tighten on my waist. The photographer looks shocked; Lars quickly steps in, smoothing the situation over.
“We just got off a plane,” he said quickly. “Jet lag, you know?”
The photographer seems a little worried but agrees to let us go. Ofcourse, there is no stopping Lars if he doesn’t want to have his picture taken anymore… But whether or not that privilege extends to me, I don't know.
Lars steers me out of the little portrait studio, immediately taking a hard right turn toward the ballroom doors. I glance up at him, a little anxious. “Where are we going?”
His expression is unreadable as the moves me out of the room. “We need a break. Or I do, anyway.”
Just as we make it to the doors though, a servant stops Lars. “Your highness? The king wishes to speak with you. Do you mind?"
Lars is gaze hardens. He doesn't roll his eyes exactly, but he doesn't look pleased either. He turns to me, apologetic.
“I'm sorry. I'll be right back. I think I saw Nika over by the refreshment table, if it helps.”
My lips twist. “Go. You are a prince, after all. If the king summons you, what choice do you have?”
He gives my arm squeeze and then disappears from the ballroom, following the servant that was sent to summon him. I suck in a deep breath and turn around, eyeing the crowd.
I don't want to be here. I am experiencing something like burnout. Worse, I'm doing it publicly.
How do the royals do it this day after day for their whole lives? I've only been doing it officially for two and a half months and I feel so fragile and brittle that I am about to break.
I clear my throat, looking around the room for Nika's small frame. As I am searching for her, Queen Ida and spots me from across the way. Petite but elegant, with eyes of steel and sleek silver hair, she zooms in on me. I see her coming, her chic black dress looking as expensive as ever. She arches a brow as she advances.
“There you are, Pippa. I was just wondering if I was going to see you here or not. I have something to show you.” She steps forward and takes my arm, towing me along as she makes a beeline for the exit. I don't know what to say so I just clear my throat nervously.
When I let myself be pulled outside the ballroom, I frown. Queen Ida murmurs hello to a passing servant as she toes me along. I finally get up the nerve to speak.
“I don't want Lars to miss me…” I say, glancing back at the rapidly disappearing ballroom behind me. Around me, the soaring white hallways ceilings and majestic red carpeting go on and on seemingly endlessly.
“You'll love this, she says confidently. “I have just had it flown in from being tailored in Milan.”
My brows rise a little. “Milan?”
She sneaks me a look. “Yes, dear. That's what I said. Come on, it's in here.”
She pulls open a random palace door, ushering me inside. I swallow and step through into a small office. The only thing worth seeing is hanging on a dress hanger in the middle of the room. It's a wedding dress, and an old one at that. It's entirely the wrong size and shape for me, a tall and slender person. This dress is made of crepe and lace, so short and wide that… Well, I would call it serviceable if I were being nice about it. I squint at the dress, as if the garment has answers for me.
“Well, what do you think?” Momse asks.
Careful to keep my face perfectly blank, I turn and face her. “I'm not sure what I am looking at,” I admit.
Her eyebrows fly up. “Why, your wedding dress, of course. I thought you would want to get married in the traditional wedding dress that all the second son’s wives have shared.” She pauses, arching a brow. “Are you not pleased?”
I flush, though I'm not exactly sure why. I lick my lips. “No one said anything to me about already having a dress.” I frown. “It's not really my style.”
“Nonsense.” She moves around me, touching the sleeve of the wedding dress with two fingers. “It's perfectly functional. Just like your engagement ring. I took one look at you and I already knew that I would send for this dress.”
I blink rapidly. This has to be some kind of joke. “You have to be testing me or something.