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Prologue
A queen doesn’t mourn the same way a woman does.
Wife.
Widow.
She doesn’t curl up and soak her pillowcase in tears. She doesn’t stare at the wall and lose long stretches of time, even when her grief is so heavy it becomes hard to think or breathe or move.
No, a queen must be a queen before anything else. She wears black and looks mournful—but not so much that the kingdom worries for her mental state. She dabs her eyes with a monogrammed handkerchief, but she doesn’t wail. Her tears are restrained. Her voice doesn’t tremble when she gives a speech to the kingdom, telling its citizens that the man she meant to grow old with is dead.
A queen’s back remains straight, her shoulders always thrown back. Her hair is perfectly styled. She knows her clothing will be the subject of scrutiny, so it must remain flawless. She accepts condolences with grace, but doesn’t share her own suffering. There’s no one to share it with.
She takes her own broken, malfunctioning body—one that refused to give her an heir—and she accepts that pain with the rest of the agony in her spirit. Gulps it down like a bitter potion, wondering if her failures somehow caused this tragedy to happen. If in some twisted version of reality, she might deserve to walk through life alone.
A queen doesn’t buckle or bend or break.
She takes her suffering and buries it under a thousand miles of ice. As she stares out at the cold, snowy kingdom over which she rules, she sees the next decades of her life laid out at her feet.
She’ll walk through the snow and embrace the numb coldness in her heart. She’ll leave behind the wife she used to be. The mother she never was. The girl who smiled and laughed.
She’ll give her kingdom what it needs.
A monarch.
A leader.
A queen.
1
Penelope
A bead of sweat starts a long journey at the nape of my neck and travels down my spine. Another adventurous droplet gets a head start from right between my boobs. They both trickle in unison down my body, and I wonder which will reach my panties first. Surprisingly, the sweat race currently taking place on my overheated skin is not the worst thing about today. At least if I focus on how uncomfortable I feel physically, I don’t need to think about the emotional riot currently taking place inside my chest.
It’s been nearly seven years since my husband died in a skiing accident, but going to weddings still makes my gut twist. Time, it seems, doesn’t heal this wound.
Seeing other people’s happiness—remembering how full of love and hope I used to be—makes me realize just how frigid I’ve become.
I guess the names I’m called in the kingdom’s newspapers are accurate.
Ice Queen. Heartless Witch. Cold. Bitter. The Worst Thing to Happen to the Arctic Since Climate Change.
Okay, okay. I made that last one up, but I wouldn’t be surprised if I saw it splashed across the front page of a tabloid.
A waiter hands me a flute of champagne. He bows his head with trembling reverence, making sure to never make eye contact. I take the glass without a word and relish the cool feeling of the glass beneath my fingertips. The waiter lifts his eyes up to stare at my face and immediately reddens and drops his head.
I know people call me a bitch. I suppose I probably am one. How else am I supposed to act? I have a kingdom to run, and pleasantries aren’t high on my list of priorities.
The waiter scurries away as I sip my drink, my lipstick leaving a dusty pink mark on the rim. It tastes terrible—but maybe that’s just my own discomfort at having to be here. The champagne is probably lovely and expensive. Fit for royalty.
A warm breeze ruffles my hair. My armpits are soaked. Who the heck decided an outdoor wedding is ever a good idea? And an outdoor royal wedding? Somewhere as warm as this?
Please.
That’s just asking for soggy paparazzi photos.
Sure, the series of tents they’ve set up beside the rose garden at Westhill Palace are immaculately decorated. The sun is shining and a string quartet plays delicate melodies that accompany the birds in the trees. It’s…gorgeous. I guess.
