Dad is sitting hunched over a pile of papers with his advisors around him. When he sees me enter, he stops talking and rubs between his eyes.

"How's Mom?" I ask, sitting in the instantly vacated chair to his right.

"She's to take it easy but she can walk around and sleep in her room. I don't want her making public appearances. We're keeping her health quiet until she is ready to speak to it herself."

I nod, this seems wise. But wait, did he answer me?

"But Dad, how is she?" I ask again.

He lets a spark of irritation show in the twist of his lips before smoothing his face to its normal impassive position.

In a barely audible voice he says, "She's scared."

Assuaged, I lean back in my chair. Now that was a real answer, I want to say. Instead, I adopt my version of his impassive expression and tune into the discussion.

"We are limiting the details about the invasion, mostly for other countries who follow our broadcasts. People in Illea know too much, but we can try to stop the greater world from learning of our unrest, for now." His media relations advisor finishes summing up. I wish I could remember his name. I've never liked him. 

My stomach clenches. I resist apologizing, even though it feels like they're listing my faults. 

My maid betrays me. My suitors defect. My country protests my ascension.  

"Thank you," Dad says to the advisor. Then he turns to me and says loudly, "I issued warrants for your maid's arrest, along with the Selection boys who defected."

I nod again, now tears threaten to break free. I purse my lips and try to be stoic. They talk about the details of the security sweeps happening throughout the country to catch the culprits. Then they outline their strategy to infiltrate the black market to watch for our stolen possessions. With each update, my dad's face tightens and ages, right before my eyes.

Finally, he speaks. "My advisors recommend going back to life as usual, while we sort out the impetus of this attack and the issues that we can ameliorate to prevent future violence." Dad sounds hollow, like he is functioning on no sleep and zero emotions. I search the room for General Leger but he isn't here.

Dad and his advisors sum up more. I listen only halfway. Nothing will be normal again. Not for me.

After three hours of political debate about issues to address and change and how, I am feeling cross eyed and close to a tantrum. Not ideal future queen behavior. I wish I'd stayed with Kile. I wish I could be a normal teenager. I wish Ahren hadn't left me. I wish those seven minutes hadn't been so important.

"What was that?" Dad whispers into my ear.

I shake my head in confusion.

"You were mumbling something about minutes?" he asks. The meeting stops around us and everyone looks at me.

And that's the moment Dad notices my altered appearance.

"Eadlyn!" his finger almost points to my pants, which would be an egregious lapse in royal manners. Instead, his eyes widen. "Jeans," he sounds aghast.

Dad always wears dress pants, button up shirts during the work week, tie in the office and on TV, suit jacket at dinner and all functions. He's a cuff links kind of guy and I have always been his heel wearing, dressy little girl.

I wipe my sweaty palms on my thighs and feel grateful for the absorbent denim.

"Are you alright? I've never seen you without a tiara at a meeting," he says, in a more fatherly tone.

I do love tiaras.

Dad tugs at his collar, "Oh, I suppose they were taken. I'll have new ones made, our mines have had excellent yields and there is a jeweler we can—"

"Dad," I put my hand on his shoulder. "I'm beat. Let's adjourn."

Dad glances at the pile of papers in front of him and then at the gilded clock on the wall.

"We have a couple hours left, Eadlyn. You know how it goes. We don't stop until we finish."

I think about this statement while struggling to keep a cool smile on my face. We don't stop until we're finished? I might. I might stop when I'm deflated of energy and attention span. To me, that's wise. I won't sacrifice my health for stop-gap legislation. I wonder when I get to start saying how I want things. What I think.

Dad's face cracks into a bright smile. "You want to squeeze in some dates, don't you?" He turns and winks at Kerrick, a policy advisor who specializes in workforce regulations. I've never liked the guy, too upper crusty and humorless. The feeling only intensifies when he winks back at my father.

I clamp my mouth shut before I go off on my father, the King, for actually winking like a Good Ol' Boy about my freaking pathetic Selection. Which is his lackluster attempt to whore me out for the sake of buying a little thinking time.

