dedicated to freezingInHell for the wonderful covers she made!!

also, another mild retcon: the blackwell corps. are now: the blackwell guard

* * *

The taste of champagne and sugar was still on my lips.

Reluctantly, my eyelids fluttered open, and immediately I winced at the bright sunshine streaming through my bedroom's gauzy white curtains. My forearm came up to rest over my brows, providing a brief but much needed reprieve in the shadow it provided.

My other hand smacked around my bedside table until it finally gripped my phone. The time flashed on the screen: ten a.m.

This is a first.

The entire Sparrow clan were, unfortunately, early birds. Talk about nominative determinism. Even extended family couldn't escape the habit, though Elijah's morning routine was largely due to the standard operating hours of a coffee shop. As for me, my circadian rhythm had been Pavloved since I was ten, courtesy of my mother, who would spritz me with a plant mister if I wasn't up by seven-thirty.

A lady rises with the sun and retires with the moon, she'd say -- or something equivalently stupid.

And yet, even Giselle Sparrow herself couldn't resist the comfort of sleep on a Sunday morning after a party.

I wondered if Logan was still asleep.

Without thinking much about it, my fingers moved to my lips, hovering, afraid to move them too close lest they'd brush away the remnants of sugar I swore was still on my skin.

Knowing him, Logan was most definitely awake. He was always one of the earliest students to arrive at the academy. It made retaliation against him very difficult. How was one supposed to swap out a set of textbooks in a locker for older editions if the owner was always there before you?

It took a whole month of training myself to wake up earlier and earlier by increments of fifteen minutes to finally board a bus that got me to the academy first. Ah, but the look of utter confusion on Logan's face when he'd been asked to read a passage from his English textbook that no longer carried the assigned text made it worth it -- and how red he'd gotten when he had to tell the professor he wasn't prepared.

The smile I hadn't realized was spreading on my face from the memory faltered.

We never really were friends in the first place. 

So what does that make us now?

All I asked for was our friendship back. But now the taste of his champagne was haunting me, reminding me that he hadn't given me our friendship back. In fact, he completely altered it. And I had let him.

Park.

And here comes my common sense to yell at me.

Park!

Yes, yes, I know. I should've moved back. Or pushed him off. But in my defense, I hadn't even realize how close he'd gotten. Or how the conversation had gotten entirely out of hand.

I have no objectivity when it comes to you.

"Park!"

The door burst open, and tumbling through was Jasper, clutching his heart as though he'd just finished a marathon.

"You know," I grumbled, my muscles aching as I sat up, "if you yell like that, Mother will think you've been shot--"

"Get up!" Jasper panted, frantically stuffing his dress shirt into his slacks. Wait, slacks? Did my family start going to church on Sundays?

"Grandmother's here!" 

Huh. Well, fuck.

I nearly tore my Achilles' heel ripping myself out of bed to stumble towards the bathroom, my fingers combing through my hair to undo the bobby pins I'd fallen asleep in so that my curls could fall down. Jasper turned on his feet and began charging through the halls, riling up the palace's inhabitants like a young Paul Revere.

What is she doing back already? I thought, vigorously brushing my teeth. Thank God I at least had the sense to wash my makeup off last night or else I'd be sporting a very Avril-Lavigne-circa-2001 look -- a look that had gotten eyeliner banned from my vanity when I turned thirteen. Last I heard, the queen had been projected to come back later this week.

A rather amateur move on her part, returning so promptly after missing a noble wedding. The Whitepines were no doubt already circulating rumors that she'd avoided the wedding on purpose.

I stiffened. She wouldn't risk rumors unless it was for something important. Nor was the queen sentimental, so she couldn't possibly be back early for something as stupid as missing your family. No, her return had to be for business or politics.

Like an engagement . . . 

No. I shut that train of thought down. Timing wise, it didn't make sense. Her return was much too sudden, considering how Abigail and my father spoke a little less than twelve hours ago. It took at least forty-eight hours to prepare for the queen's arrival.

The better theory arrived as I was straightening a pair of sheer tights over my legs. Darkwood stood in my doorway with half of his hair sticking up, yawning mid-stretch.

Of course. She was back for Darkwood. She had to be.

"Which one screams, 'I'm sorry for kidnapping your grandchildren, it won't happen again'? This one?" And he held up the CSD sweater given to him the day we met. "Or this one?" He put forth another sweater (albeit logo free), graciously donated to him by Logan.

"You don't have anything else?"

"No, Logan's room is locked so I can't borrow anything."

"Well, neither is apologetic enough, but the black sweater with a dress shirt underneath should get you close enough."

Darkwood tipped his head as a thank-you before strolling away, leaving me to finish getting dressed. I chose a pair of black heels to match with the black tweed two-piece I was wearing, then tamed my curls into a ponytail, securing the strands with an ivory ribbon to match the pearl buttons on my outfit. With no time left for makeup, I headed downstairs, pinching my face on the way to add some last-minute color to my cheeks.

My mother and Jasper were ready at the base of the steps. Jasper had thrown on an oversized argyle vest over his shirt, the fabric not fully tucked into the waistband of his pants, his glasses askew on his nose. My mother, in contrast, seemed as though she'd had hours to get ready, with  nary a hair out of place, her sheath dress looking freshly steamed even. Her fingers lazily combed through Jasper's head, trying (but failing) to flatten the chocolate chaos that was his hair. It was only upon standing next to her that I caught the tell-tale sign of a late morning lie-in in the puffiness of her undereye bags.

It didn't take long for Darkwood to join; skipping the last step, he bowed to my mother before standing to my left. There was no saving the black nest atop his head, and an unpleasant combination of alcohol and cigarette smoke wafted off his body.

"Are we a welcoming party or are we in mourning?" he whispered, observing everyone's black ensemble.

