The Palace, Outside of Wembley, Polis - December 24th 2018 - 11:00 CET

"Well?" Lexa arches her eyebrows when Eliza only stares back, mouth frozen open. Bugger. How does one even explain this?

"There was this woman," she begins, "at the baking competition. The day that I was supposed to inspect the set. She… well, she looked exactly like me and I thought— No, I better go back further." Eliza's shifts and begins to pace in front of the queen's desk. "Emm, well… I don't like you… like that. You're obviously a fine person and all, but… it's so awkward between us. Surely you've felt it," she glances at the queen, but Lexa's eyes are hard and impenetrable. "I was unhappy even before coming to Polis. And when I met Clarke, I saw an opportunity to breathe a bit, to take some of the pressure off. I asked her to switch places with me for a few days, but… but things changed, something… happened. I mean, obviously you know that since Clarke is under the impression that you're in love with me, which we both know is not true." Eliza bites her lips, hands lacing together as she turns to stare at Lexa. "Please say something."

The queen is silent for some time, the minutes stretching out as she gazes down at the photographs. When she finally speaks, it's only one word. "Clarke."

"Yes," Eliza breathes out. "Clarke. That's her name. She's from Chicago and—"

"I didn't think you had siblings."

"What?"

"Is she your sister? How do you look so similar?"

Eliza shakes her head, "We're not related. I'm not sure how this genetic oddity happened, but it did… and I'm sorry I lied to you. In fact, I'm sorry I was going to continue to lie to you. I just— I thought it was my duty to do this even if it made me unhappy and— wait, how did you get these photographs?"

"Murphy."

"Raven," Eliza curses, glancing at the ceiling. "I was going to tell you! Although, I only decided recently… which is probably why Raven orchestrated this," her eyes slide to the photos on the desk. "She does love you, you know."

Lexa frowns, "Raven?"

"No! Clarke. I meant Clarke."

"Oh," Lexa nods and her eyes trail once more along the photographs. She points at one. "Clarke is in the robe."

Eliza bends over, "Yes… how could you tell?"

"She has a mole on her collarbone. And you don't. I thought it was strange, but… I blamed it on my previous apathy about our relationship."

Eliza leans against the desk. "So you agree then that there wasn't any chemistry between us?"

Lexa snorts, shifting back in her chair. "None."

"Negative chemistry," Eliza laughs.

The queen rolls her eyes but smirks. Then a frown creases her brows, "When exactly did you switch?"

"The afternoon of the 19th. When you came by and Raven was there, it was Clarke you spoke with. I was… hiding behind the bed."

Lexa shakes her head, "I knew there was something strange about that bed."

"You're not mad?" Eliza queries cautiously. "I mean, you're taking this rather well. Better than I expected."

"I was… not pleased when I saw these photographs, but neither was I surprised. I was aware something had shifted. And knowing now that I was interacting with a whole different person… it just makes sense."

"And?"

Lexa shrugs, "And I don't like you either— not like that. Clarke felt like some kind of miracle and now I know that she really was."

"So what do we do?"

"Please forgive me, but I don't wish to marry you."

"Really?" Eliza breathes out a sigh of relief. "Me neither!"

Lexa slaps her palms against the desk, "It's decided then. This betrothal is officially null and void."

"Congratulation, your majesty," Eliza curtsies with a smirk.

The queen chuckles, "And felicitous tidings to you, your grace." Lexa stands and straightens the velvet lapel of her suit. She clasps her hands behind her back and looks expectantly at Eliza. "As you are now only an ambassador in Polis, I can ask you to assist me with my American diplomacy."

Eliza grins and returns rather sheepishly, "I might need your majesty's help as well."

"As long as you lead me to Clarke, my skills are at your disposal."

"I have a feeling," the duchess states slowly, "that we might find our conquests in the same place."

"Oh?"

"How much did Clarke teach you about baking?"

"Not nearly enough," Lexa states truthfully, sliding her hands into her pockets.

Eliza smirks, holding the queen's sharp gaze, "Then it's a good thing we only have to hand out the ribbons."

Baking Competition Set, Wembley, Polis - December 25th 2018 - 10:00 CET

"On your mark, get set, BAKE!" The buzzer goes off and Clarke's vision narrows on her workbench as the whole room turns into chaos. She steps forward and rips their To-Do list in half along the edge of a ruler. And then twisting towards Bellamy, she hands him one piece.

