Page 53 of Royal Affair
What it had done was save the palace's reputation. And it had cost me everything.
Within weeks of the ceremony, Viktor had shown his true nature—controlling, manipulative, cruel—a man accustomed toownership rather than partnership. Viktor placed the bruises carefully, ensuring clothes hid them. The emotional wounds cut deeper still. The marriage lasted only three months before the palace lawyers secured an annulment, burying the records so thoroughly that even most of the royal staff never knew it had happened. By then, I was a shell of myself, hollowed out by fear and shame.
And then, three years ago, Viktor had simply vanished. No demands for money, no threats of exposure, nothing. Until the death threats started coming to the palace, and the dead kitten had appeared at my door with its ominous note.
Now Viktor was dead, his body found bloated and pale in the river that ran through our capital. The police had ruled it suspicious circumstances—Viktor didn't simply fall into that river. Someone had put him there. But the investigation had stalled, with no clear suspects and no obvious motive beyond his known criminal associations. The timing felt deliberate, though. His body surfacing just as my life was stabilising, just as I was finally finding happiness. Someone wanted me to remember, wanted me afraid.
And the truth—about our marriage, about what had happened five years ago—was threatening to spill out like blood from a wound.
I stopped at the window, peering through a gap in the heavy curtains. The media presence had only grown since morning. Palace security had cordoned off the main gates, but enterprising photographers had found vantage points in nearby buildings and trees. One particularly persistent reporter tried to scale the garden wall before being apprehended.
My phone lay silent on the nightstand. I hadn't heard from James since he'd left for London a week ago. Not that I expected to. We'd agreed to one night, no strings attached. I'd known he would return to his life, and I to mine.
Except my life had just imploded spectacularly.
A soft knock on my door startled me, breaking the silence in my gilded prison.
"Your Highness?" It was Dara's voice. "You're needed in the Queen's study. Immediately."
Something in her tone sent ice through my veins. This wasn't about Viktor or the press. This was something else.
"I'll be right there," I called, quickly checking my appearance in the mirror. My eyes were red-rimmed from lack of sleep, my skin pale. I pinched my cheeks to bring some colour back, smoothed my hair, and straightened my shoulders.
Royal posture. Royal composure. They drilled the lessons into me repeatedly since my childhood.
Walking to my mother's study felt longer than usual, the palace corridors stretching endlessly before me. When I finally arrived, the uniformed guards at the door exchanged glances before allowing me entry—a subtle interaction that heightened my dread.
Inside, I found chaos.
My mother, the ever-composed Queen Sophia, was sobbing openly, her face buried in her hands. The Prime Minister stood to one side, ashen-faced, while several royal advisors spoke in hushed tones by the fireplace. Roger Halliwell hovered uncertainly near the door, looking entirely out of his depth.
"Mother?" I approached hesitantly. "What's happened?"
When she lifted her face, the devastation I saw there stopped me cold. Grief had drowned her eyes, which were so like my own.
"Alexandra," she managed, her voice breaking on my sister's name. "There's been an accident."
The world seemed to slow down, and sounds became muffled, as if I were underwater. I felt myself sink onto the sofa beside my mother, though I had no memory of moving.
"What kind of accident?" I heard myself ask.
The Prime Minister stepped forward, his expression grave. "Her car veered off the road in the Alps while she was travelling back to university in Switzerland. There had been black-ice on the mountain pass." He paused, swallowing hard. "I am so deeply sorry, Your Highness. Princess Alexandra did not survive."
There must have been more words after that, but I didn't hear them. A strange numbness spread through me, a protective fog that kept the reality at bay. Alexandra couldn't be dead. My perfect, poised, responsible older sister. The heir. The future queen.
I was physically struck by the truth: Alexandra was gone, and that meant?—
Confirming my realisation, one advisor said, "the succession falls to you now, Evangeline. You will receive the crown after the appropriate mourning period."
Queen.
The word echoed in my mind, bringing with it the weight of a thousand expectations I'd never prepared for. Alexandra had been groomed for this role since birth—etiquette lessons, political briefings, diplomatic training. I'd been the spare, allowed to dream of veterinary clinics and a life beyond palace walls. Now those dreams felt as dead as my sister, buried beneath the crushing reality of duty I could never escape.
My mother's sobs grew louder, her entire body shaking with grief. I should have comforted her, should have found words of strength or solace. Instead, I found myself frozen, unable to process the collision of these two cataclysmic events—Viktor's death and now Alexandra's.
Roger stepped forward, placing an awkward hand on my shoulder. "Your Highness, perhaps you should return to your room. Rest. This is a lot to take in."
His touch, meant to be comforting, felt intrusive. Wrong. I shrugged away from him, rising to my feet with mechanical precision.
