Chapter Text
The sea is quiet today. The kind of quiet that hums, stretched thin between the tide and the horizon.
Belly steadies her camera and exhales with it.
The bride stands barefoot on the sand, a halo of wind tangled hair and white chiffon. The groom can’t stop looking at her- he’s grinning like he’s seeing sunlight for the first time. It’s that small, unguarded look Belly always waits for- the one that makes the whole photograph breathe.
Click.
Another frame, the light flaring gold across the lens. Behind them, the surf folds and unfolds, folding again like a heartbeat. Belly adjusts her settings, steps sideways through the blur of guests and petals, her toes sinking in the cool sand. The scent of salt and champagne drifts up from the tables.
Her phone buzzes in her pocket. Once. Twice. Again.
She ignores it- not now. The light’s perfect, soft as milk, and she’s almost got it: that one photograph where love looks effortless. She crouches lower, hair falling across her face, and presses the shutter just as the wind lifts the bride’s veil into the air like a flag.
Click.
The frame is alive. She smiles, just a little.
Then the phone starts vibrating again, insistently.
She sighs, pulls it from her pocket, squints at the screen.
Taylor (3 missed calls).
Belly’s brows knit. Taylor doesn’t call three times unless something’s either very wrong or very ridiculous.
She moves away from the ceremony, toward the edge of the dunes, the laughter fading behind her. The sand cools under her feet- the world narrows to the sound of the tide and the gulls circling overhead.
She answers. “Taylor? What-”
“Oh my god,” Taylor bursts out, voice high and panicked, “did you see the news? Please tell me you’re near a screen right now-”
“I’m working, calm down-”
“Forget work. It’s our dear king Adam Fisher. He’s been photographed kissing his secretary. In Italy. On a yacht.”
Belly stops walking. Wind whips her hair into her mouth, but she doesn’t move.
“What?”
“I’m serious. It’s everywhere, Belly. The palace is denying it, but the photo- it’s bad. Like, cover-of-every-newspaper bad.”
Belly closes her eyes. The image forms easily in her head - a man in a pressed white shirt, sunlight bouncing off water, the kind of confident smile that doesn’t care who sees.
It was bound to happen.
She’s known for years what most of the country only whispers about- King Adam’s charm has always reached further than it should. To diplomats, to guests, to his secretary, apparently.
What people don’t know is that his marriage to Queen Susannah ended long ago. They stay together for image, for stability, for the crown and its heirs.
For Conrad. For Jeremiah.
The thought hits her before she can stop it.
Conrad.
The boy who hated his father for doing exactly this. The boy who used to flinch when people praised the royal couple.
Don’t talk about them like that, he once said to her, barely older than thirteen, voice sharp with something too raw to be anger. You don’t know them.
She shakes the memory away like seawater. It’s been years.
The boy who once made the palace feel like summer.
“Belly? You there?” Taylor’s voice snaps her back.
“Yeah,” she says, eyes still on the horizon. “I’m here. I just… I guess it was inevitable.”
Taylor sighs. “You sound weirdly calm for someone whose mom has tea with the queen every week.”
She shrugs even though Taylor can’t see her.
“I’m not part of the crown,” Belly says, watching a wave collapse against the shore.
***
For days, the story drowns the world.
Every television hums with headlines. The King’s Betrayal. A Royal Affair.
The palace denies, the tabloids circle like sharks, and the country devours every angle of the scandal.
Belly works. Edits photos. Pretends not to listen to the television playing softly in the background.
But every time the footage flickers- Adam Fisher’s hand on the secretary’s back, Susannah’s composed silence, the princes’ names whispered by reporters- she feels the old ache under her ribs.
She wonders what Conrad must think.
Then she tells herself not to.
***
On the fourth night, Laurel knocks gently on her door.
“Sweetheart? Dinner at the palace this weekend. Formal.”
Belly blinks. “Again? Didn’t we just go last month?”
“Yes, but this one’s… different.” Laurel moves toward the closet, flipping through hangers with that controlled energy she gets when she’s anxious. “Wear something elegant. Maybe that blue one. Or no-” She pauses, thoughtful. “I’ll have a stylist come by. Just to make sure.”
“A stylist?” Belly laughs softly. “Mom, it’s dinner, not a coronation.”
Laurel doesn’t answer. Just gives her a small, distracted smile and leaves the room.
That’s when Belly knows something’s off.
It’s not unusual for the Conklins to be invited.
John- her father- works closely with the palace as a diplomat. Laurel and Queen Susannah go back decades- they still have tea together once a week, trading stories about charity projects and family. Steven and Taylor visit often, now that Taylor’s officially his fiancée. Jeremiah drops by Belly’s studio whenever he’s free, still the same sun warm boy he’s always been.
But Belly herself hasn’t walked those marble halls much since she was a kid. Not since before the older prince left for his studies abroad, and everything between them went quiet.
***
That night, Taylor calls again, voice full of mischief and worry.
“So, did your mom tell you about the royal invite?”
“Yes,” Belly says, brushing hair out of her face. “She’s acting strange. Picked my dress, called in a stylist. It’s weird.”
“Maybe it’s related to the scandal,” Taylor says. “A sympathy dinner or a PR thing. You know how they are- smile for the cameras while the world’s burning.”
