That night, Victoria dreams.
It's strange because she knows she's asleep, but she also knows this could be reality. Each step takes her farther into the marble hallways of her home—the palace—back in Vertsea. Familiar oil paintings cling to the walls. Rich, red velvet curtains hang from the windows.
Victoria feels light. This is her home. Even though her parents have disowned her, this palace will always be her home.
She walks through the castle as though being pulled along by strings. They guide her into the nearest doorway. It's not one Victoria recognizes. That's a strange realization, but it also makes Victoria feel a little bit giddy.
Something new!
Something new she might be able to hold onto.
Except, it's not new. There are several gouges in the wood near the bottom, like an animal tried to get inside. The door opens up into Matt's apartment. The apartment isn't a complete wreck, but it's far from clean and far from nice. A window air-conditioning unit has been wedged into one of the windows, and pieces of wood have been duct taped up on either side to try to help keep the cold air in. Piles of dirty laundry have been sorted out next to the television stand.
Matt's standing in the middle of the room, nude save for his leather biker jacket. The patches are there, but they aren't legible. Victoria smiles, this wavering sort of thing. She says, “I missed you.”
He doesn't answer her. He just spreads his arms out to the side, fingers splayed.
“I missed you so much,” says Victoria, running forward and catching the man in a hug. Matt wraps his arms tight around her waist, hands splayed.
He's cold.
He's so cold it's almost unbearable.
Victoria presses her head against Matt's chest. She says, “I don't know what to do.”
He doesn't answer. His grip grows tight. Around her, she can feel the room wavering. There are people watching her. It's the most disconcerting feeling. Everyone is staring at her, judging her, and Victoria can't do anything but stand there.
Tears build up in her eyes, but they won't run out over her cheeks. A sob builds up in her lungs, but Victoria can't get it out.
And suddenly, it's not Matt that's holding her, it's Sir Harold. Victoria doesn't really know what he looks like. But here, in this moment, Sir Harold is a large man. He's tall and obese, with rolls of fat on his stomach and massive arms. The stench of pork rinds and nicotine clings to his skin, and there's something foul and fish-like about his breath.
The sob finally breaks free. Victoria tries to stumble backwards, but Sir Harold has her in a tight grip.
He doesn't talk.
He just stands there holding her. He just stands there looking at her. Sir Harold has many rings on his fingers. He's balding. His eyes are beady, and his lips too large and too chapped. He is, in essence, the worst part of every man Victoria has ever seen.
And in that moment, in that dream, she knows true fear. In that moment, in that dream, she knows this can never come to pass.
“No,” she wails. “No, no, no! I won't do this! I won't marry you!”
Finally, Sir Harold opens his mouth. It's not a male voice that comes out, though. It's the voice of Queen Gabriella herself. “You will. You must. We cannot have an unwed whore in office. We cannot have a slut like you going about, sleeping with every garden boy, pool boy, or scullery maid!”
Victoria screams. She slams her fists against Sir Harold's chest. She pounds on him, kicks at him, and wails until her throat is hoarse.
When she wakes up, she's still screaming. The television is still turned on, playing a movie she doesn't recognize. Her dress is soaked with sweat, and the remnants of the nightmare still cling to her skin.
She gets up, running to the bathroom. Her legs are shaking. Her hands are unsteady when she rips off her dress and jumps in the shower. It's almost three in the morning and Victoria has never hated the thought of going home more than she does right now, more than she does right in this very moment.
The young princess turns the hot water on full blast. It makes her pale skin burn. Golden hair tangles around her neck, twists around her jaw. It clings to her skin just like Sir Harold's hands had, and she can almost smell the pork rinds.
“I hate this,” she sobs. “I hate this so much.”