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FOR A ROYAL WEDDING cobbled together in just fifteen hours, it was pretty damn beautiful. And as King Luke had predicted, the world ate it up, largely forgiving the impassioned lovers’ scandalous interlude in favor of a flowing white gown and regal horses and a thousand pink roses tossed into the streets.

Even Brinley, who so rarely fit the role of a perfect princess, looked the part, her dark curls twisted artfully on top of her head, romantic and whimsical. Her gown had been sewn so quickly she was certain the fourteen seamstresses woken in the dead of night to sew it would not be able to uncramp their hands for weeks. And Finn. Finn. Without even a moment’s notice he had transformed once again into Prince Charming, replacing his navy jacket with his royal white suit, the gold epaulets and brass buttons bright and gleaming against the luxurious fabric. He waited at the end of the endlessly long aisle in the church, multicolored afternoon sunlight streaming in through stained glass windows and painting the room in a magical palette. The cameras missed none of it, not the way the lights sparkled against the gems that studded Brinley’s flowing gown or the tiara glinting atop her head. Just as quickly as the kingdom was devastated by Elle’s departure, they were swooning over Brinley’s romantic ascension. Or the illusion of it, at least.

Now, on the night of her wedding, she sat in her private bathroom, bawling helplessly as she watched the footage on the tablet balanced on her shaking knees. She knew Finn was in her room on the other side of the door, a door that would never be thick enough to hide her sobs, though in the past hour he had not knocked or attempted to interrupt. 

Despite the fact that they were being forced to sacrifice their lives for something they had never been given a choice in, Finn did not seem altogether bothered. For him this was very much the act of duty for which he had been born, and as much as Brinley’s heart had always belonged to the boy who helped her at the foot of the stairs, the thought of being another one of his royal duties shattered it.

She was okay with being a bad princess. She was okay with being second best, the ghost lurking in her sister’s perfect shadow. But she was not okay with being an obligation. Just another noble sacrifice for Prince Finian of Lenora.

She paused the video at the moment she reached Finn at the altar, when the priest looked between them and Finn took her hand in his and nodded at her once, solemnly, as though confirming the deal. Only those watching closely would see the faint tremor in his fingers, the tiniest betrayal of his nerves, the only glimmer of emotion he could not hide. It was the fairy tale wedding of books and movies, with all the trappings of a timeless love story—and it was a farce. A heartbreaking, soul-shriveling farce.

She had wondered how her parents would punish her, and now she knew. For years they had tried taking away the things she loved—a favorite book, a pair of shoes, thirty-six swords—and now they had done quite the opposite: they had given her the thing she loved most and forced her to confront the fact that he did not love her back.

“Brinley?” A tentative knock nearly toppled her off the lid of the toilet. The tablet slid from her knees, gliding down the mountain of fabric that was her dress to land on the floor without a sound.

She smothered her sniffle with a tissue and managed a passably calm, “What?”

“Are you...all right? You’ve been in there for some time.”

When Brinley was twelve she had crawled out the bathroom window onto the eave below, and scooted across to the roof of the south wing before a palace guard spotted the movement. After she was retrieved and frog-marched to her father’s office for an exasperated scolding, they had bricked over the window. Now she stared mournfully at the buried space, wishing she had saved her great escape for this day.

“Give me a minute,” she said, though he had already given her an hour.

She rose to look at herself in the mirror and cringed. Her swollen eyes were ringed with smudged mascara, and she had long since forsaken the tiara, her hair now tumbling loose and sticking out haphazardly around her head like a sparkler candle. She looked much as she had the day she fell off the banister for the umpteenth time and cracked her head against the wall, managing to give herself two black eyes and a bloody nose. It was humiliating to think how little had changed in the intervening years.

She quickly washed her face, ignoring the way the soapy water ran down her wrists and soaked the long sleeves of her gown. She had nothing in the bathroom to change into, all her clothing was in her room. In their room. Finn lived here now, and trunks of his belongings had been shipped over that morning and were now stacked neatly along one wall, like a barricade.

When Brinley finally exited she found the bedroom surprisingly dim, the lone source of light coming from a reading lamp switched on next to the bed where Finn, still in his wedding attire, lay reading. At her entrance he closed the book and sat up, swinging his legs over the edge. The sight of his feet in striped gray and yellow socks tugged at her heart, a reminder that beneath the stoicism and the finery there was a man who had once been a kind little boy.

Her steps faltered when she realized that at some point during her sojourn in the bathroom castle staff had come to sprinkle the bed with rose petals and leave a bottle of champagne floating in an ice bucket on her dresser. Two empty flutes sat next to it, as well as a plate of chocolate-covered strawberries. It may well have been accompanied by a flashing neon sign that read “Expectations!”

Brinley’s stomach roiled and she was reminded of so many stories of princesses of old forced to consummate their marriage because it was part of their duty. The modern royals were not required to provide proof of consummation, no one would come to check the bed sheets in the morning. But the sight of the blood red petals against the white fabric was almost too much to bear.