"She loves it when the family is color-coordinated. And black is a color everyone, even hitmen, have." I patted his arm. Normally, my mother would have a dress code prepared a week in advance, but for unannounced returns like this, black was the family-voted default color.

The minutes passed on by. Jasper's posture slipped into a slouch. Darkwood dared to yawn, multiple times, and even my mother began fidgeting in her stance, a soft sigh escaping her now and then. And yet, still no sign of the queen.

"Were you fucking with us?" I asked Jasper after what felt like twenty minutes passed.

"No, I saw Uncle--" Jasper's face contorted as he caught himself. "I saw Father running down the stairs with his uniform on; he only ever does that to escort the queen, you know that."

That bastard had a head start to get into his military gear and didn't even bother to warn us.

Suddenly, the palace doors swung open. Everyone straightened. The foyer became flooded with more sunlight and a fresh breeze brought in the scent of summer roses. The two royal guards that opened the doors saluted and bowed before stepping back, revealing the captain of the guard, who, with a fist to his heart, announced, "Her Majesty, Queen Eliza the Third, has arrived!"

The steady click of three-inch heels resounded around us, steady and foreboding like the ticking of a time bomb. As the crown of her dark hair peeked over the top of the palace steps, Jasper bowed deeply, angling his chest at a perfect ninety-degrees, a stance Darkwood swiftly copied.

The queen crossed the threshold of the palace, my father to her left, whose military medals gleamed against the black fabric of his jacket. But to my complete surprise, Logan flanked her right, trailing a few inches behind, dressed in the same suit he'd worn when we'd landed in Cimeria.

Too late, I remembered I was supposed to curtsy. Panicking, I slipped into the most off-balance curtsy known to mankind. Too much pressure on the wrong leg caused my body to wobble, but I stayed in place, my head bowed down until those black heels stopped clicking.

"So this is the infamous Alexander Darkwood."

Straight to business, as usual.

While the queen had yet to give a cue to rise, I followed my mother's example and straightened my legs, watching Queen Eliza survey the boy before her, a singular brow arched high in judgment.

Over the past three years away, I saw my grandmother the most -- on television. She hadn't changed much, but it seemed the cameras had been covering up the amount of silver that now streaked through her dark hair, the colors twisting together into the tight, signature chignon she always wore. She seemed thinner too, her cheeks hollower -- her weakening figure unhelpfully exaggerated by the black coat and dress she wore. 

We really did look like we were going to a funeral.

Probably Darkwood's.

"Your Majesty." I had to give credit to Darkwood; his voice was a lot more composed than I expected. Most people squeaked when they met the queen.

Several seconds lapsed by in silence as my grandmother continued to appraise him. If you asked me, she stopped emoting properly about five years ago, so there was no chance of gleaning any of her thoughts from her face. Rage, despair, pity, amusement, or intrigue -- they were expressed by the same arched brow every time.

It made her an excellent poker player.

"Come," she finally said. "Let me fill you in on how I assassinated your family apparently three years ago."

Darkwood straightened. "Now?" His short laugh was punctuated with chagrin. "I don't think you want to be near me. I smell really bad."

"Oh? You're not in a hurry to hear the truth that you so desperately committed high treason for?"

He gulped. "Ah, you see, after having some time to reflect, I may have been wrong in that assumption."

"I see." She paused, then said, "So this was all a mistake."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"You broke into my home, stole from me, and kidnapped my heirs because of a mistake."

"Y-yes."

"And because it was all a silly mistake, you believe you deserve a pardon for your actions?"

Question by question, Darkwood's bravado was chipped away until his head hung low, his body starting to curl in on itself. "No, Your Majesty."

The queen lifted her chin, a hostile distaste gleaming in her eyes. "Excellent. Now that we've cleared that up--"

"Grandmother."

She held her palm up in my direction, silencing me -- but I hadn't spoken. Realizing the disconnect between her assumption and reality, she jerked her head at the culprit: Jasper.

"You're being cruel."

My mother grabbed Jasper's shoulder, trying to pull him back but he shrugged her off, stepping forward, fists at his side, gaze resolute.

"I'm being cruel?" my grandmother repeated. "Jasper, he kidnapped you--"

"Yes, I'm aware. But he didn't hurt me. I mean," and Jasper's courage ebbed, "if you want to get into semantics, then technically yes, he did since he's the one who found me at the museum, thereby putting me in the situation where I was hurt. Physically, though, he never laid a hand on me. As in actual blows, I mean, because he did grab me and pull me into the passageway--"

My father coughed loudly, cutting through Jasper's rambling. Jasper started, fumbling his words at the interruption. But his tenacity had him squaring his shoulders once more, taking in a deep breath, and pushing on.

"I'm trying to tell you that he's not a bad person. At least, I don't think he is. I heard him multiple times to tell the other men to leave me alone. And Park said that his last act was to protect us. I really think that should count for something."

I could hear his ribs rattle as he exhaled. My grandmother observed him coolly.

"And what do you think his actions should count for?" she finally asked.

He held her gaze the entire time, not daring to look down. Then, in a voice clearer and more resolute than I'd ever heard it sound before, Jasper answered ,"A chance."

Well, look at that. Jasper finally got her to emote again. And with the most difficult feeling of all (in her case): admiration.

"Very well then." She said the words slowly, as if she was tasting the idea of redemption as she spoke it aloud. "Alexander, would you care to discuss with me what you would like to do with this chance?"

Darkwood's head snapped up, his jaw falling open in disbelief. Not giving him time to answer, my grandmother marched past us, heading straight for her office in the north wing. Darkwood lingered, and I nudged him with my elbow.

"Try crying like you did with me, it might help your case."

