Hail to the New Queen

Chapter 2

I don't remember leaving the ballroom. One moment I'm drowning in applause meant for someone else, the next I'm in a corridor I've walked a thousand times but can't quite recognize through the ringing in my ears.

I press my back against cold marble and try to remember how breathing works.

Lady Catherine of House Montclair.

The name loops in my head like a song I can't turn off. My chest hurts, but crying would require energy I don't have, so I just stand here staring at the opposite wall and feeling nothing and everything all at once.

"There you are."

I know that voice. I've been listening to it cut me down since I was old enough to understand cruelty.

Vivienne appears at the end of the corridor, gold gown shimmering as she moves. "We've been looking everywhere for you. Were you feeling unwell?"

The concern in her voice is so fake it's almost impressive.

"I'm fine."

"Are you sure?" She tilts her head, blonde waves cascading over one shoulder. "You looked positively ill when Hunter made his announcement. But surely you understood this was coming? He needs an appropriate match, not some—"

"Vivienne."

Hunter's voice cuts through the corridor. He appears behind his sister, and for one wild moment I think he's come to explain. To apologize. To tell me it was all a terrible mistake.

But his face is pale and closed, and he doesn't meet my eyes.

"Leave us," he says to Vivienne.

She bristles. "I was just—"

"Now."

Something in his tone makes her step back. But she can't resist one last strike. She leans close to me, dropping her voice to a whisper.

"Whatever pathetic fantasy you've been nursing? It's over. Accept your place."

Then she's gone, silk rustling down the corridor like a snake retreating into grass.

The silence she leaves behind is worse than her cruelty.

Hunter stands four feet away. Four feet and nineteen years and everything we used to be.

I remember when he taught me to dance in the garden, laughing when I stepped on his feet. When he defended me against Vivienne's cruelty, standing between us like a shield. When he looked at me like I was something worth protecting, worth fighting for.

"You're one of us," he used to say. Before the whispers started. Before he began pulling away inch by inch until I couldn't reach him anymore.

Now he can't even look at me.

"Say something," I manage.

He flinches. "Christina—"

"Two years. Two years of waiting for a wedding you kept postponing. And this is how you tell me it's over? In front of everyone?"

"It's complicated—"

"Complicated?" The word tastes like poison. "You announced your engagement to another woman in front of three hundred people. While I stood there in borrowed pearls like an idiot. What's complicated about that?"

He finally looks at me. His blue eyes hold something I can't name—guilt, maybe. Or just pity. The kind of pity you offer someone you're about to destroy.

"The Montclairs are cousins to the crown. When the Queen dies—"

"So this is about politics."

"Everything is about politics." His voice hardens. "You know that. You've lived in this world long enough to understand how it works."

"What I understand is that you let me believe we had a future. For years. And you were planning this behind my back the whole time."

"I wasn't planning—" He stops. Runs a hand through his perfect hair, disrupting it for the first time I can remember. "It developed. Catherine and I... we started talking about possibilities."

"When?"

He doesn't answer.

"When, Hunter?"

"Six months ago."

The admission lands like a blade between my ribs. Six months. Six months of sharing his bed. Of hoping. Of believing that tonight he'd finally choose me.

Six months of being lied to with every touch, every kiss, every whispered promise.

"Did you ever love me?"

The question comes out smaller than I intended. More vulnerable than I want to be in front of him.

Something cracks in his expression. For a moment, I see the boy who used to sneak me extra desserts from the kitchen. Who held my hand during thunderstorms because he knew I was afraid. Who made me believe I could belong somewhere.

"It doesn't matter what I felt. What matters is what I owe my family. My duty—"

"Don't." My voice shakes. "Don't hide behind duty. You made a choice. You chose her. At least have the courage to be honest about it."

The silence stretches between us. I watch him search for words, for excuses, for something that might make this hurt less.

He finds nothing.

"I'm sorry," he finally says. "I should have told you differently."

"You shouldn't have had to tell me at all." I straighten, and something inside me hardens into place. "But you're right about one thing. I've lived in this world long enough. Long enough to know when I'm not wanted."

"Christina—"

"I'm leaving. Tomorrow."

The words surprise us both. But as soon as I say them, I know they're true.

His eyes widen. "What? Where would you even go?"

"Anywhere." I step back. "Literally anywhere is better than here."

"Mother won't—"

"Your mother doesn't own me." I take another step, and he doesn't follow. He never follows. "I have nothing here. You just confirmed that in front of everyone who matters. So there's no reason to stay."

He stands frozen in the corridor, looking suddenly young and uncertain. Not the confident heir who announced his brilliant match to thunderous applause. Just a boy who doesn't know what to do when his choices have consequences.

"You won't survive out there," he says quietly. "You have no money. No connections. No name."

"I have nothing here either." I meet his eyes one last time. "At least out there, I won't have to pretend otherwise."

I walk away before he can respond. My feet carry me to the stairs, up to the third floor where they keep the spare rooms and the things they'd rather forget.

My room waits at the end of the hall. Small. Sparse. Exactly what you give someone you're keeping around out of obligation.

I close the door and lean against it, breathing hard.

The borrowed gown suddenly feels unbearable. I fumble with the zipper until it gives, letting the navy silk pool at my feet. The pearls follow, dropped on the dresser where they'll wait for someone to return them.

Not my problem anymore.

I pull on old clothes—worn sweater, faded pants. Clothes that are actually mine.

The room is as empty as it's always been. Single dresser. Window facing the back gardens. Walls I was never allowed to decorate.

I never belonged here. Tonight just proved what I always suspected.

Tomorrow I'll pack. Figure out where to go, how to survive with no money and no name worth claiming.

Tonight, I sit on the edge of my narrow bed and let the anger settle into something quieter. Something sharper.

I meant what I said.

Tomorrow I stop being the ghost in the Valdren house. Tomorrow I become no one—but at least I'll be no one on my own terms.

My eyes drift closed. The last thing I see before sleep takes me is the borrowed gown crumpled on the floor like a shed skin.

I won't miss it.

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