Verdemar

Alvarenga Wedding

My cousin Anastasia’s wedding to Thiago had been nothing short of spectacular. Everything was perfect — their estate, the décor, the ocean glittering behind the gazebo as they said their vows. And my Luc looked incredible officiating, which, as I learned, all heads of state can apparently do. Her parents were crying, which made my mom cry, which made me cry, which meant Eloise cried because she was so wildly hormonal from her pregnancy. It was a whole chain reaction. But perfect.

You know how they say something always goes wrong at weddings? Well, not this one. Receiving the guests, the ceremony, the reception, the cake cutting, speeches and toasts, the first dance — then all of us dancing — every moment unfolded exactly as it should. The buffet had opened by now, but unfortunately Luc had been cornered by a minister who could talk a stone to death. I stood beside him, smiling politely, nodding at the appropriate moments, but internally?

I was dying.

My stomach growled so loudly I was shocked the minister didn’t pause his lecture on agricultural subsidies. Luc had to be starving too — his jaw had that tight, polite look he got when he was three minutes from losing his mind.

I leaned in, keeping my smile fixed.

“I’m not abandoning you. I’m getting food for both of us before we collapse. Endure, mon prince.”

Then I turned to the minister and attempted the kind of vague, aristocratic excuse people used when they needed to step away without actually explaining why. Something airy. Something meaningless. Something that did not reveal I was on a mission to save His Serene Highness from starvation.

I murmured a soft, court‑appropriate nothing — the verbal equivalent of a curtsy — and hoped it sounded like whatever elegant people said when they needed a moment.

Luc’s eyes flicked to mine — a tiny nod, a softening, a silent go. Permission granted. Gratitude implied.

The minister didn’t even breathe between sentences, so I slipped away toward the buffet.

I had just reached for a plate when I heard the unmistakable click‑click‑click of heels behind me.

Clementine.

Clementine was already flushed when she approached — the kind of rose‑pink that came from too much champagne and too little self‑control. Her eyes glittered with that sharp, brittle delight she wore whenever she felt wronged.

She wasn’t watching her step. Her heel caught on a microphone cable trailing across the floor. The stand wobbled, turned slightly — just enough for the mic to angle toward her.

The light blinked green.

She didn’t notice.
She only saw me.

“Oh,” she said, her voice lilting with false sweetness, “quelle surprise. The little mainland stray, still underfoot, scavenging.”

A few nearby guests stiffened. I felt the shift in the room — the way people sense a storm before it breaks.

Clementine drifted closer, weaving slightly, her smile sharpening.

“I simply wished to offer my congratulations,” she said, loud enough to carry. “It seems you have a remarkable talent for… attaching yourself to powerful men. One after another. Efficient, vraiment.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd.

She didn’t hear it.

“And look at you now,” she continued, her tone syrupy and cruel. “Draped in borrowed dignity. Elevated far beyond your origins. One might almost believe you belonged here — if one didn’t know better.”

My stomach tightened.

“Clementine,” I whispered, “stop.”

She ignored me.

“And poor Eloise,” she added, turning her head with a theatrical sigh. “Standing there like a frightened doe, as always. Mon Dieu, even her gown looks afraid. I suppose some women are simply born to fade into the wallpaper.” Clementine smiled — slow and poisonous.

“But then,” she said, “I suppose she must be accustomed to being overlooked. Especially now that her husband seems so very… attentive to you.”

My breath caught.

“Clementine—shut your mouth – please!”

“Oh, come now,” she said, her voice lifting, carrying across the ballroom. “We all know how these things work. Titles do not fall from the sky. They are inherited. Or… granted, earned shall we say, in exchange for certain favors.”

Gasps. Real ones.

Heat crawled up my neck.

“Enough,” I hissed. “You’re drunk and ruining someone else’s party.”

She laughed — a brittle, ugly sound.

“Drunk? Ruining? Moi? No, darling. I am merely honest. Someone ought to be. Someone ought to say what everyone is thinking.”

Her voice lifted again — and now the microphone caught her fully, amplifying every syllable.

“Tell me, Briony — did you seduce Philippe before or after he decided you deserved a title? Before or after he began defending you like a man defending his mistress?”

The ballroom froze.

She didn’t.