"Ready?"

He nods, "Ready."

"We got this, okay?"

He gives her a pointed look, "You got this. Now let's go."

Clarke nods with a smile and then shifts into gear. Her body works with an intuition of its own, making genoise sponge from muscle memory so that her brain can focus on the next three steps. She separates the eggs and dumps the whites into the stand mixer before flipping the switch. Nothing happens. Clarke frowns. She bends over the workbench, fingers running along the extension cord which is strangely loose… too loose. Clarke pulls at the cord and finds a frayed wire at the end where the plug should be. This is not good. They can't whip this many eggs by hand. It will eat up too much of their time.

"Bellamy," Clarke's voice is panicked. She spins around, holding up the faulty cord.

"What the hell?" He leaves the raspberries simmering on the stove to frown down at the wire. Then some realization takes hold of his features and he looks across the room. Clarke follows his gaze and sees Echo. The woman raises her eyebrows in challenge and gives them a short, sardonic salute.

He starts forward, seething, "That fucking bitch—"

"Hey, hey!" Clarke steps in front of him, drawing his gaze. "There's nothing we can do. It's our word against hers and if we start arguing with her, we will only have less time to make something."

"Clarke—" he hisses, throwing a hand out, his body visibly taut from the anger vibrating beneath his skin.

"Just go find us a hand mixer. Someone is bound to have one." But when Bellamy's eyes only narrow and flick back across the room, Clarke forcefully grabs his arm. "This is not you. This explosive, angry person is not you. It hasn't been for years. I know you feel hurt and alone and I'm sorry for that, but I need Bellamy, my best friend, right now. Can you do that?"

His eyes clear slightly, taken aback by the power in her voice. Then he blinks and nods in one jerking motion. It takes five minutes for Bellamy to acquire a hand mixer and then Clarke sets about turning the egg whites into meringue. Another fifteen fly by and she has measured the cake batter into nine different pans and shoved them into the oven. The minutes slip away until keeping up with their schedule begins to feel like trying to catch a fish with bare hands.

"Just— Just put them in the blast chiller," Clarke shakes her head. "Hopefully they will cool in time."

Bellamy runs the sponges to the freezer and then helps Clarke start on a whipped mascarpone icing, flavoring it with cardamom and rum. As the countdown begins to dwindle and the final hour of the competition looms, the cakes are cool enough to be frosted. The whole showstopper has three tiers and each tier is made of three layers of vanilla genoise sponge. Clarke fills the layers with fresh raspberry jam and then frosts them with the mascarpone. Finally, Bellamy and Clarke place tempered chocolate decorations around the outside.

"Five, four, three, two, one! Time's up!"

Clarke lifts her hands away from the cake. She turns to Bellamy but before she can even step forward, he has her wrapped in an enveloping hug. A smile spreads across her face. This is a real Blake hug. Full strength. Full heart. She crosses her arms firmly around him and squeezes in turn.

"We did it, Blake," she looks up, smiling.

He nods, affection doing its job to ease the tension from his face, "You bet, Griffin."

They step back together, arm in arm, as the judges begin to circuit the room. Clarke looks at her cake and feels a twinge run through her. Something bittersweet. Because on the cake in fine gold letters are three words: Ridiyo, Komas, and Hodnes. The letters curve above small chocolate collars of deer grazing and sprigs of chocolate holly rest at the top of each layer, drawing the eye with their vibrant color.

The judges finish their rounds — Clarke's sponge is slightly too dense, but the flavor is delicious. Then the contestants must wait for the panel to deliberate. Clarke can feel Bellamy rigid with tension beside her. And she wonders whether it's from the anticipation of waiting or something else that had already taken root. Clarke knows that the thrumming in her own blood is a mixture of both. There is a keening whine, a jarring C sharp singing in her bones like a note that has been drawn out for too long and will soon break. Clarke dreads the end of this competition. Because once it is over there will be nothing left to distract her from that horrible whine.

"Whatever happens, it was worth it," Clarke whispers to Bellamy as the judges head for the podium. The announcement due. "I'm glad we came. I'm glad you convinced me to come. Thank you."