"Couldn't have told me that before I got slaughtered out here?" he said with only just a bit of bite. Then, Darkwood turned to Jasper.

The two hadn't interacted at all since the incident, what with there being no chance to talk and my mother hovering around Jasper like a hawk. It was all for the best -- nothing hinders recovery quite like forcing a confrontation with your kidnapper. 

With a hand to his heart, Darkwood tilted his head down. "Thank you."

Flushing a bright red, Jasper's smile was sheepish as he muttered a quiet "don't mention it," a hand coming up to rub the back of his neck.

There was an awkwardness in the air following their exchange, Darkwood's mouth opening and closing in his struggle to convey his next thoughts. Finally, deciding against saying anything, Darkwood departed, breaking into a jog to catch up with the distance my grandmother had put between them.

My father stepped forward, clasping Jasper's shoulder, his smile echoing the same pride found in my grandmother's. "Don't worry. I'll make his case for him."

He motioned for Logan to follow him with a jerk of his head. Confused, I watched the two of them go, with Logan briefly acknowledging my gaze with the smallest tip of his head as our only interaction before he was gone too. I felt a sting in my chest at his detached greeting. Had I just dreamed of last night?

With a full house, my mother decided the best course of action was to find the chef, who'd not been scheduled until lunchtime. Ignited by her love of hosting, she set off towards the kitchens in the east wing, no doubt an elaborate brunch menu already planned in her mind. I lingered behind, unable to help myself from watching Logan's retreating figure when Jasper knocked his shoulder against mine. In doing so, a pained hiss escaped him, his hand coming up to clutch his upper arm tightly.

I jumped back immediately. "Do you need to sit down?"

Jasper shook his head. "No, no. If Mother notices, I'll be back on bedrest." He eyed our mother's shrinking figure warily. "I'm not even supposed to be out of my room right now but I think she's too distracted by Grandmother to remember."

Nevertheless, I kept my pace slow as the two of us set off down the halls. Jasper noticed the distance I was trying to keep and he pushed against my side (though much more gingerly this time around), gesturing to show that he wasn't hurt. With our proximity, I was able to notice the black and purple discoloration around his eyes, and the split in his lips, all hastily covered up with concealer.

"You didn't have to do that, you know," I said after a few minutes. "You don't have to forgive him."

Jasper nodded, a slow movement that conveyed contemplation rather than agreement. "It just  . . . felt like the right thing to do in the moment."

"And why did it feel that way?"

My brother looked at me then, the same sheepish smile from earlier back on his face.

"You vouched for him. And I trust you more than anything. If you think he deserves a second chance, then so do I."

And suddenly we were ten and seven again, and I was the only one he believed when I said there weren't any monsters under his bed.

By the time we reached the small dining room, the thick aroma of freshly baked muffins, omelets, and honey-glazed bacon already filled the halls. My mother stood at the front of the room directing the staff on seating arrangements, taking extra care to set the cutlery for the head of the table herself. Freshly squeezed juice accompanied each table setting. Jasper took the seat next to mine and immediately grabbed a slice of rye bread to spread butter onto.

"Mother," I called out once the long table was decked out with food, "you've straightened that fork twenty times now."

Pouting, she tidied the fork one last time before reluctantly settling into a seat across from us.

"This is the least prepared I've ever been hosting Eliza's return," she sniffed, taking a large swig of her mimosa.

"And how dare you, even though this entire family had absolutely no warning that she'd be flying in this very morning?" I drank my juice. "Very irresponsible of you, Mother."

She remained unamused. "A lady must always be prepared to host, Park. You would do well to internalize that."

Jasper snorted. "It's not like Park will ever have to worry about throwing parties, what with being the crown princess and all. Always the guest of honor, never the host."

"If the gods are kind to us, then Park won't be queen for many, many years," she said. "In the meantime, she'll have to host plenty of people and events. Charities, galas, state dinners. Even the smallest of events, like a tea party or an engagement dinner, are riddled with politics. In our world, the slightest negligence to detail can affect international affairs."

"Unless cultural offenses are being committed, I think being sooo rigid about hosting etiquette says more about the quality of the leader than the importance of etiquette itself," I retorted, to which my mother merely rolled her eyes.

"Maybe you'll luck out like Father and get a partner that cares just as much about etiquette as our mother does,." Jasper popped a slice of bacon into his mouth and grinned. "I can think of a few contenders already."

I threatened to elbow him, to which he promptly flinched away and turned on the I-was-recently-kidnapped-please-don't hurt-me eyes. It worked -- but then I saw the way my mother sat up in her seat, blue eyes sparkling with curiosity, and wished I hit him anyway.

"Contenders? Who?" She looked to me. "Did any of them attend the wedding?"

Jasper opened his mouth, but one glare from me had him shutting his jaw at once and scooting several inches away to avoid another rib being cracked. "There aren't any contenders, thank you very much," I said. "And especially not from the wedding."

"Aw, why not?" the idiot couldn't help but ask.

"Peter Kingsley nearly ripped my arm off thanks to your stupid study guide."

"You can't prove it was me--"

"A study guide?" my mother repeated. Jasper's poorly concealed grin was tantamount to a confession.

"Yes, Gossip Girl here thought it would be hilarious to circulate a cheat sheet on 'How to Seduce Park Sparrow.' With wrong answers."

"How many of them actually recited sonnets to you?" he asked.

"Jasper, this is not a matter to play around with." My mother's eyes shot daggers as she spoke. "These interactions are crucial for Park in building a foundation with her potential partner."

"I'm not even eighteen yet. It's a little early to be sizing up my future husband, isn't it?" A conversation in the dark lingered at the edge of my thoughts. I took a large gulp of my juice to calm down.