“And Eloise,” she went on, her tone dripping with pity so false it curdled the air, “is so pathetically ignorant, even grateful for your attention, she doesn’t even see what is going on. Regardez‑la. That poor little porcelain ghost — utterly forgettable, so inconspicuous she may as well be part of the wallpaper. All timid eyes and wilted posture, that long horse‑face and that sharp little witch’s nose — clinging to you like a drowning girl to driftwood, starved for attention.”

She gave a soft, pitying laugh.

A few gasps. Clementine didn’t notice.

“You are her world now, unless, of course,” she went on, her voice wobbling with tipsy grandeur, “she is desperately attempting to catch her husband’s eye again. Quelle tragédie. She has never understood that Philippe is miles — miles — out of her league. The man could have married anyone. And instead he ended up forced into a loveless marriage with… that pitiful excuse of a noblewoman. One can hardly blame him for looking elsewhere.”

Eloise let out a soft, strangled sob.

Something inside me snapped.

I slapped Clementine.

Hard.

Yes, I knew that was absolutely unacceptable in society and especially at a wedding but so was her behavior and the crap she spewed.

Her head jerked to the side, but she barely reacted — too far gone, too consumed by her own bitterness. She shoved me back, and I stumbled, catching the hem of my gown and landing on the floor in a graceless heap.

Clementine looked down at me with cold triumph.

“And that,” she said, her voice echoing through the speakers, “is the woman who imagines herself fit to stand beside our Sovereign. Quelle honte.”

Silence swallowed the room.

Not a breath. Not a whisper. Not a heartbeat.

Just utter shock and disbelief and the sound of my pulse roaring in my ears.

And then—

“Clementine.”

Luc’s voice.

Cold. Precise. Cutting through the ballroom like a blade.

He didn’t shout. He didn’t need to. The room reacted before she did — a ripple of instinctive deference, nobles straightening as though a winter wind had swept through.

He strode toward us, each step measured, controlled, lethal in its calm. His eyes were blazing, his jaw set so tightly I thought it might crack. The crowd parted for him without a word, as if compelled by something older than law.

Clementine turned, triumphant for half a heartbeat — until she saw his face.

“Luc—”

“Not another word. And do address me properly.”

The temperature in the room dropped. His voice was low, quiet, and devastating — the kind of voice that ended careers, ended reputations, ended dynasties.

Behind him, François d’Aubigny, Clementine’s brother, stood frozen, white as marble, his pregnant wife clutching his arm. Near them Philippe held Eloise, who was sobbing into his chest, her shoulders shaking.

Luc stepped between me and Clementine, shielding me with his body as he reached down and lifted me to my feet with a gentleness that made my throat tighten.

“Are you hurt?” he asked softly.

I shook my head. “No. Très bien.”

He turned back to Clementine.

“You will apologize to her.” His voice was quiet. Too quiet. “Now.”

Clementine’s mouth opened — but nothing emerged. Her bravado evaporated.

Luc’s voice dropped even lower, a velvet‑lined threat.

“You insulted my consort. You insulted me. Your Sovereign.”

My breath caught.

We weren’t engaged. We weren’t even officially anything.

But he said it like it was already written into law.

“You insulted her character. Her dignity. You insulted the Duc de Villeneuve and, worse, his wife — who has never been anything but gracious to you. You insulted the House of Beaumont. And you did so publicly, in front of the entire peerage. Refused to apologize. Unforgivable.”

Clementine trembled.

“Your Serene Highness, I—”

He raised one finger.

A small gesture.

But the guards moved instantly.

“Remove her. If she resists or attempts to return, she is to be held in contempt. I will determine her fate tomorrow.”

Clementine’s eyes widened in horror. “No!”

Her brother stepped forward, carefully, his eyes pleading “Your Highness — please—”

Luc didn’t look at him.

“Conte d’Aubigny, your sister behaved extraordinarily inappropriate and refused to apologize. Since weddings seem to affect her so deeply, and she is so adamant about the duties of aristocracy, it is time she fulfills one. She will marry. I shall begin inquiries at once. She will be wed before the year is out.”

“No—no, Your Highness, please—!” Clementine now begged.

The guards seized her.

She shrieked, kicking, sobbing, still spitting half‑formed insults as they dragged her across the ballroom floor.

“LET GO OF ME! I AM A D’AUBIGNY! I AM—”

The doors slammed behind her.

Silence.

Luc turned back to me, cupped my face in both hands — and only then did I realize tears were running down my cheeks. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped them gently, his touch steady, grounding.

“No one speaks to you like that,” he said softly. “Not in my kingdom. Jamais.”