He swallows visibly and looks down at her, "You're my best friend, Clarke. Always."

"Always."

And maybe because it's the end. Because there's that biting sting in her blood, but Clarke can feel words bubbling to the surface. It takes all her energy to hold them inside, but she does. For him. So that she can ask.

"Can I tell you something I was thinking about?"

"Is it going to make me more or less upset?"

She grimaces, "More. Maybe."

"Alright," Bellamy says with a sigh. "Hit me."

Clarke twists slightly towards him even as the loudspeaker crackles to life. "Do you think maybe the reason you are so hurt by what happened isn't actually the thing itself? I mean, I was thinking about it earlier…" Bellamy starts to frown and she rushes on, trying to explain, "You thought you were falling in love with your best friend, with someone you've known for over a decade, someone you trust implicitly. Then you found out that was not the case at all. The person you care for is actually a complete stranger. You're vulnerable and that's terrifying."

"Clarke—"

"You don't have to answer, just think about it. I— it put some stuff into perspective for me."

Bellamy exhales, "You're terrified?"

"I'm shitting my pants, Bell."

He chuckles and pulls her closer, but the movement is stunted by the loudspeaker crackling again, "And our first runner-up is… Echo Azgeda from Boston, USA! Which makes our grand champion for this year's International Christmas Baking Competition… Clarke Griffin!"

Bellamy punches the air, "You won!"

"I won?" she laughs, eyes widening. "Oh my god, we won, Bell! We can expand the store and buy the new mixer and—"

He shakes his head with a smile and picks her up, spinning her around. Clarke belts out a deep belly-laugh and then breathes heavily as Bellamy sets her down. Her blue eyes scan the audience for her mom and Madi, but two different, equally familiar faces snag her focus.

Next to the podium, draped in an immaculate white suit stands the Queen of Polis, her face an impenetrable mask of regal solemnity. Beside her in a quetzal green dress is the Duchess of Arkadia, bright eyes concealed by large gold-rimmed sunglasses. And if the blonde baker's mind was not already reeling, taking in the third and final figure cut by the Grand Duke himself throws her senses over the edge. Clarke takes three deep breaths as her eye progressively become round discs of cerulean blue.

"Oh shit," Clarke mutters. "Oh forking shirtballs. What the actual fuck?"

"Clarke?" Bellamy's voice is low and concerned beside her, but the blonde cannot formulate a response. And she doesn't need to. Clarke knows the exact moment Bellamy spots the royal guests because his breath leaves him in a large, explosive exhale that sounds more like 'fuck' than any other word in the English language.

Baking Competition Set, Wembley, Polis - December 25th 2018 - 15:30 CET

Eliza's hands tremble slightly and she clasps them together to steady herself. She found Madi and Abby in the crowd almost immediately after entering. Their eyes were focused on the chaotic set and following their line of sight brought her directly to two familiar faces. Now her eyes are frozen on Bellamy, on his furrowed brow as Clarke whispers in his ear. He turns to face Clarke and then the blonde baker's name is called out. The crowd erupts into a deafening cheer and Eliza smiles as Madi and Abby jump to their feet, hollering.

Lexa's lips twitch up beside her and Eliza raises her hands to clap along with everyone else. But her eyes are drawn back to Bellamy. She watches as his expression softens and he lifts Clarke up in a triumphant victory twirl, the two laughing excitedly. And because she's looking, Eliza notices when Clarke's jubilant expression freezes and her mouth forms a dramatic expletive. Those blue eyes slide over Eliza and Lexa and Marcus, widening by enormous increments.

"Your majesty, if you please," the head judge indicates that Lexa should step forward.

The queen nods and strides into place followed by a man bearing the victors' ribbons. Eliza walks with them and stands at the queen's side. A fluttering anticipation builds in her gut as the contestants begin to line up. The baker in fourth place moves forward and Eliza places a yellow ribbon on his companion while Lexa drapes one over the baker himself. Then the pair in third steps forward. And when Echo walks up to claim second place, the duchess slowly removes her shades to meet the woman's gaze. The brunette's mouth opens and she twists back as if to ensure that Clarke has not somehow rigged the whole thing with some superior ploy.

"Your phone is with my assistant," Eliza smiles politely, inclining her head towards Raven where her friend stands by the wall.

"My phone?"

