Peach

Late Saturday morning, I’m thinking I should’ve taken the easy way out.

I’m due to walk down the aisle in thirty minutes, there’s a hairdresser going to battle with my locks as if the fate of the free world depends on her spraying and arranging each strand individually in place, and the dressmaker is trying to shoehorn me into the white lace monstrosity that can probably be seen from the space station.

Joey quit laughing once I made her change into her matron of honor dress, but she’s still snickering occasionally.

Because even she recognizes that Scarlett O’Hara meets the Queen of Hearts is not my style.

Do I mind dresses?

No.

But this isn’t merely a dress.

It’s what would happen if Zeus and his twin brother went into the fashion industry with a toddler hyped up on cotton candy. More lace! More buttons! More cowbell!

“I think it’s sweet that you’re wearing a dress that’ll be talked about for centuries,” Gracie said. “Look at all the good you’re doing for Viktor’s country.”

I try—and fail—to keep a ridiculously goofy smile from crossing my lips.

My makeup artist shrieks in dismay and attacks my face with a powder-covered brush, then zeroes in on my lips.

Getting married to Viktor today feels weirdly right. Of all the men I’ve ever met, he’s the only one who hasn’t pushed me into anything I haven’t volunteered for from the start.

He’s let me take the lead. He’s backed me even when I’ve been irrational. And he’s been so freaking good with Papaya too.

I frown.

My makeup artist shrieks again.

“Where’s Papaya?” I ask.

“She’s right—not there,” Gracie says.

Meemaw looks up from her phone in the corner of the room. “She went to see Viktor,” she tells us.

“She did just join the king, Your Majesty,” Leonie tells me as she pops into the bride’s dressing room.

Which is literally what this ivory-papered room is called.

The bride’s dressing room.

It says so on the plaque outside.

“Is she okay?” I ask. Things have been a little wild this morning, and I’m worried she’ll use the excuse to plant a cherry bomb in the wedding cake or something.

“Oh, yes, Your Majesty,” Leonie says happily.

“Really okay, or pretending to be okay so you’d tell me she was okay?”

“Your Majesty, I promise, she is happy as a lark.”

Joey stands stiffly. She’s a total knockout, but seeing her in heels—even short heels—and a skirt is just weird. “I’ll go get her.”

“Thank you.” I blow her a kiss, and I let the makeup dictator back at my face.

Twenty minutes later, there are butterflies in my stomach and no Joey or Papaya.

No Leonie either.

I dig my phone out of the bags of crap scattered all over the room and text Viktor, asking if he’s ready.

No answer.

And we’re still on different networks, so there are no bubbles telling me he’s texting back, no delivered or read message floating at the bottom.

I’m considering panicking—or possibly just slipping out the back door when no one’s watching, because there aren’t a million cameras outside just waiting for a glimpse of the bride or anything, except there actually are—when the door flings open.

Joey strides in with Zeus on her heels. “I can’t find them.”

“You what?”

“Something in the air at these royal weddings,” Zeus mutters.

Joey pokes him. “Shush. Not helping.” She turns back to me. “Manning said Viktor stepped out to talk to Papaya in the hallway half an hour ago, and no one’s seen him since.”

“They’re just gone?”

The door opens again, and Leonie peeks in. “Oops! Sorry, Your Majesty, got confused. I thought—”

“Where’s Viktor?”

Her eyes go wide for a split second. “In the toilet, I’m sure,” she says. “I’ll just go check there.”

She disappears, and I dial Papaya’s number.

It rings in her bag across the room.

And the realization that she’s sabotaging the wedding hits me like a blow to the chest. She’s going to make it look like Viktor stood me up.

So we can go back to Alabama, back to Brantley, back to where she knows the language and can sneak out to hotwire tractors.

Viktor has a country to run. And he’s good for Amoria.

He’s good at everything he does.

But continually having to police Papaya, to clean up her messes, to answer for her mischief will just drag him down.

He offered me an out yesterday, and I didn’t take it.

Now I’m wondering if I should’ve.

For all our sakes.

I cross the room and dig out her phone, thumb in the password, and scan her missed calls and text messages.

She knows I go through her phone. It was a condition of her having it. Joey, Gracie, and Meemaw watch over my shoulder.

Everything’s in German. I can’t read a word. Except I can read emojis.

And the emojis tell a terrible story that I desperately hope I’m misunderstanding.