Then he rose to his full height and faced the room.

“You all heard me.”

The entire ballroom — nobles, dignitaries, musicians — bowed their heads.

Luc’s voice carried through the stunned silence, calm and absolute.

“Mademoiselle d’Aubigny has disgraced herself and this event. Allow me to clarify something I should not need to explain: the Marquise Palatine de Valfleur is not temporary. Not a diversion. Not anything she was accused of.”

He let the words settle like iron.

“What she is should be obvious. If it is not, request an audience with me, and I will explain it to you in private. At length.”

A ripple of nervous laughter — thin, brittle — moved through the room.

Luc lifted his glass.

“My deepest apologies to the happy couple for this unfortunate interruption. It seems the old saying is true — something always goes wrong at every wedding.”

A few people exhaled.

“So,” he said, voice warming, “let us return to joy. Raise your glasses and wish the young lovers a long, happy, and prosperous wedded life.”

The ballroom obeyed.
Glasses lifted.

And in that moment, the kingdom understood exactly what Luc had declared.

When the dust settled, Comte François d’Aubigny approached, pale and shaken.

“Your Serene Highness… a word, if you please?”

“Of course.”

François bowed deeply. “I wish to extend my sincerest apologies to you, to Her Excellency, and to the Houses of Beaumont and Villeneuve. My sister’s behavior was… wholly out of character. You must know that.”

Luc regarded him with cool, measured calm.

“Some years ago, I would have agreed with you. But the past two years have revealed a very different side of your sister, Comte.”

François swallowed.

“Do not fear repercussions,” Luc continued. “I know you had no part in this — nor your wife, nor your grandmother. These were the actions of one. I forgave her once. I am aware there have been further trespasses since my last reprimand, — though the Marquise chose not to burden me with them. Even my patience has limits.”

François bowed his head.

Luc’s tone softened only slightly — not warm, but fair.

“I had hoped you might dissuade her from this path. But perhaps that was too much to ask of a young man thrust into his title so suddenly, with a new wife and a child on the way. No one understands the weight of inheritance better than I.”

François’s eyes glistened.

“So forgive me, Comte,” Luc said, “but I will require your sister to marry a suitor of my choosing. It is within my rights. It is either that, or exile. Tell me — which would she prefer, when she can think clearly? And what would you prefer for the House of d’Aubigny?”

François bowed deeply. “Of course, Your Highness. I am sure you will find a very suitable match for her. You are most kind and forgiving.”

Luc’s eyes sharpened.

“I am neither kind nor forgiving,” he said. “I am restrained. For your sake. I know you well, and you have a name to protect. I will not see it shamed further. But I will not allow anyone to harass the Marquise, nor blemish the House of Villeneuve, nor the Beaumont name.”

“Yes, Your Highness. I understand.”

“Excellent.”

François bowed — first to Luc, then to me — before retreating.

I exhaled shakily.

“Thank you,” I told Luc after François had walked off.

Luc turned to me, his expression softening. “Don’t thank me. You handled yourself — and this situation — commendably well. But I don’t think I did you a favor. With my choices at the coronation, and now here, I’ve sent a very clear message to all. Including my father and Geneviève. For you, that means the protective period is over. The real training will begin. You might come to hate me for it.”

I looked up at him. “Is that supposed to scare me.”

“Au contraire,” he murmured. “It is intended to prepare you for what is coming. I prefer to play with open cards. This won’t be easy.”

“Nothing worth having ever comes easy.”

He smiled — a small, private smile — and I could tell he was about to kiss me when his father appeared with Geneviève. At the sound of Charles’s voice, Luc straightened instantly, posture snapping back into princely form.

“Well, that was rather… uncalled for,” Charles said. “Are you alright, Marquise?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Geneviève shook her head. “I do not know what has gotten into Clementine. She was always such a sweet girl. I have never known her to behave so.”

Charles exhaled. “She saw herself in Marquise Briony’s place. Now that this is not coming to be, she is bitter. A woman scorned. Her parents — and Henri — would be devastated to see her like this.”

“Oh, darling there is Mathilde d’Aubigny. We must go and ascertain she is alright after all this. Poor woman, having to watch her own granddaughter, whom she raised with such love and care, stoop to such levels. Come, help me comfort her.” Genevieve purred, pulling Charles along.

Then, a soft voice approached us from behind.

“Your Serene Highness… may I?”