"Time is not a luxury afforded to people in our stations, and especially not to you. You've lost out on three years at court; now, you must make the most of every meeting. Had you properly acquainted yourself with the young men of the court, you may have identified the one you'd like to escort you to your debutante ball and continue to foster a relationship from there. Instead, these encounters are now insincere."

"Oh, come on, then I must have cleared up Park's precious schedule somehow. Now instead of weeding through a dozen guys, she knows exactly who's worthy of her time: the ones who bothered to get to know her despite there being a ready sheet of, ahem, facts."

The corner of my mother's lips quirked upwards. Turning to me, she asked, "So? Did any of the guests pass Jasper's ingenious litmus test?"

"As I said earlier, no. No one at the wedding caught my interest."

"Not even Vincent?"

First Logan, now my mother. "Here's a crazy idea." Why don't you guys date him if you think he's so great?  "How about we stop talking about my future husband and let me decide on that when the time comes in, I don't know, seven or so years?" 

She threw her hands up in surrender, though her expression remained contemplative. "Still, we need to pick an escort for the debutante ball at the very least." Then she brightened considerably. "Logan can accompany you, no? He's an excellent dancer and a bodyguard."

"Hold on." This is not what I wanted from this conversation at all. In fact, I didn't even want to have this talk in the first place. "It's my partner. I get to decide."

"That's what you were supposed to do last night. How will you decide now since you'll be flying off to the states and won't see these boys for months?" She smiled, satisfied with herself. "At least you know Logan."

Thankfully, the arrival of a fourth addition to our party stopped all discussion of potential suitors. Darkwood floated into the dining hall, his gaze landing on me. He was alone.

"Where's Logan?" I asked, sitting up. Fuck. That was the wrong question to ask in this situation. I should've asked Darkwood if he'd been sentenced to death.

Thankfully, no one else seemed to notice my misplaced priorities, save for Darkwood, who looked miffed at me failing to ask after his wellbeing.

Did he actually get the death penalty?

"He's still with the queen. Speaking of -- you've been summoned."

And suddenly, all I wanted to do was sit here and talk about future husbands.

Despite my efforts to remind myself that I was most likely being summoned to be yelled at, a part of me couldn't help but theorize of worse reasons. My father was still in the queen's office. What if he was telling her of Abigail's proposal right at this very second?

They wouldn't talk about that in front of Logan, I reassured myself as I followed Darkwood into the halls. She came back for Darkwood. Stop freaking out about this.

Speaking of Darkwood -- I snuck a look at him. Devoid of his usual nonchalance, he was disturbingly subdued, a lack of direction in his pensive gaze.

"So . . . what's the verdict?" I tipped my head. "Thirty years in prison?"

"Would you visit me?"

"No."

His pale lips twitched. "Well, how lucky for me then that it's not prison."

I almost tripped. "You were pardoned?" I guess, unable to help the incredulity in my voice. "How hard did you cry?"

Darkwood shook his head. "Jury's still out."

"Until when?"

He frowned. "I'm not sure. She didn't say much at all actually. After we got to her office, she kind of just . . . sat there, reading paperwork. Eventually she asked me to recount what happened to me after the fire. Afterwards, she just stared at me for a really long time." His hand came up to rub the back of his neck. "In the end, all she really said to me was, 'Show me what my granddaughter saw in you and I will consider a pardon then.'"

The queen had taken Jasper's request quite literally. "That's good," I said slowly. "Really good." Hell, even I had quietly anticipated indefinite house arrest. "That means you've got a chance."

We were halfway down the east wing when Darkwood abruptly veered off course. He stopped by one of the grand arched windows and leaned forward, his head almost slamming against the glass.

"A chance to do what?" he asked, staring off at the vast grounds of the palace. I lingered a few inches behind, watching his bent figure with my arms crossed. After several long minutes, Darkwood turned his head to the side and over his shoulder, he asked, "What did you see in me?"

Desperation, I thought first, recalling the crazed rage pulsing through him when he hit me. Homesickness. Anguish. And finally, the steel of his eyes when he turned the gun on his crew.

"I saw something good."

Darkwood scoffed. "How am I going to recreate that? I don't suppose you're willing to put yourself in danger so I can kill your assassins again. Preferably in front of your grandmother this time."

I cocked a brow. "This is a lot of attitude from someone who just narrowly avoided prison."

That at least caused shame to color his face. He turned back to the window, his breath fogging up the glass. "I'll do whatever it takes if someone will just tell me. But 'being good' is incredibly vague. What would be good enough?"

"There's no checklist for being a good person, Darkwood." I moved up a step so that we stood side by side. "You don't get to pet puppies and donate money and call it a day. But you can start by showing people the kind of person you would've been. That your actions were a product of your environment and not who you inherently are."

Darkwood had nothing to say to that. The two of us idled in silence, the sunlight warming our faces. I was content to let time waste away, philosophizing about ethics and prolong my meeting with my grandmother for as long as possible. Can I interest you with a word about Immanuel Kant? I thought when suddenly, Darkwood spoke.

"Maybe I'll take the young Lord Blackwell up on those etiquette lessons then."

"What are you talking about--"

Darkwood was now smirking, his melancholy having morphed into curiosity. Following his gaze out the window, my irritation gave way to horror at the sight of a black town car parked by the fountain, sporting two flags with different crests on its hood: the royal crest and the Blackwell emblem.

No. No, no, no, no--

"Now what are they doing here this fine Sunday morning?" Darkwood looked down at my clamped fists.

Three figures stepped out of the car. Vincent held his hand out for his mother to grasp, and the Blackwell clan started up the palace steps.

Shit. They were headed inside. Headed to my grandmother's office, no doubt, of which there was only one way to enter. I gripped Darkwood's wrist and hauled him further down the hall until we came across an open, empty sitting room. From there, I pushed us to a corner too far for someone to notice as they passed on by.

