CHAPTER FOURTEEN PART THREE

I HAVE BEEN SO EXCITED FOR THIS FOR SO LONG.

Crazy that the Erik POV is the longest chapter I've written for the collection. This was a challenge because I hate Erik…but I also don't hate him; I just think he's delusional for thinking he could ever keep The Literal Queen when he himself has such peasant energy. But he is, like, a genuinely nice guy, and giving him his own POV serves the story very well. There will be (at least) one more part to this, but um…we'll see, because the draft that exists in my head has already gotten "out of control".

I'm not sure if this is any good; I edited it at lightning speed because I have NO TIME TODAY but I hope you guys enjoy it!

This chapter doesn't totally get a title because it's a sequel, but if it did have a title, it would be "Nail in the Coffin"

Imagine it: you're nineteen and you have no idea what to do with your life. You take a job as a translator on the other side of the country, because it's something to do, and while you're there, you meet this girl—not just any girl, the queen. You get to know her from a distance; she's the most beautiful and unattainable person in the world, so far above you. Of course you're going to fall in love with her.

And when she's at her lowest, desperate and looking for a way out, of course you're going to marry her.

Looking back, all I can see is how stupid I was. I loved Eadlyn in the way you could only love someone you don't know at all. Infatuated, I saw her as the perfect woman, stunningly attractive and charming, funny, every other compliment I could think of, without any consideration for how we would work in the long-term.

Here's the thing: we don't.

It's been almost five years since our whirlwind wedding. The honeymoon stage has been over for years; without the rose-colored glasses of infatuation, Eadlyn and I are wildly incompatible people locked in a highly public marriage. The good moments are few and far between; we don't make each other happy. If she was anyone else in the world, we'd just end it, but it wouldn't do for the queen to get a divorce, even an amicable one. This marriage and title is killing me slowly, but I still care about Eadlyn enough to avoid putting her through that scandal. In public, we're still in love and smiling for the camera. In private, we're…nothing. And I'm not sure which is worse.

There's a knock at my door. "Eikko, are you ready?"

Eadlyn, her voice short and clipped. I groan and sit up. "Yeah. Just a minute."

I have minimal ambition towards any aspect of life these days, but there's no avoiding my princely duties. I haul myself out of bed—I'm already dressed, at least—and make a vague attempt at fixing my hair. I meet Eadlyn in the hallway; she takes my arm, clearly in a mood. I don't ask why. That's not how we work anymore.

She tells me anyway, halfway down the stairs. "Kile's back. I'm not sure how long he'll be here."

Oh.

No wonder she's wound so tightly.

"Okay," I say. Truth be told, I don't care—about anything, really, but especially Kile. We were friends once, but now, nothing. I haven't talked to him (or anyone outside the palace, aside from my parents) in ages.

Eadlyn cares, I think. She won't say it out loud, but I can tell by her snappish tone, the tense way she holds herself. We might be a mess, but I can still usually take a good guess at what's going on in her head. There's plenty of things she thinks she's kept from me, multiple of them involving Kile, that I actually know all about. I just don't care anymore.

She doesn't say anything more, just keeps tugging me along. I'll drag behind if she lets me; I hate this. Even if Eadlyn and I loved each other properly, I think I'd still hate it. Now that Illéa is run by elected officials instead of royalty, there's nothing significant about being the prince consort. It's just smiling for the camera and putting on a show. Maybe I'd hate it less if it meant something, if there was some real impact mixed in with the ridiculous pandering, but it doesn't really matter. It is what it is, and I hate it.

I'm a private person. I'm made for the background and shadows. Putting my life on display goes against my every instinct, and I'm not good at it. I shrink away from the cameras, fumble through all my interviews. Even a terrible photo shoot or television appearance takes so much out of me, until I truly have nothing left to give.

It bothers Eadlyn. All of this is so natural for her; she comes alive under the spotlight in a way I never could. I'm the one who once had a life outside these walls, but I still get the sense that I caged her. I think about it often, who she might have been if she married someone else. Someone who doesn't hold her back, someone better suited to this life.

We don't fight about it. We're past that point, caring so much. There's only clunky, unpleasant silence, with short intervals of playing happy couple when the cameras are on us. I hide out in my room; Eadlyn has better ways to spend her time. The long phone calls, the letters. She doesn't know I know.

Today is much the same. The only deviation from normal is that Eadlyn, always the star of the show, is almost as stiff in front of the cameras as I am. We pretend to exchange gifts, kiss under a plastic mistletoe, fake the things we should probably be doing for real, and she's mechanical. It's not like her. My wife, the queen, she's always been so good at faking it.

We're different that way.