Luc and I turned at the same time.

Eloise.

Her eyes were still red from crying, but she held herself with that quiet Cromwell dignity she always carried — even when shaken. Philippe stood beside her, one arm around her waist, the other resting protectively over the small swell of her pregnancy.

Luc nodded. “Bien sûr.”

Eloise looked at me first. “I am so sorry you were dragged into that. And that she used my name to wound you. I never—”

“You did nothing wrong,” I said quickly. “I’m sorry she said all those horrible things about you just to get to me. Nobody thinks that way about you. And you are absolutely beautiful. She was jealous — you’re married to a handsome duke who clearly loves you now, after the two of you fought your way through hell to get here, and she can’t find a man to save her own life.”

Eloise blinked, startled, then gave a soft, grateful smile.

Philippe cleared his throat — a rare sign of nerves from a man who usually hid behind charm and arrogance.

“And I thank you, Luc, for putting her in her place. I was about to interfere, but I would not have kept my composure as well as you did. I would have likely created an even greater spectacle.” He exhaled. “I am sure this goes without saying, but please know there is nothing to the rumors she spread. I am a changed man, and even in my worst hours, I would never have made advances on your companion.”

Luc’s jaw eased into almost a smile.

Philippe continued, voice steadier. “After the Marquise’s delightful interference in Eloise’s and my marriage, we find ourselves with very new outlooks on it. And your words about our Louis and his meaning and weight in all this resounded deeply with me, giving me yet more reason to seek to make this union work.”

He glanced at Eloise, who squeezed his hand.

“On that note… there is something we wished to tell you. We had planned to announce it quietly tomorrow, but after tonight… perhaps it is better said now.”

Luc raised a brow. “Allez‑y.”

Philippe took Eloise’s hand — not out of duty, but with a tenderness I had only recently begun to see between them.

“We are renewing our vows,” he said. “A sort of second wedding to mark our personal growth and new affection for one another, properly this time. Not the hollow ceremony we were maneuvered into, nor the cold, political arrangement our parents drafted for us. A true wedding. One we choose of our own accord. A marker of the quiet renaissance our marriage and relationship has undergone.”

Eloise’s eyes glistened — but this time with happiness.

“I wish to marry him — this time with my whole heart,” she whispered. “And he wishes to marry me en vérité, not in duty.”

Philippe nodded, his voice low and steady.
“I do. I want us to speak our vows again — and this time to mean every word. Our first wedding was a negotiation between families, a performance staged for politics and lineage. This one will not be for public display, nor for the approval of any court. It will be ours alone. A ceremony chosen freely, marking the quiet, deliberate renaissance our marriage has undergone. And if His Serene Highness’ schedule permits, it would be our honor to have you officiate. The gathering will be intimate — only those who truly matter shall attend.”

Luc’s expression softened in a way I rarely saw. “When?”

“In a month,” Eloise said gently. “Before my condition becomes apparent. I would rather our true wedding portrait not invite speculation again about the motives behind our union. Though we have been married for years, we agreed to remove the old photographs and display only the new ones — the ones that reflect what our marriage has become. Out of context, a noticeable bump could raise questions, and we have no intention of announcing that these images are from a second ceremony rather than the first. And… we would be honored if you both would stand with us.”

Luc didn’t hesitate. “Of course the Marquise and I will be delighted to attend, and I would be honored to officiate for you, my dear old friend. Have your secretary send the time and date to mine. Félicitations. Were we in a more private setting, I would embrace you both — but at the moment, I must be the sovereign, not simply Luc.”

Then Eloise looked at me — really looked at me — with a warmth I had never seen from her before.

“And Briony… I would like you with me. As my friend. And as my maid of honor.”

My breath caught. “Eloise, I— I would hug you right now, but I don’t think I’m supposed to do that in front of half the aristocracy.” I glanced at Luc for confirmation.

He smirked, eyes glinting. “Best kept for private moments,” he murmured.

Eloise let out a soft laugh, the tension easing from her shoulders. “That’s alright. I can feel the implied hug regardless.”

I swallowed. “I wasn’t even sure you still wanted to be my friend after everything Clementine said — about me, about you, about Philippe… about your appearance. I hated that she tried to use me to hurt you with those lies.”

Eloise’s expression softened into something tender and steady. “Briony, none of that touched our friendship. I cherish it deeply, and I love you like a sister.”

My chest loosened. “Then… I’d be honored. And I absolutely accept.”