"You must have dropped it on Main Street." Echo's eyes narrow, but Eliza only adds, "Congratulations, Ms. Azgeda."

Then the tall brunette and her companion are moving out of the way and it's Clarke's turn. The blonde baker hunches over, one hand raised in a ridiculous attempt to cover her face. And Eliza realizes that Clarke is staring pointedly at her, trying to get the duchess' attention. The American jerks her gaze towards the queen and then back to Eliza as if you say 'What are you doing? What am I doing? What the hell is the plan?' The duchess almost laughs because… there is no plan. Instead, Eliza shrugs subtly and gives the other woman a reassuring smile. The blonde baker seems to realize her paltry attempt at disguise is fruitless. Clarke drops her hands and straightens, clearing her throat. She looks at the queen.

"Hi."

Eliza can feel Lexa exhale beside her. And it's almost as if a visible change comes over the monarch. Her shoulders relax, features soften, and a light smile plays at her lips. As if Lexa had been holding her breath until now, until that one small greeting. Eliza grips her hands tighter and finally drags her gaze back to Bellamy. His jaw is rigid and his eyes are fixed somewhere in the crowd beyond her head. She opens her mouth, but no sound comes out.

Clarke beats her to the punch, "So, um… what's going on here?"

"You've won the competition, have you not?" Lexa replies smartly, lifting the last ribbon.

The blonde baker stares at the monarch like Lexa is missing a few marbles and her eyes dart briefly to Eliza as the queen steps forward and slips the gold sash around Clarke's head.

The duchess looks back at Bellamy and finds that his gaze has settled on her. But it doesn't look how she imagined, how she hoped. There is a strange, blank indifference in his eyes that is wholly unfamiliar. No shock, no surprise paints his brow. As if he already knows all of her secrets. Eliza steps forward despite the trepidation pounding through her system. Her pulse races as Bellamy's dark eyes track her every movement. He bows his head and she slips the thin sash around it. She tries not to let her eyes linger on the cut of his white smock and how it accentuates his broad shoulders.

"Bellamy," she starts softly, her voice higher, more lilting, distinctly Arkadian in cadence. It's different than she has ever used with him and she can tell the moment it registers. He steps back slightly, face shuttering, more guarded. But she expected that, right? Eliza just needs to explain everything.

She turns to Clarke for guidance, assistance maybe. The duchess doesn't really know. But her eyes catch on a different figure and her breath stalls. Abby has left her seat and dragged Madi down the floor with her, though the kid looks only too happy to comply. The older woman inhales shallowly with her eyes flickering back and forth between Eliza and Clarke. Abby raises a hand to her chest, clutching at her own sternum as if her heart threatens beat out of her ribs. The duchess shifts, concern setting in her bones.

"Clarke," Eliza says sharply, drawing the baker's attention towards her mother. Clarke turns towards the older woman and her wide eyes take on a deeper panic. Clarke crosses the small distance to her mother even as Eliza steps forward.

"Mom? What is it?" Clarke murmurs in a low voice. "Is it your heart?"

"Abby?"

Eliza whirls around as the gravelly voice of her father rings out behind them. He's left the podium and walks towards the group with slow measured steps. Disbelief paints his rigid features, but he calls the woman's name again. Like he knows her.

"Marcus— Dad?" Eliza reaches for him as he passes, but he only spares her the briefest glance before his gaze tears back to Clarke and her mother.

Abby's face whitens visibly as Marcus steps around his daughter and the queen, speaking her name again. Eliza frowns and her mind begins to buzz with white noise. A nagging sensation rests just on the tip of her tongue.

"Marcus," Abby breathes out, the name half-formed upon her lips. And she utters the word like something once familiar, loved even, which has become rusty from years of disuse. She shakes her head, an almost awe-like gesture, as her gaze drinks in the Grand Duke's form. And Eliza's father stares back with a fervent intensity like he is afraid one blink might dissolve the illusion.

Something clicks in Eliza's mind and she breathes in sharply. Her eyes dart to that identical blue and she sees Clarke in an equal state of revelation. But it feels almost impossible to name, impossible accept.

"Who are you?" the duchess finally asks, noting how Abby flinches before her gaze slides guiltily back towards Eliza and Clarke.