I slowly uncurl my fingers from the tight fists I've balled them into. I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth. When Jocelyn gave me this advice, I internally rolled my eyes. Who is she? A tough guard who swears by meditation who happened to notice that I carry all of my tension in my shoulders and that deep breathing would help. The only person to ever acknowledge and try to ease my stress. 

I owe her. It's thanks to her I'm not screaming at my dad in front of all of my co-workers—who will be my future employees.

"That's cute, Eadlyn," Dad says, further blurring the line between business and personal. When did my life become public fodder? Oh, yeah. When I agreed to the Selection. That Dad recommended. When he is one of the only people who knows how it feels to be dating in a royal fishbowl.

"Excellent," he says with a broad smile. 

How does something that makes me miserable make him happy?

He looks to the men and women seated around the table. They are all his most trusted peers, and they are nodding their approval and murmuring things like even keel and status quo and distractionary.

I manage to mumble, "Excuse me," and basically run out of the room. That's my future in there, I think. My whole body shivers. But I do what they want. I find the Selection boys. Not only will my dating them distract the country of Illea, it will distract my confused heart as well.

I find the remaining Selection boys in the rec hall helping to repair this and that. Without thinking about it, I find myself standing next to Ean, who is lightly hammering a baseboard into place.

When he notices me, he stands up and blows a lock of caramel hair out of his eyes, and wipes his hands on his shirt.

"Eadlyn, Your Highness, I didn't see you come in," he smiles, and my body relaxes at the sight. He is so charismatic with his adorable dimple and shining eyes.

"I need a break," I say, and lean against the wall. "Keep working, don't mind me. I'm about to go on the dates I planned for today."

He fake pouts and huffs out a loud breath. "Oh, yes. The dates. It's not so great watching you with the competition."

"Why Ean," I say, batting my eyelashes and putting my hand to my chest. "Are you by chance jealous?"

"You know what? I am. I completely am." He smiles, and my breath hitches. I want to lean into him, press my cheek to his broad chest and listen to that strong heart beating steadily. Because I don't think his pulse is racing, but I do think he is being honest. We have a connection that is undeniable. An understanding that I have faith in, if not passion.

"Want me to teach you how to do this?" he asks.

I blink. "What, fix a floor?"

He chuckles. "Re-attach a baseboard."

He stands behind me and we kneel down in front of the wall. Crouched between his legs, with his front to my back is a weird position, but he quickly helps me hold the hammer correctly and fills my other hand with small nails.

"Hold this flush, see the predrilled holes?" From around me he places the long board tightly against the wall. I feel his warm breath against my neck and his solid biceps brush my arms as he moves. He seems comfortable being so close, and suddenly I feel a twinge of jealousy. How many girls has he held this close? How could I possibly ask him something like that? Ever?

"Line up your nail," he says, while helping me to do so. "Tap it, gently at first, and then firmly." He helps me, guiding my hand as I tap the nail. I hold my breath thinking I might smash the hammer head into the wood. But he helps me maintain control, and his words settle under my skin with an odd sensuality. I wonder if it is purposeful or my haywire hormones.

"A little putty and you're done. Then, paint. These are beautiful custom-made chestnut baseboards, a pleasure to work with." He pauses, and his hand lingers on mine despite our task being finished. I want to turn and see his eyes, look at his full lips, but I don't.

"I'm glad we can salvage most of the wood, except for the part that was directly kicked." He releases my hands. I awkwardly stand up and face him. He is staring at the baseboard with a rueful expression.

"Strong shoes," I comment, like a dummy. The thing is, my skin feels flushed and my lips so dry, I have to keep licking them. I might be seriously losing it.

"Steel-toed, no doubt. You're a quick learner. When you're done your dates, feel free to come back. We have the whole room to do." He gives me an easy smile.

"Don't be jealous," I blurt out.

"Really?" He quirks an eyebrow up at me.

I blush and duck my head. Why did I say that? How is it manageable to be dating so many guys at once and not be leading them all on a bit?

"Thanks for teaching me that," I try to hedge out of the wrought moment. "You never know when the Queen will have to be handy."

He smiles softly and yet his eyes look sad. "If I'm here, I'll always be willing to patch this place up. Consider that a bonus if you pick me."

My spirits plummet. How can I pick one and hurt everyone else?

"Thanks again," I whisper, and I go find the boy I promised a date.