04. Rory Preston

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"FOUR FRACTURED RIBS. A SPRAINED TAILBONE. A SNAPPED ankle. Lacerations on your upper chest. Abrasions on your neck. And let's not forget—your broken leg."

The doctor—Chevy—was looking down at her with something like condescension.

He was the royal physician. Which meant he had been sent by her father, checking up on her.

It went unsaid—the fact that the king didn't trust her.

He was making sure she wasn't lying about the accident.

"Are you satisfied?" Rory said. There was enough morphine in her system to choke a chihuahua. "Because I'm sure my father will be so happy to hear he was right."

"He was also wondering about the reported news of the—er, the hot tub—"

Rory enjoyed watching Doctor Chevy turn red.

"The hot tub?" she said innocently.

"The rumours about the—two young celebrities—"

"Oh, you mean the orgy I had with Cara Delevigne and Ashley Benson in the hot tub of the Alpacian ski lodge?"

The physician choked. Sputtered, "You—your—"

"Well, if you'd like to know the details, I suggest asking, Doctor."

"That's not what I—you—your father will hear about this."

"Oh, good," Rory said. "Would he like a full list of the rumours that are true? Because just last week, there was talk about me and Ruby Rose—"

"That's enough, Rory," said Simon, pushing the door open.

Somehow, he had a sixth sense for trouble.

"I was just getting started. Don't you think the king would want to know about the threesome I had with Lily Rose Depp and Timotheé Chalamet?"

"No," Simon growled. "I don't think the king wants to know that."

To the royal physician, Rory said, "Just one thing, Doctor."

He looked at her reluctantly, as though he was preparing himself to hear the full details of her steamy time in the hot tub.

"My leg . . . are you sure it will be six weeks? Because the Charity Ball—"

"You won't be attending," he said firmly. "Not unless you try physical therapy and active treatment. Even then, it's a long shot."

She had to try. The Charity Ball was in one month from now.

"You can leave now," Simon said, just shy of barking.

He probably knew the reason the royal physician had been sent—verifying Rory's injuries. Making it wasn't a publicity stunt.

It made Rory feel a little better to know he was on her side.

Until he said, "What were you thinking?"

"What? I thought my father would be interested to know which rumours are true and which aren't."

"Not about that," Simon snarled. "How about you requesting Paris?"

Rory slunk back against the hospital bed.

"I just thought it would be fun to—"

Simon closed the door, shuttering the blinds to the window.

"Tell me the truth, Rory," he said. "Do you still have feelings for her?"

"No!" she said.

Rory thought of Paris's smile, silhouetted in soft sunlight. The way her soft brown skin and burnished ringlets had glowed.

Cinnamon and sugar.

"I don't have feelings for her," she said coldly. "I just thought—"

"You thought what?"

"She's the only person I know here. I trust her—as a doctor."

"As a doctor," Simon repeated, raising a dark brow.

"As a doctor," Rory said through clenched teeth.

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THE KING STARED AT RORY.

Rory stared back.

"I'm so glad you think this incident is amusing," he said.

"It might surprise you to hear this, Father, but I don't think my broken leg is amusing."

"That would surprise me," said the king.

The tablet she held in both hands, projecting her father's face, grew hot in her grip.

He looked the same as always. A bold jaw, chestnut hair, and the same severe frown he wore during press meetings. He was a handsome man—both Rory and Declan had taken after him, and most of the features between Rory and her father were similar. The straight nose. The high, proud cheekbones. The model-like bone structure. The only thing different was their eyes, because while Declan had inherited that dark, sullen colour, Rory had been gifted—or cursed—with her mother's hazel.

"You know why I need to attend the Charity Ball," Rory snapped.

"And yet," he said, his expression stone. "This is your fault."

It was. It really, truly was.

One of these days, you're going to break your neck.

Well, she had broken her leg. Close enough.

"Father," she began. "I—"

What she would have said, she didn't know.

Her father rose, placing his hands on the glossy dark wood of the desk. Behind him, she could see the library she had once roamed as a child. Dark hues of magenta and rose and rich brown lined the bookshelves.

"I have allowed this—this entitlement for far too long, Rory," he said. "You have squandered your money, spending it on—orgies—and private jets and anything your heart desires. But you're the heir of Valeria now, and once I step down, you will be queen. You need to start acting like it."

Hearing the king spit out the word orgies like it was poisonous made her want to laugh. If it weren't the expression on his face—more serious, more grave than she had ever seen it.

She was in trouble. And she . . . she shouldn't have been surprised.

"That's not what I spend my money on!" she snapped.

He silenced her with a wave. "Your brother is gone now, Rory, and I won't let you go down that same road. You were this close to dying. You need to start acting responsibly. You are no longer the same troublemaker who attended Vega's Boarding Academy for Ladies, and if you don't start acting like the princess you are—the princess who will one day inherit Valeria—then I will have no choice."

When he looked at her then, it was with the heavy disappointment she had only ever seen once in her childhood.

She remembered this expression—from the morning after her mother had left.

"I have already put in the motion a plan for a new heir," he finished, not meeting her eyes.

She opened her mouth, planning to argue, when it hit her.

A new heir. A new heir . . . that wasn't her.

"You're going to—to disinherit me?" she blurted out.

Thank God, Simon wasn't here to witness this. The door was closed, the windows drawn. She was here alone, just her and her father on the screen of the tablet.

"You have six weeks to prove to me that you deserve the crown," he said. "Otherwise, I . . . I will not regret this."

Then the call ended, his face disappearing from the screen of the tablet.

A new heir.

Which meant that if she didn't do something worthwhile before Christmas, she'd be replaced.

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Thoughts? How's she going to prove herself?

This one was for you, Cate. I hope your life is complete ;)

This book is going to be done in time for Christmas by the way!

From the moon and back,

Sarai