Lexa clears her throat before the woman can respond, "Perhaps we should move to a different room. I think some privacy is in order. Murphy!"

"Majesty," the man appears almost out of thin air and then disappears backstage. There is an awkward silence, broken only by the murmuring of the audience. Eliza's eyes move around their small circle, from Lexa on her right all the way around to Bellamy on her left, who now stands a conservative distance away having drawn closer to his daughter's side. The general consensus appears to be a certain cautious distrust, an expression which paints every face but Madi's. The child smiles wide and throws Eliza a small thumbs up. A lightness steals over the duchess and she returns the gesture.

Before long Murphy reappears and leads them backstage into a large warehouse filled with old stage pieces, a strangely macabre, Picasso-esque setting.

Backstage, Baking Competition Set, Wembley, Polis - December 25th 2018 - 15:55 CET

"Will someone please tell me what the hell is going on?" Clarke demands when the door closes behind Raven. The blonde glares at her mother, a strange sense of foreboding building the longer Abby avoids her gaze. Clarke grits her teeth and narrows her gaze onto Eliza's father who has yet to take his dark eyes from Abby's face. Beside her, Eliza crosses both arms.

"I agree with Clarke."

"Oh no," Clarke laughs sharply, turning. "You don't get to agree with me. You have some explaining to do as well. What are you even doing here?" Eliza's mouth parts without sound, stalling, and her gaze darts over to Bellamy. He has Madi pulled against him and though he is a tall man, the two are dwarfed by a large paper mache dog's head. What that was used for or why it would be worth storing, Clarke has no time to contemplate. The queen's cool voice carries across the room.

"Diplomacy usually works best with one issue at a time."

The blonde twists to look at Lexa. The upward tilt of the monarch's lips indicates her amusement. Clarke frowns. This is not funny. She can feel the heat rising in her cheeks alongside her swelling temper.

"Maybe we should leave," Bellamy offers, moving him and Madi towards the door. A sharp breath sounds from Clarke's right.

"Please stay," Eliza implores. Bellamy's jaw tightens and he raises his eyebrows slowly, holding the woman's gaze. Something passes between them and it looks like Eliza is about to say more, but then Bellamy grimaces.

"Fine, but Madi goes. I don't want her—"

"WHAT?!" The kid tries to claw her way out of her dad's firm hold. She glares up at him, "If you're staying, I'm staying."

"That's not how it works, squirt."

"But—"

Raven steps forward, "I can take her." Bellamy pulls Madi closer to him, frowning, but Clarke speaks up quickly.

"She's fine, Bell. Raven's good."

His lips pinch into a firm line, but he nods his head. Then looking down at Madi, he murmurs, "I'll tell you everything that happens, okay?"

"Promise?"

"Promise."

Madi nods and then takes Raven's outstretched hand, the two disappearing through the door moments later. Bellamy rounds on the group, face drawn and eyes hard. "Somebody start talking."

Clarke crosses her arms, "Mom?"

Abby clears her throat as she shifts away from Marcus. Then clears it again, almost like a tick as her face fluctuates between vibrant pink and stark white. "I— I—" she breathes out, looking at Clarke with a desperate sort of guilt. "I'm so sorry, baby. I… I lied to you. Your father never died. It just seemed easier to say that knowing he wouldn't be in your life, but I never thought… I never guessed…"

"What are you talking about?" Clarke shakes her head as a swift biting anger grips her. "What are you—"

"This man," Abby points at Marcus, "is your father."

"The Grand Duke of Arkadia?"

Abby nods.

"Nope," Clarke states firmly. "No." She feels Eliza shift beside her and glances over. The identical blonde looks shell-shocked, her eyes fixed on Abby's face.

"My mother died," Eliza breathes out shakily. "She died when I was two years old. It was winter time. She had horrible pneumonia… My mother died. She only left me a—"

"A silver wishbone necklace," Abby finishes and the blood seems to drain from Eliza's face.

Marcus swallows, stepping forward with hands raised. Clarke snorts derisively and covers her face with her hands before he even begins speaking. She knows what he's going to say.

"Eliza," the Grand Duke's voice is surprisingly steady. "I had no clue where your mother had gone. I only knew she wasn't coming back and— and it's not an excuse. I was young and prideful and I thought it would feel less painful to fabricate a different story. I thought it would help you sleep easier to not wonder why your mother left—"

"You could have reached out," Abby's voice is quiet, but sharp enough to cut through his words. "If you wanted to, you could have reached out and asked me where I was."

