myself to be treated like shit, and I never learn. The only difference between King Benedict and my ex was that Benedict had no interest in my father or his golden keys.
Apparently, my body was good enough for him on its own.
Sybil lowers her gaze to the menu before her with a thoughtful hum. “I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, because this particular quality is one of the least shitty things about you, and I almost tolerate it.”
I snort. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” She looks at me again, and I can see the worry now. “You give too much, Z. You give and give and give, you put your whole heart out there, and don’t expect anything in return. That’s a really beautiful thing, but it also puts you in a position of weakness. It givesthemall the power, and it’s why you keep ending up hurt.”
My little sister approaches everything, even life, like it’s a game. Every piece has its role to play; every move is made to facilitate the next five. Meanwhile, I’ve followed my heart, and it’s brought me nothing but hurt.
I wish I could argue with her, or deny a single thing she’s just said, but I know I can’t.Giving and giving and givingis what I do. It’s what I’ve always done, but it isn’t a really beautiful thing; it’s pathetic.
Across from me, Sybil shifts in her chair, looking a little concerned by my silence. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”
I shake my head, offering her a watery smile. “No, it was definitely tough love time. I was so stupid, Syb. I really thought…” I trail off, not able to bring myself to say it.I really thought he liked me.
“Not stupid,” she assures me, unfolding her napkin and laying it neatly over her lap. “Just an idealist who seems to operate under the assumption that everyone has the same intentions you do.”
Damn her for being the smart sister. If I’d been born with even an ounce of her pragmatism or foresight, I’d probably be a lot better off. As it is, I’m twenty-five years old, and notone man in my entire romantic history has wanted more from me than what I could give them, whether it be my connections, my money, or my body. It’s high time I face the fact that I am the only common factor.
I’m never going to let it happen again.
“Now, what’s this about organic tofu?” I joke weakly, flipping open my menu as the waitress arrives to take our drink orders.
We linger at the table for over an hour, eating our lunch and sparring playfully, neither of us mentioning the almost sisterly moment that just transpired. Sybil and I used to see a lot more of each other, but my filming schedule has been intense, and since she became a Grand Champion, there seems to be an unending list of tournaments or matches for her to play in. It’s June now, and realistically, I probably won’t catch up with her again until Dad’s birthday in September.
“I should get in there,” she sighs at last, glancing toward the hotel lobby, where people have been filing in as we had our catch-up. “The guy I’m playing always has horrendous breath. The sooner we start, the sooner I can breathe through my nose again.”
“Maybe it’s a strategy,” I muse, getting to my feet with a stretch. “A passive way to choke your opponent. Do you want me to ask the kitchen to send out a plate of garlic so you can give him a taste of his own medicine?”
Sybil scoffs. “You’re a lot more diabolical than you let on, Z. Bring that energy for the next idiot who tries to fuck with my sister.”
As we begin to make our way out of the restaurant, my gaze catches on a newspaper left abandoned on a table by the bar, and I stop dead, struck by the sensation of icy cold crawling up my spine. Beneath a headline touting a joint international aid mission by the UK and neighboring Stellandis a black-and-white photograph of the nation’s two kings, the men shaking hands.
“What?” asks Sybil from a few yards away, obviously confused as to why I’ve stopped dead in the middle of the restaurant to stare at a newspaper.
With some difficulty, I swallow, dragging my gaze away from the scowling face of King Benedict. “Nothing,” I tell Sybil with a tight smile, moving away from the newspaper as she starts talking about the bad-breathed opponent who is about to play his hardest, and still be absolutely decimated in twenty moves or less.
We’re just entering the ballroom, which is set up with small groups of chairs lined up before the shiny glass chessboards, when the quiet chime of my phone in my purse makes me pause.
Incoming Call: Davina Lovette
My stomach twists uncomfortably. Davina and I are pretty exclusively texting friends. The only time I remember her calling me was when her ex-boyfriend broke up with her, and she was so drunk that texting was definitely off the table. Officially concerned, I look up at Sybil. “I need to take this.” I wince in apology.
My sister waves me off. “You’ve got ten minutes. It’s fine.”
Nodding, I turn, stepping out into the hall as I accept the call and bring my phone to my ear. “Hey, is everything okay?”
My worry is quickly dismissed at the sound of a delighted laugh. “Okay, you officially need to quit being stingy with the details and tell me what happened between you andthe special guestthe other weekend.”
God, if I could go ten minutes without being reminded of King Benedict of Stelland, it would make getting over him a lot easier.
I weave past a group of excitedly chattering Spaniards whoare heading for the front doors of the lobby. So far, I’ve been able to dodge Davina’s questioning about what happened between me and the king, thanks to how intense our work schedule has been. Mercifully, she hasn’t given any indication of knowing we left together, and I’m determined to keep it that way. “I really can’t talk. My sister’s match is about to begin.”
“Oh, no. You’re not getting out of this,” Davina squawks as I shoulder open the glass front door, stepping out onto the bustling, central London street. “What did you do to that man? Please tell me, I promise only to use the power for good!”
“I didn’t do anything to him! We did the samestuffeveryone else did, then he left.” There was a little more that occurred between those two agenda items, but I feel terrible enough about myself without other people knowing the full story. I’m pretty confident the NDA I signed doesn’t cover any activities undertaken outside of that house, but it doesn’t matter. I’ll go to my grave without telling a single soul what transpired between me and the king.