“Are you...better?” Finn asked. He stood slowly, like she was a feral animal that couldn’t decide if it should attack or flee. Her instinct was to run, of course, but the bathroom window was gone and the castle was guarded and the only photo that would top the topless photo and the official wedding photo was one of Brinley escaping through the palace gates, her dress fluttering behind her like a specter.

“I’m fine,” she said stiffly. “I’m just...”

“Crying,” he said, proving that even if he did not show human emotion, he could at least identify it. “Because of...this.” He came close enough to touch her, and indeed, almost did, but the hand he raised to touch her chin paused an inch away, then retreated. Still, she lifted her eyes, because he wasn’t a moron and only an idiot would believe anything was fine.

“Why aren’t you?” she asked. “Why aren’t you angry? Why aren’t you...something? Anything?”

He paused, then carefully shrugged. “It’s not about me.”

“It was your wedding!”

“It was our wedding,” he corrected.

Brinley scoffed. “It was their wedding.”

Finn tipped his head in acknowledgment and a long, painful moment passed.

Brinley could hear the steady ticking of the grandfather clock that stood in the corner. Tick, tick, tick. You. Fucked. Up.

Tick. Again.

“Do you wish...” Finn began, eyes on her shoulder, her temple, anywhere but her own. “Do you wish to...”

Her stomach clenched. It was hard to imagine that an unbridled lust for this man had gotten her into this situation, and now that they were in a position to do something about it—indeed, expected to—it was the very last thing she wanted.

“...drink champagne?” he finished, clearing his throat. They both knew champagne wasn’t what he was asking about.

“No,” Brinley said. “I don’t. Do you?”

He paused. “I want whatever you want.”

The words made her lower lip quiver and her sinuses sting. “I don’t want this,” she whispered, eyes filling with tears. “I don’t want any of it.” She couldn’t stop her gaze from flicking past his shoulder to the bed, scattered with roses like so many pinpricks.

“Of course,” he said solemnly. “I understand.”

Her heart seized again, sadness and disappointment and relief. She nodded. She knew Finn would never force her, never deliberately do anything to hurt her. But a lifetime with him would be a million tiny hurts, each day a reminder of how much she had and how much she was still missing.

He stepped past her and unbuttoned his jacket, draping it over the edge of the sofa that sat against the far wall, opposite the bed. “I will sleep here,” he said, “and in the morning, we will let the gossip do the rest.”

“Thank you,” she managed.

“There is no need to thank me.”

Brinley hesitated a moment, then went to her dresser to find a pair of pajamas. She normally slept in old shorts and a Spice Girls tank top, but now she retrieved a pair of gray silk pajamas, matching shorts and a T-shirt with white lace trim. She took them into the bathroom and changed, wondering if this was what it would be like from now on, changing in private so her husband did not see her. She did not have a suite of rooms like her parents, and they had made no mention of moving Brinley and Finn to another part of the castle. Brinley had not inquired about the rooms that had been reserved for Elle upon her pending nuptials, correctly assuming she would not be allowed to move into them because they had a balcony she would probably try to jump off.

When she returned to the bedroom she saw that Finn had shaken the rose petals off the bed and swept them into a small pile in the corner, and stripped down to a white T-shirt, but still wore his pants. It was late and, for the first time, Brinley saw the exhaustion stamped on his face, the faint circles beneath his eyes, tiny grooves around his mouth. Then he shifted and the shadows moved and he looked flawless and composed again.

“Here,” she said, going to the chest at the foot of the bed to pull out the quilt she had received as a baby. It was soft and warm and she often slept with it in the winter, appreciating its inherent comfort. She handed it to him and he nodded politely as he spread it over the sofa and sat down. He reached to adjust the throw pillows and froze when a loud crinkling emitted from the fabric. He paused, then shook the pillow again. More crinkling.

Slowly, he looked at Brinley.

Her cheeks were flaming. “That’s quite an old pillow,” she lied, snatching it away. “You would be very uncomfortable with it. Let me give you a new one.” She grabbed two from the bed, both stuffed with goose down and bearing seals of approval from the royal chiropractor.

“Are there bagels in there?” Finn inquired mildly, nodding at the reclaimed pillow. “It’s been hours since I ate.”

“No, the bagels are in the ward—” Brinley broke off and squinted at him in the dimness. “I can’t tell if you’re joking.”

“I don’t imagine you have bagels in your pillow, Brinley. That sounds much more like a bag of candy. Or four.”

When Brinley was punished, she was often sent to her room, and as such, she had taken to making the room a place of fun and sanctuary. She had hidden books, games, snacks, toys, swords... She could hole up here safely for several weeks, if necessary.

“If I were to ask for a hamburger, would you be able to produce one?” he asked.

She wasn’t positive, but she thought she saw his mouth quirk slightly, like he was trying not to smile. Like he was teasing her, attempting to alleviate the tension in the room, the weight of failed expectations.

“I cannot cook or store meat,” she replied. “But the kitchen is open twenty-four hours and can have one delivered in ten minutes. Eight, if you like your meat medium rare. Six, if you don’t want fries.”

“I definitely want fries.”