Philippe exhaled, relieved. “Good. Then it is settled. And don’t worry — it will be a very small circle. And most certainly no Clementine. I won’t have her in my home again anytime soon.”

Luc placed a hand on Philippe’s shoulder. “I’m proud of you. Both of you — but especially you, Philippe. There was a time I feared you were… beyond reform.”

Philippe gave a wry smirk. “Not beyond reform — merely blind. I mistook fleeting indulgence for fulfillment, and convinced myself a moment’s pleasure could rival a lifetime of loyalty, affection, and true companionship. It took me far too long to understand the difference.”

Eloise elbowed him gently. “He is still learning.”

Luc chuckled. “Aren’t we all.”

Ana’s wedding had been beautiful, especially prior to Clementine’s interruption — chaotic, emotional, dramatic in all the ways only our families could manage, but beautiful nonetheless. A stunning bride, handsome groom, both clearly in love, a beautiful ceremony and a lovely reception – before and after Clementine’s outburst.

Ana’s parents, her brother, and my mom with Brad left not long after the ceremony. Apparently there is an unspoken rule that the Sovereign must depart before anyone else can, barring emergencies, and once Luc and I slipped out, the rest of the guests followed like a tide being released.

Bellacorde

The following day

The next morning we all had breakfast together — my mother fussing, Brad giving quiet advice nobody really asked for, Aunt Iris and Uncle Jasper unusually quiet and subdued, still shaken from the fact that their ‘little girl’ was now someone’s wife and soon to be a mother, my cousin Tate trying to pretend he wasn’t watching Luc’s every move like a hawk. A typical teen, he pretended not to care about all this aristocratic stuff, but I could tell he was just living his best life experiencing it all. He wanted to be an actor like his dad Uncle Jas, so he pretended this was just ‘another Tuesday’. But I knew him better.
And then, just like that, we were hugging and crying and kissing cheeks and saying our goodbyes, then they were gone, piling into a car for the airport. I wished they could have stayed but all of them had lives back home and prior obligations.

I didn’t even get the chance to be sad.

Geneviève appeared at my elbow like a beautifully dressed omen.

“My darling girl,” she said, voice low and crisp, “now that Luc has so eagerly and prematurely announced your position in his heart — and therefore in this court — we can no longer wait until after the official engagement but must begin all necessary training and preparations. You must be well prepared to serve as a true consort to the Sovereign.”

My stomach dropped.

I swallowed. “Yeah, he told me as much. When is all of that supposed to start?”

Her answer was immediate, merciless, and in French.

“Tout de suite. Venez.” Right away. Come.

And as if she read my mind she added “I have also instructed everyone, including Luc, to speak to you more in French now. Best way to learn. No worries, it will remain bilingual. At least initially.”

Of course. No problem. My poor brain. I’d be getting tennis arm from drawing all those blanks. Great, just great.

I thought of my remote university classes, the papers due, the unread emails from professors. I had no idea how I was supposed to fit this into my schedule — whatever this was — but Geneviève was already sweeping down the corridor, and I had no choice but to follow.

She led me into a long mirrored room that looked like a ballet studio designed by someone who believed joy was a sin.

“Posture,” she said, tapping my spine. “You cannot represent the Crown if you stand like a wilted flower.”

And so it began.

Posture & Carriage

• “Straight. Shoulders down. Chin level. No, level. You are not peering over a hedge.”
  → I wasn’t aware my chin had levels.
• “Your spine is a column, not a question mark.”
  → No surprise my spine is a question mark. I have questions. So many questions.
• “Your steps begin from the core, not the knees. Engage.”
  → Engage what? My abs? My soul?
• “You glide, Marquise. You do not teeter, shuffle, sway, strut, scurry, or clatter. And a lady never runs.”
  → I hadn’t realized it was physically possible to teeter, shuffle, sway, strut, scurry, and clatter in Louboutins, let alone run, but apparently, I had managed the full barnyard‑to‑nightclub spectrum. Outstanding. Truly thriving.
• Geneviève lifted her chin. “Your presence enters a room before you do — posture is the herald.”
  → I’m sorry… does this require some sort of out‑of‑body experience now? And my posture is… what, exactly? A town crier? A royal trumpeter? Am I meant to glide in while my spine announces me like breaking news? Are these instructions or riddles?