"Judging by your reaction," whispered Darkwood, "could it have something to do with whatever got you in such a tizzy last night?"

It wasn't long before a chorus of voices drifted down the hallway. A member of the palace staff was escorting the Blackwells, directing them to turn the corner while Lord Henry complimented the summer drapes. When the corridor fell silent once more, we migrated back to the doorway, peeking out to ensure that we were alone, and then I let out a long sigh.

"I think . . . Lady Blackwell will be proposing an arranged marriage between her son and me."

The excitement in his eyes dimmed to disappointment. "And here I thought you'd overheard another life-changing secret, like having another brother." Thoroughly unimpressed, he shook his head. "Don't you get, like, thirty proposals a day?"

"You vastly overestimate my popularity."

"Oh, so this is your very first proposal?" Darkwood grinned. "You underestimate yourself. Or rather, you underestimate your status. Don't worry, I doubt Vincent will be the only one. Get ready to break a few hearts on your way to the throne."

I had an aching desire to adopt Darkwood's insouciance. Having vanished from society at the young age of fifteen, he wouldn't have been taught the difference between courting and an arranged marriage. He really thought this was something I'd have a choice in.

Sharp clicks pounded down the halls again as my mother turned the corner, her hurried pace alerting me a sign that she too had been summoned to the queen's office. She nearly missed sight of us, whatever occupying her thoughts impairing her vision. But on her double-take, she caught my eye and wasted no time dragging me along.

"See you soon, Mrs. Blackwell," Darkwood called out as I left.

No more saving your assassins.

My mother was mid-mutter as I turned my attention to her. "--Earth are the Blackwells doing here?" She curled her hands into fists. "How dare they call on the queen on a Sunday? Do they think they're above us? Above custom?"

"What if it's an emergency?" I asked, trying to grasp at any other reason that could bring them here, reasons that were less tangible than air.

My mother barked out a dry laugh. "As if a marriage proposal counts as an emergency. I know that's what Abigail is here for." She sucked in a breath. "She must've found a way to circumvent your father and me with how often we've turned down a union between her son and you."

I stopped walking. "You told her no?"

Her face was nonplussed. "Of course, little bird. I know my daughter. An arranged marriage is not something you'd ever agree with."

"But, during breakfast, you were pushing me to think about potential suitors--"

"Yes, so that you're making informed decisions about your future partner. Don't get me wrong, you will have to go through the courting process, but at the end of the day, it'll be your choice. I just don't want you to eenie-meenie-minie-mo it like you did with your bodyguard."

And what a sound decision that turned out to be, I kept myself from saying.

Upon entering my grandmother's office, one might discern that she had a preference for the color cream. Eggshell walls were decorated with portraits of past monarchs, their ostentatious robes operating as some of the only color and patterns in the room. Our guests sat on one of the ivory couches, my father on its pair, the two stationed parallel from one another. Upon our entrance, Vincent shot to his feet and bowed deeply, an action unreciprocated by his parents.

I did a headcount. There were only five people in the office (not including my mother and me). Logan wasn't here. My heart sank. I must've missed him when I hid in the room with Darkwood.

There was only one item that broke the queen's insistence on neutrals: a spring-green winged-back chair that sat a few feet from the fireplace, centering itself between the two couches, heading a light oak coffee table. Cups of freshly-brewed tea in fine China tea cups rimmed with gold were arranged in front of each guest's seat, including the two empty spots on either side of my father.

That was the chair in which the queen sat, her arms rested upon the sides like it was another throne.

"There she is." My grandmother tipped her head towards where my father sat. Though her tone was warm, her eyes narrowed.

You're late.

The seating arrangements aligned with the Blackwells. Lady Abigail and my father faced one another, leaving me directly across from Vincent, who didn't sit back down until I did. No longer in white-tie attire, he looked less like a future duke and more like any other senior at St. Cross's Academy. His dark blue cable knit sweater hugged his torso, the white collars of his Oxford undershirt perfectly pressed, standing stiff against his neck.

He smiled at me. I stared at him. This was not a smiling occasion.

"Will you be updating the palace interior soon?" Abigail spoke first,  knees angled towards the queen. "With autumn approaching, I find myself favoring--"

"I would prefer it if we bypass the small talk today," my grandmother clipped. "Surely you wouldn't be wasting the favor you accrued for your support during Jasper's kidnapping on chit-chat about curtains. I, for one, am dying to know what is so important that you had to meet with me on a Sunday hours after my return to the country."

Abigail's teacup clinked loudly against its saucer as her smile faltered. She exchanged a quick look with her husband, then the two set down their cups, and Abigail folded her hands in her lap.

"We are here to submit a proposal for a union between Princess Park and our son Vincent."

My grandmother blinked. "A little preemptive, aren't we? Park has yet to turn eighteen."

An excellent point, Your Majesty.

"We are confident that even if Her Highness was to entertain the courting period, she would ultimately find that Vincent remains her best option. Would this not save our families the time and resources down the road?"

The tip of Vincent's ears turned a bright red.

"Even if that's the case, Park is perfectly capable of arriving to those conclusions by herself," my mother pointed out, her voice dancing between hostile and annoyed, "as I have said on multiple occasions, Abigail."

"Park is a bright young girl on the path to becoming queen." Abigail's smile verged on a sneer. "She should be spending the prime of her life focusing on her studies instead of ineligible bachelors. Not to mention the public speculation that comes with the entire courting period. Why, Your Grace I'm sure having William engaged to Giselle so early must have given your PR staff a much needed vacation."

She beamed in place of laughing at her own joke. When the queen did nothing but stare at Abigail, Abigail's expression dropped and she fidgeted in her seat. "O-of course, if Park marries Vincent, you will receive the full support of the Blackwells on any legislation put forth."