Marcus falters then frowns, "I had no way to communicate with you. I had no phone number or email address. You erased everything and then left."

"No, I didn't. We agreed on a year apart," Abby argues indignation beginning to color her face. "I left a phone number, but you never called. And then that ridiculous article was published about my tragic death—"

"That was three years after you left!" Marcus shakes his head. "I forced myself to wait, to be patient until the year was up, but you never came home. And then I looked for you. For two years, I looked. I hired teams of people to help me, but I never found where you went and I assumed that was deliberate. That you had decided you were never coming back."

"Why didn't you just call, Marcus? Just once! I thought you didn't care—"

"Abby," he looks at her with utter devastation in his brown eyes. "There was no number—" He holds up his hands when she starts to protest, "I believe you! I believe you. But whatever information you left behind… it never found its way to me."

"Oh god," she whispers, fingers rising to cover her mouth. A sob releases from her throat and then Marcus closes the distance between them. He circles Abby within his arms, drawing her close.

His head bows, buried in Abby's hair, and Clarke almost misses the quiet 'I've missed you' which has them both clinging to each other.

Eliza murmurs at Clarke's side, "Are you as angry at them as I am?"

Clarke snorts, "I'm fuming, can't you tell?"

"It's hard to be livid while their practically… wailing," Eliza's eyes slide back to their parents. Clarke knows exactly what she means. It's nearly impossible to decipher any feelings at the moment. She's too overwhelmed by the fact that her father is suddenly very much alive and that she has a sister… a twin. That thought hits her in the gut. She twists towards Eliza.

"When's your birthday?"

The duchess frowns, "October twenty—"

"Twenty-third. October twenty-third, 1991."

"Yeah," Eliza breathes out. "You?"

Clarke nods and takes a deep calming breath. This is too much. More than she imagined. A sister, a twin. Her eyes rise to meet Eliza's and she sees an equal amount of surprise and trepidation brimming there. What does one even say? What are you supposed to say when the woman you've been impersonating turns out to be your twin? Sorry I'm in love with your fiance, sis? What the hell are you doing here, sis? What the fuck happened to our plan?

Clarke turns away from her parents, who appear to be thoroughly caught in their own orbit, and with an aggravated huff she faces the rest of the room. Lexa stands with her hands tucked into the pockets of her silk trousers. A few feet over, Bellamy gives Clarke a sympathetic look which she cannot bear to witness for too long. And Murphy leans smugly against the door as if he's enjoying the spectacle. The prick.

"What are you doing here?" This question Clarke directs at Lexa. She means to say it casually with little energy and even less frustration, but her rope has become significantly shorter in the past five minutes and any embarrassment or guilt is completely outweighed by the need for transparency.

"Not happy to see me then?"

"That's not what I said," Clarke glowers back at the amused monarch.

Lexa steps forward, a sharp glint in her green eyes. "I am here to see you, Clarke."

The blonde swallows at the soft utterance of her name. It's the first time she has heard it from the queen's lips and the sound of it brings back a flood of memories - their time together and all the ways Clarke had to lie. Panic settles into her gut as she stares back at the queen. The jig is up.

"And?" she manages to breathe out. "What can I do for your majesty?"

Lexa continues to prowl closer, "I can think of a few things. One of which would be a small, but necessary apology for your subterfuge."

Clarke tilts her chin up as Lexa stops in front of her, "What if I am not sorry?"

"Oh? How very treasonous of you. Shall I lock you in the dungeon?"

The blonde rolls her eyes, "You don't have a dungeon, Lexa."

Warmth spills into those green irises when Clarke calls the queen by name. It wasn't intentional. The intimate address just sort of… slipped out. Blast it.

"What are you doing here?" Clarke demands again.

Lexa smirks, "You didn't really think I was going to let you run away, did you?"

Her heart stalls a beat then begins to thump twice as hard. "You're acting awfully forward for someone who is engaged to be married."

"Formerly engaged," Lexa murmurs, stepping close enough that her suit begins to blend into Clarke's white smock. The blonde's eyebrows jump up.