Walking & Entering Rooms

• “You do not rush. You arrive. There is a difference.”
  → I have been arriving wrong my entire life. Learned something.
• “Pause at the threshold. One breath. Then proceed.”
  → I look like I’m buffering before loading into the next room.
• “Never look at the floor. Floors are for servants.”
  → I immediately looked at the floor. Every time. Like a reflex. Could. Not. Stop.
• “Your pace must be consistent — neither eager nor languid.”
  → So… medium? Royal medium coasting? I still don’t know how fast that is.
• “If someone opens a door for you, you acknowledge with the eyes, not the chin.”
  → My chin has been doing all the heavy lifting. Eyes would be easier if I had stalk eyes, like a snail.

Sitting & Rising

• “No collapsing. No flopping. Ankles together. Hands relaxed. You are not waiting at a bus stop.”
  → I have unknowingly and unintentionally been waiting at bus stops every time I sat in my life. Now you know.
• “Lower yourself as though the chair might be made of spun sugar.”
  → If the chair were sugar, why would anyone want to sit on it? I am not Charlie and have no chocolate factory or any strange dessert obsessions.
• “Rise without using your hands unless absolutely necessary.”
  → My thighs are not prepared for this. I wish I had the Peloton with me. I should add she made me do it a felt five million times in a row. Ouch!
• “Your knees do not splay. Ever.”
  → Wait, my knees splayed before? I girl‑spread? What?!
• “Your handbag rests at your side, not on the table. You are not unpacking groceries.” → Umm, yeah, but how can my new Chanel bag be a conversation piece if nobody can see it?

Greetings & Forms of Address

• “Curtsy depth varies by rank. Again. Lower. Not that low — you are not proposing.”
  → Let’s just say I looked like a camel with arthritis trying to lie down for most of that lesson. And I evidently proposed a lot.
• Geneviève inhaled like she was preparing to recite scripture. “Your Serene Highness, Your Grace, Your Excellency, Madame la Duchesse… memorize them.”
• → That’ll be fun. Knowing me, the moment someone new walks in my brain will do a complete cache‑clear and I’ll greet them with mortified stutters and fully glazed‑over eyes.
• “Never speak first unless you outrank the room.”
  → I have never outranked a room in my life. And my mouth activates before my brain can tell it no. Ask anyone in my family.
• “Your greeting must be warm but not familiar. Nobility is not a hug‑based culture.”
  → I am a hug‑based person. This is gonna be a problem.
• “If you forget someone’s title, default to ‘Madame’ or ‘Monsieur’ and pray.”
  → I will be praying a lot then.

Table Etiquette

• “The fork is not a pointer. The knife is not a weapon. You will not gesture with silverware unless you wish to start a diplomatic incident.”
  → I have absolutely gestured with silverware. I thought finger‑pointing was worse. Guess not.
• “Bread is torn, not bitten. You are not a woodland creature.”
  → I have been exposed. Twenty years of biting into bread like a squirrel that didn’t know any better. You got me.
• “Sip, do not slurp. And never empty your glass in one go — you are not at a frat party.” → Subdue thirst, got it. But what about every influencer screaming HYDRATE? Guess in installments then.
• “Napkin on the lap, not tucked into your neckline like a lobster bib. You avoid drippage by leaning forward slightly, but keep straight.”
  → I have done the lobster bib thing and have no idea how to achieve those complicated logistics. Maybe I should give up eating altogether. Too complicated.
• “If you drop something, ignore it. A footman will retrieve it. That is literally their job.”
  → Okay, this is gonna take practice, because nervous Briony has butterfingers.

Media Comportment

• “Smile with your eyes, not your teeth. No grimacing. No staring at cameras like they are predators.”
  → Cameras ARE predators. Ask anyone in my famous family. Or me. Remember San Myshuno? Cody? Beckett? The panic?
• “Your wave is subtle. You are not hailing a taxi.”
  → Okay, when I wave it’s usually from excitement and I guarantee nothing.
• “Never look startled. Royals do not get startled; they get ‘momentarily taken by surprise.’”
  → I am the human shocked‑face emoji, but I will try.
• “If a question is inappropriate, you do not react. You glide past it like a swan ignoring a duck.”
  → I am usually the duck though. Again, ask anyone who knows me.
• “Your microphone awareness must be absolute. If it is near you, assume it is on.”
  → Clementine should have taken this class.