Another blink. Is that it?

Henry Blackwell cleared his throat.

"Our family would also be honored to share their control of the private military faction that you know of as the Blackwell Guard."

I wondered if anyone else noted the way my grandmother's hold on her teacup tightened.

"And what do the full services of the Blackwell Guard entail?"

Abigail drew upon the queen's further questioning for confidence. Her chin tilted back up.

"All of our contractors are trained in elite combat, surveillance, and covert operations, rivaling agencies from the United States, Russia, and China. We develop and possess technology and weaponry not available to the public market. The Blackwell Guard has routinely provided assistance and resources to the Cimerian government for decades now."

"Park is not going to war," countered my father. "She does not need weaponry or covert operations. She needs protection -- which the CSD has steadily provided."

"But it is merely a government organization." Abigail leaned forward. "It's funded by taxes, which limits its resources. The fact that the best agent they could assign your daughter was an eighteen-year-old-boy is a shame. Not to mention that unfortunate incident with Leo back in the day. The Guard, on the other hand, can dedicate, at minimum, ten seasoned agents on a 24/7 protective around Park -- and the rest of the royal family. Including your ward, Jasper Bishop."

Technically, I wanted to point out, I picked Logan. Unknowingly, but still -- he'd been my choice, not some government oversight.

"Not to mention, it wasn't until the Guard joined the investigation was Jasper found."

"I  found Jasper."

Abigail jumped in her seat, her body swiveling so that she could face me. "My apologies, Your Highness. I did not mean to downplay your actions." Her smile was placating. "But were it not for the Guard's technology, your location wouldn't have been tracked down so quickly."

"If it weren't for me having a CSD bodyguard, you wouldn't have had a call to track."

"If it were my contractor at your side, you wouldn't have been in danger in the first place."

"And Jasper wouldn't have been found."

"I think what Park is trying to say," my father interrupted, "is that the royal family can take care of itself. Besides, if we were in desperate need of your services, we would've bought it years ago."

Abigail peeled her crystalline glare from me to level it at my father. "To be frank, I believe you know that the better option has always been the Blackwell Guard. But understandably, you couldn't sink the royal budget into our services, expensive as they are. However, while we cannot show favoritism between our business partners, between family--"

"The royal family will not be required to finance the Blackwell Guard," finished Henry.

A heavily silence permeated the office. My nails dug into the palms of my hand as I waited for my grandmother (hell, anyone!) to scoff at the offer. Come on! I thought. As if the royal family is in need of more security.

But my gut turned at the even expression with which my grandmother regarded the Blackwells, her index finger tapping the arm of her chair in a steady beat.

"And how does Vincent feel about this?"

Vincent jumped, his head jerking in the queen's direction at her direct address.

"Pardon, Your Grace?"

"Do you want to marry Park?"

Hello?! What about me?

Vincent gulped, now more scarlet than before. His head slowly turned my way and he met my gaze head on. Then, in a voice with a sincerity that seemed misplaced for our twenty-four-hour acquaintanceship, he said, "It would be a dream come true, Your Grace."

What dream?! There was no basis for any fuzzy feelings towards this arrangement. Vincent had never spoken more than twenty words to me during any of our encounters, having always looked like he was afraid I'd punch him.

Oh, who am I kidding?  Don't boys dream of being kings too?

My memories of our encounter at the wedding soured. He must've known about this proposal and approached me in order to butter me up for this very moment. Because that's how everyone approached me: with an agenda.

The queen cleared her throat. "Very well then," she said. "Entertain me. What would the conditions of such an engagement be?"

Abigail reached down for her bag, snapping it open to pull out a thick stack of papers held together by a paperclip working several hours overtime.

"A contract already?" my mother hissed.

Ignoring her, Abigail slid the papers towards the queen. "Your lawyers are most welcome to look through and discuss with our legal team before signing the contract. Our main concern, however, is exclusivity. We'd like for Park and Vincent to be committed to one another during the engagement period, which we hope to announce on the day of the debutante ball. The royal family will issue a public announcement that the two are betrothed. While it is tradition to wait a few years before an official ceremony,  a wedding would be opportune within three years after the two graduate university."

My grandmother did not touch the stack, nor did she even look its way. All she said was, Ï will have our lawyers look over this. We'll be in touch if the terms are agreeable."

Abigail's eyes flashed with triumph. She sat a little taller too. "Your consideration means the world, Your Grace."

"Of course. It is the least I can do to repay you for rallying the Court during Jasper's kidnapping." A dramatic exhale escaped her. "But I am tired from my flight."

"Abigail, if your family would like to join us for brunch--" my father began, as it was custom to host noble guests after a business meeting.

"Unfortunately," my mother interrupted and she stood abruptly, "Jasper is still on the mend. I'm afraid I must ask you to leave -- his doctor said too much noise will disrupt his recovery period."

She gestured towards the door. Abigail accepted the dismissal with grace, making up a quick excuse about how the family had reservations at some exclusive bistro downtown. Vincent tried to hang around and bid me a personal goodbye, but the look on my face had him hurrying out the door without a second word.

When the crowd dissipated and a guard outside pulled the office door shut, my grandmother pressed a slender finger against her temples. "So," she sighed, leaning forward to pour herself another cup of tea, "what do you think of the proposal?"

I narrowed my eyes. "Do I get an opinion?"

She sipped her beverage, licking her lips before setting the cup back down. "Of course," she answered as if it was the most obvious response she could have given. "It is your engagement after all."

"Ah, that explains why no one involved me in that very productive discussion just now."

"What would you know about negotiation, little bird? Best to let your solicitors handle the fine details first. Ultimately, the choice is still yours."

