and I no longer mattered to him. We were no longer viewed as human beings in need of a father’s love, but as a necessary commodity to keep the monarchy going. There are times I still feel that way, despite any breakthroughs to mend our relationship my father and I may have had over the years.
Like when he learned I was considering removing myself from the line of succession upon being diagnosed with MS. He convinced me I didn’t have to. That I could use my diagnosis to bring attention to the disease. That I could still be an effective leader.
It was one of those rare moments he acted like my father, not the king.
But I haven’t seen that human side of him since.
And I certainly don’t see it now, especially when he’s in the presence of the head of the royal household who, for all intents and purposes, is one of the people who makes the real decisions. My father may not see it, but I do. He’s just one piece on a giant chess board, and the members of the royal household are the chess masters moving us around as they see fit in search of victory.
“I appreciate your candor, Gabriel,” he begins. “I didn’t realize things between you and this American—”
“Nora,” I correct him. “She has a name. And it’s Nora. I’d appreciate it if you used it.” I look from him to Dalton on his right, then my grandmother to his left. “All of you.”
My father doesn’t respond for several moments. He simply stares at me, as if waiting for Dalton to give him permission to move one square or remain where he is. Finally, he nods. “Nora. I didn’t realize things between you and Nora were serious.”
“How could you when you never seem to show much interest in my life?” I snip back. “Apart from how it relates to the monarchy.”
“Gabriel, darling,” my grandmother interjects in a formal, well-practiced tone evidencing her noble upbringing.
I look in her direction, her demeanor as cold and aloof as I’ve always remembered. Sure, on the outside, she’s beautiful, her short, straight, silver hair, piercing, gray eyes, and tall, slender frame repeatedly earning her a place on a popular magazine’s list of the most beautiful women over fifty. But her inner beauty could use some work.
“What your father’s trying to say is he believed her to be more of a…dalliance,” she finishes with a trite smile.
I arch a brow. “A dalliance?”
“Can you blame him?” She narrows her gaze on me. “Up until a year ago, that seemed to be your M.O., so to speak. We had no reason to believe this woman was anything more than another distraction while you sorted through the stress of your diagnosis. We assumed once you got it all out of your system, you’d return and marry someone more…” She trails off, searching for the correct word.
“More what?” I grind out.
This conversation isn’t helping to keep my stress level to a minimum, as my doctors have advised. Heat courses through my veins. And not out of desire like mere minutes ago when I was alone with Nora. Instead, it’s out of a rage desperate to be unleashed. But I can’t do that. I know the rules. Worse, I know the ramifications of showing too much emotion. In this life, emotions are a weakness to be used against you. I have no doubt they’ll use the way I feel about Nora against me.
They’ll use Nora against me.
“Someone more appropriate,” Dalton Peel interjects without hesitation.
“If you ask me, there’s no one more appropriate to marry than the woman I love.”
“This isn’t about love, Gabriel,” my grandmother states dismissively, waving a bony hand through the air.
“Not about love? How can marriage not be about love?”
“For most people, it is. But I don’t need to remind you that we’re not most people. You’re not most people. You’re the heir apparent. The future king. And you have a duty to produce the next heir to the throne. You can’t do so with some American we know nothing about. Especially with the referendum on the ballot this November. And unlike the previous occasions a constitutional amendment to severely limit the powers of the monarchy has made it onto the ballot, it has quite a lot of support this time. If we make one wrong step, we risk it passing, essentially turning the monarch into more a figurehead than an actual leader. And this…” She leans toward me, eyes like ice. “This