Ceremonial Protocol

• “Order of procession. Who stands where. Who speaks first. You will not improvise.”
  → I think I need to call Mom and get choreography pointers. This sounds above my pay grade.
• “If you are unsure, follow the person with the most medals.”
  → What if everyone has medals? Some look like Christmas trees. How do I tell who has more?
• “Never turn your back on the Sovereign unless instructed.”
  → Huh. Okay. That will be awkward if Luc gestures me to enter a room before him, but I’ll give it a shot.
• “Your bowing and curtsying must be synchronized with the room — not a solo performance.”
  → Oh my God. I have never needed my Mom more. Stage choreography flashbacks incoming.
• “If you faint, faint gracefully. Preferably toward a guard.”
  → I have fainted twice in my life and never had the chance to think about aim. Just… happened. Oh man.

Wardrobe

I was ushered into a fitting room where three seamstresses descended on me with pins and measuring tapes.

• “This is the first of many fittings,” Geneviève said. “You require a complete wardrobe suitable for your station. Daywear, eveningwear, state occasions, charitable visits, travel. Your silhouette must be consistent.”
  → I didn’t even know I had a silhouette. I thought that was for Disney princesses.

And I thought I knew fashion. Man, this was expert‑level stuff. Every cut, fabric, and color sends a signal. What? And we’re not talking the type of signals you send dressing kinda slutty for the club. No — literally every item of clothing speaks when you are aristocratic.

Wardrobe Rules of the Crown (apparently)

• Silhouette Consistency: “Your outline must be recognizable at a distance. Royals are visual landmarks.”
  → I am a visual hazard.
• Color Hierarchy: “All white is for brides and heads of state. All black is strictly for mourning. Red is for authority. Pastels are for diplomacy.”
  → I am from an artist family. All black is the uniform and a statement.
• Hemline Laws: “Knee‑length for daytime. Floor‑length for evening.”
  → My hemlines usually depend on how fit and tan my legs look, but okay.
• Fabric Protocol: “No synthetics at state events.”
  → Finally something we can agree on. I like natural fabrics. Especially silk and cashmere. Thank God for dry cleaners.
• Jewelry Etiquette: “Diamonds after six. Pearls for daytime. Tiaras only at very special events.”
  → Diamonds and pearls? Lady, I am twenty, not someone in a Renaissance painting And I thought all nobles got to wear tiaras. Bummer. Now I get why everyone was so bent out of shape when Luc had me wear the tiara twice. It was an F.U. from him to society. Rebel prince. I didn’t even get it. I do now.
• Hat Expectations: “Hats before 5 p.m., never after.”
  → Okay. My rule used to be that hats are for bad hair days no matter the time.
• Coat Rules: “You do not remove your coat in public.”
  → I normally don’t wear a coat when home alone. So this one needed more explaining. And she did. Means I get ushered aside and helped out of the coat. Gotcha. Another reflex to fight.
• Bag Protocol: “Clutches for evening. Structured bags for day.”
  → Now that one I got down, Lady!

Realty Check

By the time Geneviève released me, I felt like my bones had been rearranged. You go sit and get up fifty million times and then follow with a hundred curtsies while someone watches your back like a drill sergeant. Then we’ll talk. Your thighs will be on fire, as will your back.

I dragged myself up to my suite like a wounded soldier, pushed the door open, and face‑planted onto the bed without even bothering to take off my shoes. I groaned into the duvet. I might never move again.

A knock sounded — discreet, court‑trained, the kind that suggested the person behind it had never once knocked on anything in their life without instruction.

I did not answer. I was dead.

The door opened anyway with that soft, expensive hush only old royal hinges make.

“Briony?” Luc’s voice drifted in, warm and far too amused for the state of my soul.

I made a noise into the pillow that could have meant go away, help me, or bury me with state honors.

He stepped inside, closing the door with a quiet clic. The room glowed with soft golden sconces and the last lavender light of evening. Then the mattress dipped beside me, and a warm hand traced down my back, slow and gentle, before brushing my hair from my face.

“Supper is almost ready,” he murmured, voice low and velvet‑smooth.

“No,” I mumbled into the duvet. “Leave me. I live here now. This is my home. Tell the others I died bravely.”

He chuckled — the traitor. “It cannot have been that bad.”

I rolled one eye toward him. “It was that bad — and then some. I cannot feel my legs; your maman made me get up and down on a chair until my knees cracked like an old lady’s. And apparently I eat like a squirrel, walk like Django in heels, enter rooms wrong, sit like I’m waiting for the bus, and am just generally a complete failure visually overall. It was horrible. Humiliating. Confusing. Painful. Did I mention my legs are on fire?”