"And if I choose no?"

"A perfectly capable choice."

Something in her gaze told me that it wasn't the case at all.

"But you will have to explain to me why you'd choose so."

"Grandmother, I'm not even eighteen."

"So? You heard Abigail. You wouldn't even marry until you finish university, and intelligent as you are, I don't see you graduating college or law school within the next few months."

"I hardly know him."

"I hadn't even met your grandfather when I became engaged to him. But I got plenty of time to know him afterwards."

Didn't he die five years after Father was born?

"And did you love him?"

Her smile was wry. "If you're looking for love, then look no further than your own parents. They were at each other's throats when they were betrothed, and look at them now."

"At least there was something there," I scoffed, sitting back against the couch. "There's not even hundred words existing between Vincent and me."

"It is completely possible to grow into love, Park."

"Do you know when you can also grow into love? When you date. What do they call that in our society? Oh, yeah -- a courting period." I rolled my eyes. "If the Blackwells were so confident about the outcome, why couldn't they have just waited for me to fall in love with Vincent naturally?"

Something in my statement turned the contained smile my grandmother had into a full-blown smirk. "Perhaps," she said, arching her brows, "they aren't that confident after all."

I frowned. "What are you trying to say?"

My grandmother shook her head, waving her hand to brush aside my question. "So your final answer is no, then? Not just to Vincent, but to arranged marriages in general."

I nodded. She sighed, settling back into her seat. Her right hand came up to trace the swirling designs stitched into the fabric of the chair. "I'll call Abigail tomorrow and let her know. However, I expect you to fully commit to the courting period then. No running away from dates."

Suddenly, the anxiety in my chest dispersed, and for the first time today, I took my first full breath.

Was it really that simple?

"How are classes?"

I blinked, still reeling from the lightness on my shoulders. "They--they're fine. Challenging, but nothing impossible."

"Your rank?"

I held up two fingers and she nodded.

"As expected. How about socially? Are you punching people still?"

I gave her a look. "I punched one person, and you know perfectly well that I haven't punched him since late May."

Amusement twitched at her lips. "I must say, I was surprised when your father reported who you'd chosen as your bodyguard. I almost said to myself, 'It's as if she didn't read the files because there's no way she would've chosen him if she had.'"

"Make fun of me all you want, but there isn't an agent more dedicated to his post than him, so perhaps it's high time everyone admits there's a method to my madness."

"Dedicated to his post?" My grandmother stood up, making her way over to her desk. "Or to you?"

Is there a difference?

My grandmother grabbed something off her desk and when she came back over, she placed down a singular sheet of paper and a fountain pen before me. Something punctured my blooming sense of relief, and in that wound poured a fresh wave of fear.

"Sign this for me, will you?" she asked, her tone light as she resumed her seat.

Letter of Termination:

I, Park Sparrow, herby release Logan Cross from his duties as the assigned agent of protection for Her Highness, the Princess of Cimeria. This termination is effectively immediately upon signing.

Logan Cross is being terminated as a result of improper and inappropriate conduct, direct violation of Royal Order 306, and failure to commit to the fulfillment of his duties.

Please review the confidentiality agreement. It is forbidden to disclose any private information obtained during the term of employment. The Cimerian palace is entitled to take legal action if is revealed that such information was leaked, either negligently or maliciously, on Mr. Cross's behalf.

"What the fuck is this?"

"A termination notice," my grandmother deadpanned.

"Yes, Your Grace, I can read. The implied question is 'why are you having me sign this?'"

She crossed her ankles, resuming the same posture she had when dealing with Abigail. "If you can read, then direct your attention to the second clause and you'll find your answer there."

"That's funny because all I can see written here is bullshit. He hasn't done anything wrong to warrant this."

"Hasn't he?" She cocked her head. "I had a very enlightening conversation with him this morning."

That's why he'd been called in on his day off. Anger prickled underneath my skin. "Really, Grandmother? Still?"

"How can I not when you've shown yourself to be the same reckless girl after all these years? I thought you might have developed some common sense, but you come home and go running after kidnappers, for God's sake. I had no choice but to increase your monitoring."

She laced her fingers together, her mouth set in a thin line.

"Imagine my surprise, however, when he declined."

My loyalty is to you, Park.

He really meant it.

"He said it felt like an invasion of your privacy."

A humorless laugh tore itself out of my throat. "So you want me to fire the only bodyguard who's respected my boundaries."

"To be honest, had it just been this incident, I could've let it slide. Admired him for it, even. But he violated protocol, Park."

An undercurrent of fury laced her words. I bit down on my tongue.

"The palace staff spoke of the long nights you spent in Logan's room, always entering and leaving clothed in athleisure. I'd hoped you were just a couple of teenagers in love -- but then a guard recalled a night where Logan seemed to be teaching you how to disarm a gun from him. Finally, I received reports that you demonstrated a level of combat on that ship that was never noted before. You cannot deny the evidence -- Logan defied a royal decree."

"That decree was the worst decision you made, second to driving Archer away," I snapped. "I need to know how to protect myself. What would have happened to Jasper and myself if Logan hadn't taught me anything?"

Her mask was off, her rage on full display, down to where her hands gripped the arms of her chair. "You mistake your luck for skill, Park. Had it not been for the presence of Alexander Darkwood, your death was warranted the moment you left the museum. All because Logan emboldened you with the knowledge on how to throw a punch here and there."

"All these years growing up, I've been running into danger, so don't you dare blame this on him." I scrunched up the paper. "I'm not signing this."

"This is not optional, Park. You will sign that paper or I will dismiss him myself and strip the Cross clan of their rank."

No. No, there had to be a way out of this. I couldn't let this happen to Logan. A termination by the royal family, not to mention a termination because of a Royal Order violation, would mean he would never, ever become the head of CSD.

