Tied to the Throne

chapter thirty five

My feet stand in the same spot for far too long. It feels as if a heavy weight has been strapped to them, not letting me go. Not letting me leave.

God, at this point I've forgotten why I am all dressed up in the first place. All the makeup, and the dress; the gorgeous dress.

Then, I remember.

My coronation.

My fucking coronation....

I'm not ready for this.

Doubt clawed at my confidence, whispering that I was not prepared for the role that awaited me.

I'm not ready to be Queen of Athline, and if knows I ever will be...

My eyes meet the mirror, seeking solace in my own reflection. The image that stared back at me appeared regal, but the apprehension in my eyes betrayed the façade. My fingers traced the edges of the ornate attire, feeling every seam and stitch that had been carefully crafted for this moment. But no amount of preparation could dispel the feeling that I was standing on the edge of an abyss, unready to take the leap.

My eyes, wide and searching, assessed my own features – the pallor of my skin, the tension that pulled at my lips.

For gods sake, I'm too young to be a queen. My thoughts felt as as they were casting a shadow of doubt that threatened to consume me, eat me entirely.

"Bella?"

The soft voice cuts through my swirling thoughts, forcing my attention away from the mirror and back to the present moment.

Relief washed over me like a wave as I took in her familiar face. "Tina. I..." My voice wavered, my words struggling to find their place. "I can't do this..." The admission slipped from my lips, a fragile confession of my fears.

Her face scrunches into concern, seeking the words to say to me.

"You have to do this Arabella."

"You have to do this Bels," his voice is unclear, shaking and the sobbing is evident in his tone.

"No- no, In can't! I won't! Please don't make me," I shout back, pleading with him.

He doesn't give me words, but rather a pleading gaze. Begging.

" Will..."

"Arabella! I'm serious, you're late!" Tina yells, getting in front of my face.

Shit.

"Hm?! Wait, what! Oh god,"

The fear of my impending role as queen was suddenly overshadowed by the sheer panic of being late to my own damn coronation. In that frantic moment, my mind shifted gears entirely.

My heart raced as my feet propelled me forward, the elegant but treacherous heels I wore doing little to hinder my determination. It was a race against time, a battle between my desire to present myself as a composed queen and the reality of my haste.

Nikolai P.O.V

"Fuck, she hates me," I confide in Benedict, my fingers meticulously cinching my tie.

He raises an eyebrow, attempting to offer solace. "I would too dickhead."

A frustrated scowl is my only reply as I steal yet another glance at the time. "We're cutting it close. We need to move, now."

He hums in agreement, his fingers adjusting his collar with deliberate care. We fall into step together, a shared understanding guiding our movements.

In my grasp, my mask rests, an enigmatic emblem of me. The weight of it feels symbolic, as though I'm veiling more than just my face—hiding the nerves, expectations, and intricacies of my role. As we approach the grand hall, the thought strikes me: I should don the mask before we enter. Swiftly, I secure it, the cool surface pressing against my skin as I buckle it in place.

With each fastened buckle, I'm reminded of the dual nature of my existence—the private individual and the public figure, intricately connected yet distinct.

Mask secured, we resume our purposeful stride, the echo of our footsteps a steady rhythm on the polished floor. The corridor stretches ahead, a path of anticipation leading us toward the grand hall where an assembly of eyes awaits. I brace myself against the mounting pressure, drawing strength from the camaraderie by my side.

As we approach the entrance, a wave of apprehension washes over me. My heart quickens in tandem with my steps, a symphony of emotions reverberating within. Yet beneath the mask, I can present the poised exterior demanded of the occasion.

After i step out of these doors;

I'm going to be King.

And my, well the Queen by my side.

Arabella P.O.V

The corridors blurred as I sprinted, the opulent decor becoming a mere backdrop to my frantic dash. My breaths came in short gasps, my pulse echoing the cadence of my footsteps. I couldn't afford to stumble, not now.

Every corner I turned, every hallway I rushed through, only seemed to stretch the distance before me. It was as if the palace itself conspired against my timely arrival. The grandeur that had once seemed awe-inspiring was now an obstacle course of marble and tapestries.

And as I navigated this maze of opulence with a determination born of desperation, I couldn't help but chuckle inwardly at the absurdity of it all. The poised queen-to-be was now a vision of disheveled elegance, a whirlwind of silk and determination.

Finally, the grand doors to the great hall came into view. My heart pounded louder, matching the rhythm of the trumpets that announced the commencement of the ceremony. With one last surge of adrenaline, I pushed myself even harder, my heels clacking urgently against the polished floor.

As I burst through the doors, breathless and flushed, I was met with a sea of expectant faces. The room fell silent, every eye fixed upon me – the queen who had arrived, not with regal grace, but with the harried energy of a sprinter at the finish line.

My eyes meet Nikolai.

And fuck, I know I'm not looking init his eyes, but I can practically see him glaring at me, disappointed in my late arrival.

I hope he knows it wasn't my intention; to make a fool of him, it never was, it never will be...

"Let us begin with the coronation!" The priest breaks the haunting silence, reminding me to get my arse up next to my husband.

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We step out, together.

Hand in hand.

Heavy crowns adorn our heads.

No going back.

We are the next rulers of Athline.

The King and Queen.

And I can tell, he is just as scared as I, just as terrified to screw up, to perform, to make people happy.

And now they will be demanding an heir.

Fuuuuuuck...

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