His shoulders shook with laughter. “Mon cœur… if you thought that was bad, I have terrible news.”

I lifted my head an inch. “What?”

“It will only get worse.”

I jerked upright into a shaky yoga‑plank, hair flying. “WHAT?!”

He smiled serenely, like a man who had survived this exact torture and now enjoyed the view.

I collapsed face‑first again with a groan that echoed off the carved ceiling.

Luc rose, slid his hands under my arms, and lifted me upright like a stubborn cat. “Come. You must eat. It is considered rude to leave your hosts waiting.”

“Aren’t you the host?” I mumbled.

“Exactement — and I am your sovereign who is famished. Allez.”

I squinted at him. “Are you going to pull that sovereign card all the time now?”

“Only when it serves me.” His smile was infuriatingly beautiful — the kind that made me want to slap him and kiss him in equal measure.

“Fiiine,” I grumbled. “Let’s go eat.”

He drew me into his arms, slow and deliberate, the way he always did when he was about to kiss me senseless. His hand slid to the small of my back, his breath warm against my cheek. My heart went on overdrive. I tilted my chin up, lips already softening, eyes fluttering shut in anticipation of some desperately needed smoochies.

Luc leaned in — closer, closer — his nose brushing mine, his mouth hovering a whisper above my own.

I puckered.

He did not kiss me.

Instead, in the most devastating mwop‑mwop‑mwooooop of my life, he angled to my ear and murmured, “Tu dois te changer pour le souper, mon cœur. Please change for supper.”

I froze mid‑pucker.
My lips were still doing the kiss‑face.

I opened one eye. He was smiling. Of course he was smiling — that soft, amused, princely smile that said he had absolutely noticed my kiss‑readiness and was enjoying every second of my humiliation.

“Seriously?” I croaked, recoiling out of his embrace.

He lifted a brow, unbearably elegant. “Supper attire, Briony. Shall I tell maman to go over that again tomorrow?”

I made a noise that was half groan, half wounded animal, muttering something under my breath that sounded a lot like pluck you.

He laughed under his breath — quiet, warm, delighted — and brushed his thumb along my cheek as if to soothe the sting he had absolutely caused on purpose.

I bristled. “Seriously?”

He took my hand and guided me toward the wardrobe — a towering wall of carved wood and soft lamplight.

I dug my heels in. “What, you’re not going to lay out my clothing for me tonight, Daddy?”

He ignored the jab with princely grace. “Non. You have had several classes now — including from my belle‑mère — so… show me what you learned, Marquise.”

“Ugh.”

I grabbed a dress.

“No,” he said instantly. “Too informal. You are dining with the former and current sovereign, and a princess who has been married to two high royals. And you, mon cœur, are a Marquise Palatine.”

I tried something more royal‑adjacent.

“No. Wrong color for evening.”

Another.

“No. That neckline is for daytime.”

Another.

He just stared. “Briony… that is not even yours.”

“How do you know that?” I snapped, shoving Eloise’s pale blue dress back into place.

He sighed — the long‑suffering kind — and stepped in beside me. His fingers skimmed fabrics with the precision of someone raised in a world where clothing is diplomacy.

He chose something elegant, explaining each detail — fabric, cut, color, formality — until my brain was mush. I thought I knew fashion. I did not know fashion. Not like this.

Defeated, I trudged toward the ensuite bathroom.

As I passed him, he gave a light, playful clap to my backside.

I spun, finger in his face. “You need to stop doing that, Your Highness! Highly inappropriate! I shall report you to your mother and then I will watch you go through those classes. HA!”

He didn’t blink. “Rien de nouveau pour moi, mon cœur. Nothing new to me.”

I froze. “Wait — YOU have etiquette classes?”

“Mais oui. Not anymore but I used to. I have been through all the same training you are going through now. Since I was a little boy. The moment I could walk, I had to learn how to do it properly. The moment I could talk, I had to learn the proper ways. And you see, I survived.” He smirked, unbearably self‑satisfied.

With a groan of pure despair, I disappeared into the bathroom and shut the door.

Luc lingered outside for a moment, the soft palace light catching the faint smile on his lips.

“She may not see it,” he murmured to himself, “but I do. She is going to be absolutely perfect for all of this. And she is unquestionably perfect for me.”