"You're not engaged?" Clarke asks even as her pounding pulse becomes a deafening echo in her ears. Her eyes dart to Eliza's and the blonde nods as if to say 'it's the truth.'

"I'm not engaged," the queen confirms.

"Why not?"

Lexa shakes her head with a small smile, "Because I am completely in love with someone else."

Clarke's eyes widen, "Who?"

Lexa only arches her eyebrows and raises a hand to brush blonde hair out of Clarke's face. Clarke's breath catches and her brain begins to spin like a hamster-wheel. Panic explodes through her veins.

"You can't," she gasps out, taking a large step back from the queen. "You can't."

"I cannot what, Clarke?"

The blonde throws out an arm between them as the queen tries to step closer. Something twists in her chest as she says adamantly, "You can't be in love with me."

"According to who?" Lexa asks with a snort.

"I don't know!" Clarke huffs indignantly, her eyes darting around as if someone else in this insane group of people might agree with her. "What about tradition? Things happen according to plan. Life happens according to plan. And this," Clarke gestures between them fervently, "was not part of the plan."

Silence holds the room, stretching out so thin that an echoing chorus of breaths can be heard. And through the taut quiet, Clarke watches the small muscles in Lexa's face ripple as her amusement turns to confusion and then into a painfully blank mask.

Finally, the queen asks coolly, "Are you saying that you are not in love me? Forgive me, I assumed that some—"

Clarke breathes in sharply and steps forward, "No. No, that is not what I'm saying, Lexa. I— I am wildly in love you, more than I ever thought possible, but… we don't make sense."

"We make perfect sense, Clarke Griffin," Lexa swears softly, eyes burning through the blonde. "You make perfect sense to me. I feel closer to you in the span of four days than I have to anyone in my entire life."

"You don't mean that. You can't. I'm not a duchess or a princess—"

A lazy drawl from the corner, "Technically, you are—"

"Shut up, Murphy," Clarke and Lexa growl at the same time.

The blonde turns back to the imposing monarch and says heavily, "I am just a baker from Chicago. That is all I know how to be. And you're a freaking queen. We don't make sense."

"I don't care, Clarke." The queen's hands twitch like she might pull Clarke closer, but she doesn't. Lexa just continues adamantly, "You can still be a baker. We can move your shop here or—or you can open up a new one! I don't care. I just want to bake cookies with you or watch you bake them— Merlin, I'm not saying this right!" Lexa runs a hand through her honey-brown hair and begins to pace in front of the blonde.

"This is crazy," Clarke whispers, watching Lexa prowl back and forth. The queen's composure appears fractured beyond anything Clarke has ever witnessed.

Lexa laughs, a short barking sound, more of an exhale, before she throws her arms wide, "Then let it be crazy! I have never been more certain about anything than I am about you." Her jade eyes bore into Clarke, piercing through the blonde's rational thought as easily as sliding a hand through flour. Lexa smiles softly and says, "I think we were meant to find each other."

Warmth sears Clarke's lungs as she inhales those words. It spreads along her spine, through her muscles before settling in her eyes. Clarke's voice is shaky, balanced on the edge of the knife as she tries to protest, tries to cling to some rational thought, "Lexa," she whispers. "You don't mean that…"

The monarch freezes, facing Clarke. A tender expression sweeps over Lexa's features followed swiftly by determination. She shakes her head with a grin and claims the two feet between them before dropping to one knee. Her green eyes blaze up at Clarke and the blonde loses her breath, loses her balance, teeters from the edge of that finely polished knife.

"Clarke Griffin," Lexa brings their hands together. "If you are still in love with me a year from now, will you marry me? Because I cannot imagine spending another day without you."

The warmth in Clarke's eyes drips down her cheeks and she lets out a hiccuping laugh. Her mind cannot fully comprehend these words, it still runs circles around logic and plans and reason. But her heart feels ready to burst from its seams and it is with that surety that she gives Lexa her answer.

"Yes."

Backstage, Baking Competition Set, Wembley, Polis - December 25th 2018 - 16:20 CET

A smile spreads across Eliza's face as Lexa stands, drawing Clarke to her and kissing the blonde with fervent dedication for everyone to see. Abby and Marcus cheer from the side where they still hold each other. Even Murphy has a pleasant smile on his face. But Bellamy stands completely still, his body stiff and rigid as he stares at her, not the couple, but Eliza. A dull nagging ache shoots through her stomach as she gazes back at him. Her brows furrow. She doesn't know what to make of his expression. It hasn't changed since she placed the ribbon over his head, still an unreadable mask which mars his usually open face.