After the stupid photo shoot and question-and-answer segment that follows, for some magazine I've never heard of, I claim I'm not feeling well so I can have dinner in my room. Eadlyn doesn't protest or even give me that I-don't-believe-you look she usually has ready and aimed for moments like this. I'm too tired to wonder why. Maybe I already know why.

I go to my room. I try to sleep. I read for a while. I stare out the window and wonder if things will ever get better. After heavy consideration, I conclude that they will not. The people will only want more from us; fake Christmas celebrations in ridiculous matching sweaters won't be enough. We'll be expected to have children, and how am I supposed to raise a child with someone who, even after five years, is little more than a stranger to me?

Is that really how I want my life to go?

No.

Not really.

I manage to sleep a few hours, forget my inner turmoil and Kile's back and the look Eadlyn didn't give me when I slipped away. I wake around midnight to the creak of my door. I blink, adjusting to the dim light, and for a moment, I think I'm still dreaming, but no. Eadlyn really is climbing into bed with me, kissing me on the mouth with raw, clear intent. She's determined, needy in a way the queen usually isn't, pulling me close and digging her nails in.

Where did this come from?

It's a question I won't bother asking out loud; I suspect I already know the answer. This isn't her; we don't do this anymore. I can't remember the last time we shared a kiss that wasn't for a magazine cover, much less this. If it was anyone other than Eadlyn, I might attribute her sudden interest in me to loss of control, but I've never known a person who keeps their emotions so tightly in check. Really, I can only think of one that might have sparked this, and my heart sinks when it should be speeding up.

"Eadlyn."

She looks more annoyed than disappointed that I've stopped kissing her, cementing my theory that this is not desire for me or even desire in general, but something she thinks she should do. It's not some twisted notion of pleasing me, either; it's something else, a point to prove, a desperate attempt to convince herself our marriage isn't over in every way but one.

"Did something happen?" I ask quietly, evenly. She won't tell me a damn thing, I know, but I'm already certain the answer is yes. It's simple logic. We go months without touching, hardly even looking at each other, but as soon as Kile Woodwork shows up here, she's all over me?

Something happened.

The writing's been on the wall for months, maybe even years. I know it, most of the palace residents and staff know it, but I'm suddenly not sure if Eadlyn does. Denial is a powerful creature; even Her Royal Majesty is susceptible.

"Nothing happened," she says shortly. I don't believe her. "Eikko, please."

She leans towards me, lips parted, so inviting. My breath catches in my throat; I should want this. Part of me does want this, but not enough.

I'm quiet. I'm made for the shadows. I've let so much of this just happen to me—the whirlwind engagement, hundreds of posed pictures, the depressing descent to what we are—but I rock the boat now. In the worst way, the final nail in the coffin, admission. "Just go to him. If he's what you really want."

She's a silhouette on the pillow next to me, the outline of her face. I can barely her grimace—her lack of denial. "You don't mean that," she whispers, a gentler tone than she usually takes with anyone. For a moment, she's the idealized version of herself, the Eadlyn I built up in my head during the Selection. In reality, she's much more complex than the ideal, and I, regrettably, have never been able to keep up.

"I do. Eadlyn, I hate this. I'd rather you were just…honest with me."

And yourself. And Kile, who I'm pretty sure is the only reason we have anything to say to each other right now.

There's a pause. This delusional part of me thinks (hopes) she'll say something like you're crazy. Of course you're the one I want. There's nothing going on with Kile.

But she doesn't. She averts her gaze, takes a shaky breath. "It's not what you think. Nothing's…happened."

I don't argue with her, don't say another word. Wide eyed, Eadlyn stares at me for a moment, like maybe she does have something more to say, but then she slips out of my bed as quickly as she arrived, whispering a faint apology. I don't fault her for it. It wouldn't be fair to. This is a long time coming, the slowest way that glass can shatter. The two of us were never built to last; we're finally admitting it out loud.

I could shut my eyes and curl up under the covers, pretending I don't know what's about to happen a few doors down; that's an option and a compelling one. Instead, once I hear the door shut and know Eadlyn's tiptoeing down the hall, I heave myself out of bed and start throwing things in a suitcase. I don't have much to begin with, and of that, there's very little I'm concerned about leaving behind.

I want what's best for Eadlyn; I always have. For five long years, I've told myself is the best thing for her is me, the lie, everything staying the same. For the first time, I reconsider. Maybe this misery and dead silence is too great a price to pay for peace, when both of us has potential to be happier.

I'll go far away—maybe to Swendway, since this whole mess started because I happened to be fluent in the language—and leave Eadlyn and the royal PR team to pick up the pieces. She can tell the public whatever she wants; I'll be long gone with a different name. No one will recognize me as the prince consort if I'm not on the arm of the queen. I'm invisible. I'm made for the shadows. If I go out of my way to disappear, no one will ever know the difference.