The Unexpected Expected

Part 1: Chapter 2

Queen Amberly's POV

"Lydia, can you please deliver these to Markson?" I asked, quietly pushing my chair back from my desk to face my maids. "And Serafina, can you please get Silvia for me? Oh, Yasmine, can you make a reminder that I have to meet with Lady Elise today for lunch? Helena, make a note for me to schedule private meetings with each of the remaining Selected ladies."

"Yes, miss," Lydia replied, curtsied, and walked away.

"Right away, Your Majesty," Serafina replied as she followed after Lydia.

Yasmine simply reached for a small pad of paper which she kept on my desk so I could always find my schedule, and quickly penciled in my lunch with Lady Elise. Helena added a small note on the bottom of the page reminding me about the other meetings with the Selected ladies.

Once they were done, I dismissed them, wanting to be alone with my thoughts. When will this Selection be completed? I want Maxon to make the right choice, but I also want my normal life back. Having to constantly show the ladies how to act is tiring and quite stressful. I just wish he would pick already.

I stood up and pushed in my chair before I walked over to the balcony outside my window. Down on the palace grounds, I observed as Lady Celeste and Lady Kriss chatted as they walked around the gardens. I was glad Celeste had finally been able to embrace the sisterhood that comes with being a Selected lady.

If Maxon had to choose one of the girls right now, I have a feeling it would be Lady America. Although he believes he should marry Elise for her power, Kriss for her popularity, or Celeste for her status, in the end, I want him to be happy.

I took off my crown that was sitting on my head and sat it on the black metal table. I felt the worries of the country disappear as soon as my crown was removed, and if it hadn't been for the dress or surroundings, I would've felt like an average citizen straining for her chance to meet her crush: the Crown Prince of Illea.

Lost in my own thoughts, a knock at the door surprised me. Forgetting my crown, I walked over to the bed and perched on the edge of it. In my most clear voice, I called, "Come in."

When Clarkson walked in, I was surprised but excited as well. He looked normal except for the frown he was wearing. His eyes were rimmed in red and were bloodshot. His hair was a handsome mess, almost as if he had been running his fingers through it like Maxon so often did. He almost looked like he had been crying.

"Aren't you supposed to be at a meeting with the advisors?" I asked, concern and confusion leaking into my voice. I slowly stood up and walked up to him.

"I cancelled it." That was strange, Clarkson NEVER cancels his meetings, unless I was having a child (and I'm pretty sure that's not the reason now).

"Why? Are you ill?" I brushed my hand against his rough forehead. He didn't feel hot, but that didn't mean anything. "Should I call the doctor?"

"Amberly," he said tenderly in the voice he only ever used for me, "Sit down."

"Why?" I asked in even more confusion than before. "Is everyone okay?"

"Sit down!" Clarkson said, his eyes blazing. I knew better than to disobey when he was like this, so I pulled out my desk chair and sat.

"Now will you tell me?" I asked in my most innocent voice possible.

He sighed, rubbing his temple. "Will you not interrupt me anymore?"

I rolled my eyes. "Sure."

He looked sad for a moment and a ghost of something flashed in his eyes. He looked years, almost decades old, an old man weighed down my time and experience. "Amberly," he said slowly once again, "Maxon and America are dead. They were killed this morning when they slipped off the wet roof."

"Why were they on the roof?" I asked, temporarily ignoring the first piece even though I felt myself tearing up at the loss of my son and my (most likely) daughter.

"Maxon and Lady America often enjoy risking their life for childish things. It appears they were dancing."

"And," I paused swallowing, "How did they die?"

"Well, they slipped is the most probable reasoning, but just between you and me, I think Lady America pushed him off the roof."

What? The fair Lady America, the one who I was proud to (probably) call a daughter, the one who reminded me of myself, the one who my son was in love with, pushed Maxon off the roof?

"And how did she die?" I asked.

"She slipped."

I felt tears streaming down my face. They were scattered before, but down they earnestly ran in rivers down my face.

"Amberly, I'm asking you to decide who will rule after us. You can choose one of the remaining ladies, Lady Kriss, Lady Celeste, or Lady Elise, but I want your decision before tomorrow night. I'll leave you to your thoughts." Clarkson gave me one last weak smile before walking towards the door and leaving me alone.

I had to pick the next Queen of Illea? And I only had less two days to do it? Glancing at the words written on the page, blurry because of my tears, I saw what Helena had written before: Make appointments to meet with the Elite ladies.

I was the Queen of Illea, and that sometimes means putting on a brave face when you really feel like falling apart. Wiping my tears with my hand, I left to find Lady Elise, the first examination I would have of the Elite ladies.

*-*

King Clarkson's POV

Stopping to glance at my reflection in one of the picture frames, I fixed my hair so it lie flat like I preferred it. I was amazed how quickly my fake sadness mask has evaporated. Oh Clarkson, you are an amazing actor, I mused to myself.

Walking down the hallway, I listened to the click of my shoes as I briskly walked to my study. Whenever I passed a maid or guard, I noticed in satisfaction that they immediately straightened up.

The plan worked even better than I thought it would! Maxon and Lady America are on a flight to Carolina, Amberly bought my story, and I even poisoned her final view on America by telling her that she killed our son. Clarkson, you are so clever!

As the emotionless guard opened the door to my study, I briefly thought about him. I thought about the whip hitting my shoulder, my attempts to hold in my screams for if I don't he'll hit me even harder, my hands digging into the dusty oak of my dresser as I bend over in pain. I briefly scratched my back and imagined the scars that criss-crossed along my flesh.

Clarkson, you're becoming what you've always feared, a tiny voice in the back of my head said. I ignored it and walked over to the bookshelf lining one of the walls.

Pulling out one of the books, a photo album, I looked at pictures of Amberly holding newborn baby Maxon, a proud tear trailing down her face. I'm not I'm in any of the photos. And when I glance back to my baby photos, I notice one thing: neither was he.