Her body had gravitated towards him while Lexa and Clarke argued, but now Eliza makes a conscious effort to minimize the distance. Her footsteps falter when his gaze hardens, no longer apathetic, but almost hateful.

"Bellamy—"

He shakes his head roughly, turning towards the door. Eliza makes her legs function, pushing after him despite the emotions boiling through her bones.

"Wait, Bellamy!"

Murphy crosses his arms at the door. "I think it's best you stay and listen."

The tall man growls, raking a hand through his hair before turning around slowly. Bellamy rolls his jaw as his dark eyes settle onto Eliza's.

"Please say something," she whispers.

He looks past her, "I don't think you're going to like what I have to say."

"Then I'll start," Eliza says quickly. Words try to stick in her throat as she swallows. But she needs to say this, needs to get this out. "I don't know where to begin," she admits, shrugging nervously. "I never meant for everything to get so complicated. I only wanted to relieve some of the pressure I was feeling." She tries to ignore the narrowing of his eyes, tries to just barrel forward despite the growing panic in her belly, "To have one normal experience, something easy… I thought it would be easy to spend a few days with you and then go back to my life. But it wasn't easy. You— you are an amazing person and those four days with you and Madi—"

"Stop," he hisses sharply, the word exploding from his mouth. Then he breathes in deeply as if to calm himself, chest expanding as his dark eyes penetrate her. "I understand," he nods, his lips twisting into a painful grimace. "I understand that you used me and my daughter and Clarke in order to fulfill some sort of fantasy you have. I understand that you did this without any regard for how it would affect our lives. I mean, when does a duchess learn about consequence?" His laugh claws at Eliza's courage, shredding through her with thin, innumerable cuts.

"I understand," he continues sharply, "that you thought it would be easy to do this, that you never expected to care thismuch. But that is what happens when you realize the people you are using are human," he snarls, disdain dripping from every word that he throws at her. But then he breathes in and his face crumbles and his voice breaks as he whispers the next words, "What I don't understand, is how you could ingratiate yourself into the life of my nine-year-old daughter. I don't know you." He exhales, voice wavering, "You are a stranger to me, but you let me trust you with my daughter like I trust my best friend, a person I have known for over a decade. And I cannot forgive you for that."

Eliza opens her mouth and tastes salt. Tears she didn't know were falling seep over her lips, coating her tongue. Her heart is withering inside her chest, making a feeble attempt to beat through the raw burning which suffuses her at Bellamy's rigid expression. His brown eyes remain fixed to hers and the hardest part for Eliza to swallow is the bitter disappointment swimming in those dark depths.

"I'm so sorry," she whispers then says it again. "I'm sorry." She shifts forward, but he steps away, effectively keeping the distance between them.

"I don't want your apology. I don't want anything from you," he says finally as if it's the most simple explanation in the world. And Eliza supposes that it is, in a way, even if her heart refuses to hear it. Bellamy holds her gaze a moment longer as if to let the truth of those words sink in. Then something flickers in those brown eyes and he turns away sharply.

"Get the fuck out of my way," he snarls at Murphy and after a beat, the man complies.

Eliza can only watch as Bellamy slips through the door, his tall figure disappearing into the hallway beyond. Everything hurts, burns like there's something dying inside of her. Yet her breath continues, stubborn and obstinate. She tries not to notice the sounds of the people around her, their soft silence, their pity. But the warmth of their gaze on her and the sound of their breathing seems to amplify into a loud roar. She swallows and clears her throat. Her hand wipes at her face. Whether she is trying to brush the tears away or stuff them back in, Eliza is not sure.

"Well," she laughs sharply, turning. "That went well."

"I'm sorry," Clarke murmurs. "I had to tell him the truth."

Eliza nods blankly as shock settles into her system. It must seem trivial to everyone else, to people with so much life experience — to feel suddenly so empty when you lose something that never really belonged to you in the first place. But she can't help it. She can't help that her life has been kept at a safe distance. She has tried. This was her trying. And look how well it turned out.