I am proud to carry on my father's legacy.

It was everything he worked for. A sense of shame accompanied the rising panic in my ribs as the consequences of my actions crashed down on me. I'd been so, so selfish. I hadn't even bothered to consider the consequences of what would happen if we were caught. He'd said no at the very start and I practically guilted him into training me. All so I could prove something to myself.

And now Logan was going to pay for it all.

I had to do something. But what? What could I possibly have to offer in this situation--

Oh.

"I'll do it." I met her eyes. "I'll marry Vincent."

She couldn't help it -- her glare widened into shock. Swiftly, she resumed her antagonism, her scowl deepening.

"And why would I want that?"

I knew it.

"You want the Blackwell Guard." My mind tripped over itself as I frantically pieced together the logic in my grandmother's mind. I had to be right on one thing -- it couldn't simply be about having more guards. It had to be about something else. Something bigger. "The Blackwells -- they've had that military faction for centuries. It's made them a crucial party during coups or rebellions."

A coup. My father's words blitzed through my ears: these are the actions of a coup.

"You're going to use the betrothal to negotiate for control."

For what felt like an eternity, my grandmother was immobilized, rooted to her seat as though Michelangelo hard carved her there. She regarded me with absolute neutrality, and while I was close to panting, my nerves getting the best of me, she wasn't even breathing.

Finally, her expression transformed into the same admiring gaze Jasper had received. A mixture of relief and defeat turned in my stomach. I wanted to throw up.

"Very well. I accept your terms."

I swallowed the bile rising in my throat. "You have to promise to leave Logan alone. Completely alone -- no interference, no manipulation. He leaves either by his free will or mine."

She nodded. "You  have my word."

It really wasn't going to be simple after all.

I clutched Logan's termination slip in my fist and got up, the adrenaline rushing giving way to a deafening wave of numbness. Not bothering to curtsy, I left without another word. Almost halfway out the door, my grandmother uttered, "You may just have the makings of a queen in you yet, little bird."

It was the highest praise she'd given me.

I left the door open on my way out, my feet stumbling towards the main hall. I'd hoped, by now, that everyone had migrated back to their rooms. With all the excitement over, the leftover party fatigue would set back in, and I'd be free to hide in my room until nightfall. 

But instead, my family lingered in the palace foyer, my mother ranting about Abigail's bravado to Jasper. Darkwood was missing and so was Logan. This time, I couldn't even register the drop in my chest from how numb my body was growing.

"I cannot believe Eliza would even entertain her like that," my mother huffed. "Abigail will no doubt tell the first person she sees, and by tomorrow, we'll have several more proposals to deal with."

"You know it was out of courtesy, Giselle, you heard her yourself. We had to do something to pay back Abigail for her actions." My father stroked my father's back. "Let them propose. It's not like Park will ever agree." Upon my arrival, my father winked. "Isn't that right, little bird?"

My arms were crossed, hiding away the ball of paper that was now digging into my palms.

"Actually," I began, and everyone's faces grew slack, "I'm going to accept."

Jasper recovered first. "Oh, ha ha, Park, very funny."

His words were followed with relieved laughter, save for mine. Which then caused the amusement to dry up once more.

"Park," my father said, the twinkle extinguished from his eyes, "you're not serious." His frown deepened. "Did your grandmother say something to you?"

A part of me wanted so badly to admit what happened. My father was always on my side. He'd fight her on this. But then what would happen? What if I just made things worse for Logan and his family?

I shook my head, smiling. "No, it just makes sense, you know? I'm not looking forward to having multiple dinners with Peter Kingsley. Besides, Vincent's a perfect gentleman and the Blackwell's support for future legislation will be really good for us."

Still too stunned to speak, my family could only stare at me as I stood there, my nails finally breaking through the skin of my palm. Something wet oozed up in my fist. So, when no one proceeded to say anything, I muttered something about needing a nap and left. 

By the time I made it to my room, the barricade I'd haphazardly constructed in my mind was chipping apart. The reality of what transpired was settling like dust after an explosion. This can't be real. I can't be marrying Vincent.

Before I knew it, I was standing by my study desk, the now-afternoon sun beating down against my cheeks as my fingers grasped at the knob of a drawer. I just barely managed to drag it open when a voice from the door cut through the fuzz in my mind.

"Hey."

I dropped the ball of paper in, now stained with small splotches of red, and slammed the drawer shut, cursing as I wheeled around. There he was. He'd exchanged the suit for black jeans and a plain navy sweater, the sleeves rolled up to showcase his favorite gold watch.

My eyes stung.

Logan cocked his head. "Congratulations?"

His questioning tone made me laugh against my will, and in that split second, I fought to keep the tears from escaping. Feeling weak in the knees, I collapsed into my bed, my legs hanging over the very edge. Congratulations indeed.

I felt the weight of his body sink into the mattress. He too was now perched on the edge of my bed, looking down at me with his arms propped atop his thighs. From here, I could see the more severe scars pronounced on his skin.

"I thought . . ." he began quietly, but he never finished his sentence. Logan looked away so that all I could see was his profile. I closed my eyes and breathed in, the scent of champagne and sugar refusing to leave my memories.

I've been looking for you all morning. You were the first thought I had when I woke up because I fell asleep thinking about you. I messed up, Logan, I really did. I'm sorry. I just wanted to know where we'd go from here.

Logan cleared his throat. "Well," he said, straining to lighten his tone, "it's nice to know you're capable of making one smart decision."

And there was the answer to my last thought. There was nowhere for us to go. At least not together. 

"Yeah, well," I sighed, opening my eyes, "it's like you said. I didn't really have any other options."

* * *

a/n: i'm so sorry 

i had a quarter-life crisis.