Her Royal Highness

Two

I'm ready.

That's the lie I tell myself as I stare at my reflection, dressed like the kind of woman people write history books about. The kind whose face gets stamped on coins and whose grief gets reduced to a paragraph under a portrait. The truth is simpler and uglier.

I'm dressed, yes. I'm put together, yes. But readiness is a different creature entirely, and I don't have it in me this morning. I have a pulse that keeps tripping over itself, lungs that refuse to settle, and a mind that keeps circling one name like it's a bruise I cannot stop pressing.

This is not something I chose. Something applied to me because they love the illusion of softness on women who carry crowns, as if scent can distract the world from the fact that we are raised to be strategic before we are allowed to be human. My perfume smells floral and expensive, and it makes my stomach turn because it reminds me of dressing rooms and attendants and the terrible intimacy of being handled.

I don't even like fragrance. I wash myself well. I've always washed myself well. It was one of the first things I learned at The Shabby, when no one hovered over me with rules, schedules, and reminders to be presentable. When I had to take care of my own body like it belonged to me.

My hand slips into the hidden pocket sewn into my dress. That pocket is the only thing about this outfit that feels like me. It is not for lipstick. It is not for etiquette. It is for escape.

The wallet is there, thick with cash. Not credit cards, not accounts they can freeze, not anything that can be traced with a phone call and a disappointed look from my grandmother. Paper money. Simple. Stupid. Comforting. Enough to feed Julian and me for a little while if my chest caves in and I decide I can't do this, if I decide I would rather be a fugitive than a future queen.

I hate that I have to plan for my own panic like this. I hate that I still do it anyway.

Three knocks land against the door, measured and gentle, as if they are asking permission to rearrange my entire life. Before I can answer, I hear the soft shuffle of familiar steps, the quiet murmur of my servers outside, and then the door opens.

Camille, Cyrah, and Edna move in with their usual efficiency, but I can see it in their eyes today. They know. Everyone knows. The palace does not keep secrets when it comes to spectacle.

"Your Highness," Camille says softly, as though my ribs might crack if she speaks too loudly. Her gaze flicks from my face to my hands, where I've gripped the edge of the vanity like it's the only solid thing in the room. "Do you need a moment?"

"I need about ten years," I reply, and the attempt at humor comes out thin.

Cyrah gives a small, sympathetic huff. "We can only offer ten minutes."

Edna steps behind me and smooths the back of my dress, pinching the fabric and adjusting a fold that no one will notice but her. "You look... proper," she says, choosing the word carefully, as if beautiful is too sharp to speak aloud.

"Proper," I echo. "That's a nice way to call me doomed."

"Don't," Camille murmurs. She meets my eyes in the mirror, her expression steady in that way she has when she's trying to anchor me without overstepping. "You are not doomed. You are overwhelmed."

"That's the same thing," I say, then immediately regret it because I see the flicker of sadness across her face. I soften my voice. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. I just... I can't breathe right."

Edna's hands pause, and she leans closer. "Then breathe with us. Slow. Just for a moment."

It's ridiculous, being taught how to breathe by people paid to dress me, but my body listens to her anyway. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Again. The room doesn't stop spinning, but it slows enough that I can remain upright.