Viktor

By Sunday morning, the only evidence that Peach was ever in residence is her soiled wedding dress hanging in the closet and the two boxes left to be shipped back to America that her secretary was packing when I entered the bedroom.

Joey and Zeus have also gone, as have Papaya and Meemaw, naturally, but Gracie and Manning remained, along with Queen Sylvie and Prince Colden of Stölland.

Even Gracie is subdued over the formal breakfast, which is cold oats with heart-shaped burnt toast and mushy tomatoes. “She’s just scared,” she informs me.

Which is not new news.

Nor does it make the ache in my chest subside.

I’m quite unaccustomed to needing anyone else. I’ve always taken satisfaction in doing my duties well and faithfully, and I’ve seen enough of the world to know that my standards are not always the standards others hold themselves to.

Which is why I was quite good at my job as a bodyguard, and why I’m striving to be the best king I might be.

Yet I expect Peach to hold herself to my standards.

To duty. To loyalty. To honesty.

Because I know she has it within herself.

Except when it comes to her feelings for me.

Or perhaps any man, as to her, I’m no better than the lot who have hurt her.

Eva laughs at something Colden has said, which surprises me not at all, as the two attended school together and were quite good friends. “Eva,” I ask her, “would you wish to be queen?”

She laughs again, though this time with far more derision than her previous laugh. “No, thank you.”

I look to my brother, who’s so deep in discussion with Queen Sylvie and Mum that he hasn’t noticed my question to Eva at all.

They’re on the topic of the monarchy’s responsibility to those who would wish to eliminate it—as the now former Duke of Prievia has been attempting to inspire since Parliament’s inquiry turned up evidence of assault and battery and nearly unanimously voted to approve stripping his title.

I’ve not made a single decision in these past months that has not been approved or suggested by Alexander. He’s written speeches for me. Advised which causes to take up, and which to subtly delegate to interested members of the aristocracy.

He should have been king.

I stand quite abruptly and stride from the dining room, placing a call directly to the Prime Minister as I go.

Thirty minutes later, he arrives at my office.

“Your Majesty,” he says in German with a smart bow. “My…condolences on your…adventure yesterday.”

I’m aware the news wires worldwide have picked up the story—in all its iterations—and run it across all corners of the globe. Some favorably, some not. All detailing quite correctly that the grand wedding of the new king of Amoria was disrupted by a hot air balloon.

Much like my life was interrupted a few months ago.

“Amoria claims to be the country of love, no?” I inquire.

“That is correct, Your Majesty.”

I nod. “You have thirty-six hours to make the laws live up to the title, or you’ll be without a monarch.”