“Be right there!” Liam shouts at it, and his voice drops to a contemptuous whisper. “He commands me. His older brother.”
“Let’s get this over with.”
Harronvale Square is packed with people. It’s a chaotic scene. The royal guard has steel fences surrounding the festivities. People shove against the fences, screaming their heads off. Hundreds of angry voices clash against the traditional Anglefell music pounding through the square. There’s a colorful banner in the country’s flag colors stretched across the town square blazing with MAKE ANGLEFELL GREAT AGAIN! in white lettering. Children reach into baskets of colored confetti and throw handfuls at the irate crowd.
There are signs floating in the crowd, most of them relatively benign. DOWN WITH LUCIAN! Some are a bit more explicit in their outrage. There are a few signs with two stick figures. One of them wears a crown and is bent over as the other one fucks him in the ass. “FUCK THE KING!” it reads in huge, black letters.
In the middle of the square, there’s a long table covered with exotic dishes, including a whole roasted pig. My stomach turns. There are little American flags sticking out of its flesh, and a crown of white-and-yellow flowers—daisies—sitting on its head.
“I’m guessing that’s supposed to be me?”
I point at the huge roasted sow sitting on the table, but Liam is distracted by the banner.
“He stole my fucking slogan!”
The newly crowned king sits on a makeshift throne behind the table, waving and smiling at the camera crew who are hopefully catching the insanity behind him. Angry screams become cheers as Prince Liam steps out of the car with a smile and a wave. I join my husband at his side, and the security strains against the crowd shoving against the fences.
“This is a disaster. There’s going to be a riot,” I say.
“My brother never had much foresight.”
There are volunteers passing out flyers. I see people sharing them, their faces going wide with shock as they read them. Within moments people are crumpling them up and stamping on them. A stack of the flyers is knocked to the ground. I bend down and pick up one.
There’s a large picture of myself hastily covering my breasts as someone opens the door to the car. My cheeks burn as I remember that horrifically embarrassing photo that was plastered everywhere. Liam looks over my shoulder and snatches the flyer out of my grasp. Emblazoned in angry, red, all-caps are the words: PRINCESS WHORE UNFIT FOR THRONE.
It’s a mark of how far I’ve gotten that the slut-shaming doesn’t even bother me anymore. Liam’s frown deepens as he stares at the flyer, his face slowly turning a shade of deep red as he crumples it in his fist. It drops to the ground as he clenches his hands at his sides.
“This is a fucking circus.”
“It’s like the Joffrey coronation amped by a million.”
King Lucian smirks at us as we approach, his lips already stained with purple. He seems to be utterly oblivious to the crowd screaming obscenities at him.
“Why do you look so upset, brother? Don’t my flyers please you?”
Liam takes a violent step forward, and the crowd swells with what seems like one giant scream. I yank his arm back, yelling into his ear, “No! You can’t brawl like children in front of the whole country.”
Lucian continues, laughing at Liam’s outrage, “I’ve always liked this particular photo of Daisy.” He picks a flyer up from his table and studies it creepily, a taut leer on his face. “Now I see why you were so eager for an excuse to fuck her.”
“At least I don’t have to get a woman drunk for her to touch my cock.”
Ouch.
The smile evaporates from Lucian’s face. He stands and walks from the table, setting down his goblet of wine. He’s wearing full military regalia, a double-breasted jacket in dark blue with the golden sash, and even a ceremonial sword hanging from his hip. The crown, which is much larger than Liam’s, has sapphires the size of small eggs. It flattens his normally bouncy curls.
“You will treat me with the respect I deserve.”
Liam, cool as a cucumber, smiles at his brother. “I am treating you with as much respect as you deserve.”
Already red in the face with alcohol, Lucian darkens to an ugly shade of purple. “I am the king!”
“‘Any man who must say, “I am the king,” is no true king.’”