It was Penelope’s wedding day, and by the time she got to the doors of the abbey, she honestly had no idea how it would end. Either she was going to walk down that aisle and marry Simon Stuart, or she was going to trip over her train yet again—Danovian clogs were neither funky nor chic, but a hazard in shoe form—face-plant in front of an entire church full of nobility, and then run until her legs couldn’t carry her any further.

She tried to take a deep breath but could only manage a shallow gasp. It was partly due to her panic, but also to the way-too-tight corset that was smothering her beneath her wedding gown. The dress itself was far too revealing, with a slit that reached nearly her mid-thigh and lacy fabric that hugged her curves. She might as well be naked. The palace’s PR department hadn’t even let her wear her favorite red lipstick, saying it was too much for a queen, and had limited the number of bangles she could wear because they thought she played with them too much. The only thing that felt just right was the ring from Simon’s family. It had finally been resized, and now sat snugly on her finger like it was meant to be there.

Simon himself felt like he fit, too. They’d done more research together over the last few weeks in preparation for the wedding today and the coronation in a few months, and it had brought back fond memories of her years of studying for her college degree. She was surprised to remember she actually loved research, especially the parts where they could brainstorm how they might change things once Pen was on the throne.

“Okay, let’s get a few more quick mother-daughter pictures in front of the doors,” called the photographer, snapping Pen out of her reverie. She kicked her train out of the way and pivoted, her mother swooping in to hover over her for some action shots.

“Mom, the dress is fine,” Pen said through her forced smile as the woman checked that her sleeves were staying straight and smooth for the hundredth time. Her mother murmured assent but merely moved on to fiddle with Pen’s earrings.

“Make sure you don’t stick your chest out, dear, you want to look regal and not like a slut.” Several more bits of rapid-fire Mom advice—aka passive-aggressive criticism—followed, each one undermining Pen’s confidence a bit more. Her mother had made no secret of her ambitions while Pen was growing up, and now that her only child was actually inheriting the throne she’d reached some scary new level of overinvolved. She finished today’s quiet rant with: “Just don’t make the same mistakes you made in middle school, and you’ll be fine.”

Middle school. Why did she have to bring that up? When Pen was twelve she’d decided to run for Prime Minister. The election had been the work of a well-meaning teacher, but it set off a cut-throat political battle amongst the well-to-do and upwardly mobile parents in the private Country Day School. Penelope’s mother badly wanted to win, but her obsessive coaching had the opposite effect on Debate Day when Pen froze and blurted out the first answers that came to her mind. She lost the election to her mother’s eternal dismay, but gained a reputation for being a quirky and endearing lightweight that had served her well through the years.

But all the quirk in the world wouldn’t help her today. She stood before the massive, intricately decorated doors of Eastman Abbey as just another citizen of Escona, but by the end of the day, she’d be married and Queen.

She tried not to hyperventilate.

The wedding planner approached. “Okay, thirty seconds til the walk down the aisle!” the woman chirped.

Pen clutched her bouquet, a mixture of Esconian roses and Danovian dahlias, and squared her shoulders. Time to buck up, buttercup. She’d decided this was what she wanted and she was going through with it. And an added bonus would be that after her coronation, she could gift her mother with a nice holding in the country, far, far away from Penelope. But even with that tantalizing thought, Pen’s knees were still shaking as the vast doors opened in front of her. She scanned the sea of nobility—all of whom were staring at her, measuring her up against their expectations—along with the cameras that were broadcasting to millions of viewers via the Royal Livestream, and found Simon. He stood at the front of the church, next to the priest, clothed in the dress uniform he’d proposed in. His expression was serious but his eyes crinkled the tiniest bit when her gaze found his, and that familiar almost-smile gave her strength. Today, she was marrying Simon. She would focus only on that.

She marched down the aisle by herself, handed off her bouquet, and took Simon’s hands. He squeezed her fingers lightly. His eyes shone and his almost-smile grew into a real one, small but undeniably there. He was excited about today. The thought eased the butterflies in her stomach a bit more, and she squeezed his hands back, surprised to find that beneath the nerves she was actually a little excited too.

She kept focusing on Simon while the priest rattled on about duty and love and God. When they finally got to read their vows, they felt right—strong and personal. Simon vowed to never stop supporting her in all she chose to do, and Penelope promised to build a home with him.

Then the priest said “You may now kiss the bride,” and every last one of the butterflies in Penelope’s stomach did a backflip. She’d forgotten about this part. Why hadn’t they practiced for it? Why did their first kiss ever have to be in front of millions of people? It was okay, it would be fine, it was just a kiss. It wasn’t like she hadn’t done it before with other guys.

But not with Simon. Somehow, he was different. She wanted this kiss to mean more, and her wanting made the stakes feel higher, which made her more nervous than ever.

She took a step forward to close the distance between them—and stumbled over her damn clogs yet again. Simon saved the day, his hands slipping around her waist to catch and lift her easily, his face tilting down to meet hers so it looked like a more-passionate-than-expected kiss rather than a stumble.

And then his lips met hers and she was no longer thinking about anything except the fact that she was kissing her new husband, and she never wanted to stop kissing her new husband. Her lips parted in surprise and delight as his mouth angled a bit deeper, sweeping gently over her lips, passionate and thorough. His light stubble felt rough and perfect against her cheek and she lifted a hand to brush her fingers against it. Up close, he smelled like cedar and old books. She took a deep breath, filling her senses with him, and her eyes slipped closed as his lips lingered on hers.

The audience erupted in applause—and, if she wasn’t hearing things, a wolf whistle or two. Pen pulled back, flushed and smiling stupidly. Simon blinked a few extra times himself, looking dazed for a second before setting her back on her feet.

Time to walk back down the aisle. She took a step and nearly tripped over her train again and, in a fit of vastly satisfying pettiness, kicked off her clogs. She would be a barefoot bride after all. She marched down the aisle, arm in arm with Simon, head held high as the members of the nobility smiled at the new couple.

She’d done it. She was officially married, and after the smaller ceremony later today, she’d be royalty too. And for the first time, with Simon at her side, everything about both those things felt completely right.