“I still can’t tell if you’re joking, but now I’m very hungry.”

“I never joke,” Finn said seriously.

“Oh.”

“That was a joke.”

“I don’t think I will ever understand you.”

“Let’s order the burgers,” he replied. “I don’t care for strawberries.”

“You don’t like squab or turnip or strawberries?” Brinley picked up her tablet and placed the order for two burgers and two sides of fries. She had made the request so many times she could still spare half her brain to store away this new information about her husband.

Her husband.

That was one fact she might never be able to absorb.

“No,” he said.

“What do you like?” She perched on the foot of the bed and rested the tablet beside her, hearing the tiny ping that confirmed the order had been received and was being processed.

Finn’s brows lifted, as though he had never been asked that before. And perhaps he hadn’t, if he was still being served squab and turnips and strawberries. “I like spaghetti,” he said finally. “With meatballs. And garlic bread.”

“Mmm,” Brinley agreed. “Garlic bread.”

Another twitch of the mouth. “And I really like hockey,” he added. “Everyone assumes I prefer lacrosse because it’s Lenora’s national sport, but I don’t care for it.”

“But you were team captain for three years!” she blurted out, wishing instantly that she could take it back because it revealed that she knew he had been team captain for three years.

Now he did smile, just a tiny one. “Yes, well, we didn’t have a hockey team. I had to do something.”

“Do you really like...” She racked her brain to recall the magazine articles she had read, articles that promised to tell a girl if she was the perfect match for Prince Finn and, if not, how to become such a girl. It was essentially a checklist of how to be Elle. “Black and white films?”

“I’ve seen a couple.”

“Astronomy?”

“I own a telescope.”

“Pandas?”

“Well, I posed for a photo with one when they visited the zoo, but I don’t have a particular affinity for the animal.”

“Huh.” Brinley strummed her fingers on her knee. “How about—”

“Let me ask you some questions,” Finn said before she could come up with another.

“Okay.”

“Did you really get a tattoo of Chinese characters that said I love noodles?”

“Er...” There had been a mix-up at the tattoo parlor. It was supposed to be an act of rebellion that said I love freedom, but something had gotten lost in the translation.

It had hurt like a bitch to have it removed.

“Is it true that the mullet haircut you had when you were sixteen was because you got a wad of gum stuck in your hair and not because you were trying to start a new trend?”

“I—”

“And did you really have an affair with your professor?”

Brinley could feel herself blushing bright red. Of course all the dreadful things the papers printed about her would have some foundation in truth. And of course he would know about them. Charles had probably texted him a list of facts about his new wife and scared the crap out of him.

“The tattoo has been removed; it wasn’t gum, it was tree sap; and he was a professor, he wasn’t my professor.”

Instead of looking horrified, Finn looked impressed. “Wow.”

Brinley startled. The standard reaction to those stories was exasperated resignation. “Wow?”

He studied his toes, then glanced up shyly. “I once had the biggest crush on my biology tutor. She wore a charm bracelet with a little bell that tinkled whenever she moved. I secreted away all the money I could until I had enough to sneak into town to buy her a new charm—a heart. My heart.” His cheeks were pink.

Brinley tried to imagine Finn buying a charm—or having a crush—and simply could not. “What did she say when you gave it to her?”

He shook his head, a tiny piece of hair breaking free of its perfect mold and falling across his forehead. “I never gave it to her.”

“Why not? Because you—” She cut herself off before she could say, “loved Elle Vida.”

“Because I was a coward.”

“How old were you?”

“Sixteen.”

“When you were sixteen you could already fly an airplane. The papers said it was the closest we could get to a modern day knight, ready to slay dragons. What could you possibly be afraid of?”

A knock at the door interrupted, and they both turned. “Come in,” Brinley called, nodding at the kitchen aide who entered with a small cart and two silver dome-covered plates. She stood so the dishes could be arranged on the trunk at the foot of the bed, where she normally ate when she was alone. The aide left and Brinley lifted one of the lids, the scent of warm meat and bread wafting out.

“Still hungry?” she asked, selecting a fry. When she looked at Finn she found him watching her with an inscrutable expression.

“Famished,” he replied.

Brinley patted the edge of the mattress and Finn stood, almost cautiously, then paused when the chilled bottle of champagne caught his eye. He raised a brow and Brinley nodded, and he scooped up the champagne and both glasses before crossing the room.

“I know you have a sword here somewhere,” he said, glancing pointedly at the sealed bottle. Brinley bit her lip and reached beneath the bed to retrieve one. Finn’s mouth quirked but he did not laugh as he sliced off the top with impressive finesse, then poured two foaming glasses.

The bed dipped as he sat on the far side of the trunk and they each took a glass, sharing an unspoken agreement to merely drink and not toast. They had toasted themselves into this mess in the first place.

“Maybe we should have ordered spaghetti,” Brinley said around a mouthful of fries.

Finn picked up his burger and paused, a prince at odds with his royal image, holding a burger and champagne, wearing wedding pants and a plain T-shirt. “No,” he said. “This is perfect.”