Belly hums noncommittally, but her chest feels tight again.
She looks at the lavender dress hanging by her window- the one Laurel chose, delicate and understated, almost regal- and wonders why her mother’s voice had trembled when she had looked at her.
And somewhere beneath it all, a single thought she can’t quite shake:
The palace is calling them.
And this time, nothing about it feels ordinary.
***
The palace looks unreal against the dusk.
White stone and glass rising from the cliffs, windows catching the last blush of the sun. The sea below glitters like a secret. Belly watches from the car window as they pass through the iron gates, the gold crest of the crown glinting overhead.
When they pull up to the entrance, attendants are already waiting. Lanterns burn low along the marble steps, the faint hum of a string quartet drifting from inside. Laurel smooths her dress, John straightens his cufflinks, and Steven takes Taylor’s hand.
Belly lingers for a second before following them in.
Inside, the palace glows with too much light- chandeliers cascading like waterfalls, marble floors polished enough to reflect faces. The scent of roses and candle wax clings to the air. She remembers it all- the hallways she used to run through barefoot, the paintings that watched her grow up.
A steward guides them through the Golden Gallery, where portraits of monarchs line the walls like silent witnesses, and into a smaller reception salon- a warm, gold-toned room where the Queen entertains guests before dinner.
Queen Susannah rises from a velvet chair as they enter. “Laurel, John,” she says, her smile gracious, her voice soft but threaded with fatigue. “It is so very nice to see you.”
“Your Majesty,” Laurel says warmly, and the two women embrace lightly- a gesture of friendship disguised as formality.
King Adam stands by the fireplace, expression carefully neutral, a glass of something amber in his hand. The scandal doesn’t show on his face, but it hums beneath the surface, an unspoken presence in the room.
“Welcome,” he says, nodding to John. “We’re grateful for your time.”
The adults fall into polite conversation- diplomacy, charity, the polite avoidance of any mention of the press.
Belly takes a seat on one of the low couches beside Taylor and Steven. She tries not to stare at the gilded clock ticking on the mantle.
Jeremiah’s absence stretches longer by the minute.
Susannah glances at the doorway every so often, her smile flickering when the footman returns empty-handed. “The prince is just running late,” she says softly.
Laurel turns to Belly. “Why don’t you go see what’s keeping him, sweetheart? You know he’s probably gotten lost in that record player of his again.”
Belly hesitates. Normally, guests don’t just wander the East Wing unaccompanied- but she’s been doing that since she was ten. And Susannah doesn’t object.
“Alright,” she says lightly, standing. “I’ll go drag him down.”
A guard at the doorway shifts to attention as she approaches. “Miss Conklin,” he says, half a question.
“I’ll just check on the prince,” Belly answers, already walking. “You can come if you need to.”
He nods and follows at a respectful distance as she crosses into the quieter part of the palace.
The corridors here are different- softer light, thicker silence. The portraits change from kings and queens to candid paintings of children- Jeremiah laughing in the gardens, Conrad’s solemn profile half-turned toward the sea.
Belly’s steps slow. The air smells faintly of salt and something older- like dust and lavender.
She reaches the landing where the hallway forks- Jeremiah’s room to the left, Conrad’s to the right.
Her eyes drift that way before she can stop herself.
Conrad’s door is closed.
But she remembers it perfectly- the way the light used to spill from beneath it, the muffled sound of a piano, the balcony that looked out over the water.
She used to sneak there at night when they were kids.
Barefoot, wrapped in a blanket, trying not to wake the guards. Conrad would already be awake, leaning against the railing, the telescope beside him. They’d whisper about constellations and summer storms until the sky turned pale.
The memory aches, sudden and sharp.
A sound breaks the silence- a door closing, faint footsteps against the marble.
She turns. “Jere? Is that you?”
No answer.
Then someone steps around the corner, and Belly’s heart stutters.
Because it isn’t Jeremiah.
At the far end of the corridor, in the spill of moonlight, stands Prince Conrad Fisher.
For a heartbeat, Belly feels the ground slip beneath her feet.
Conrad Fisher is not the boy she remembers.
He’s older now- no longer the lanky fifteen-year-old who smelled like salt and pine, but a man who carries the weight of a crown in his shoulders. The years have sculpted him- the sharp line of his jaw, the quiet steadiness in his eyes.
She’s seen him in photographs, of course. Polished portraits released by the palace- charity visits, military ceremonies, stiff smiles for the press- all abroad. But standing here, in the dim hush of the East Wing, none of those images come close.
If fifteen-year-old Conrad was beautiful, twenty-five-year-old Conrad is devastating.
He’s looking straight at her, lips parted just slightly, and for a moment Belly wonders if he even recognizes her. Ten years is a long time. He left without a word, and the boy who never tried to get in touch with her could easily have forgotten the diplomat’s daughter who used to chase him through the halls.
Maybe he thinks she’s an intruder.
Maybe she should speak before he calls for the guards.
She opens her mouth to explain- but his voice reaches her first.
“Belly?”
It’s soft, almost a whisper, yet it reverberates through her like a memory she’d buried too deep.
Remembering herself, she dips into a small curtsy. “Your Highness.”
He exhales something that might be a laugh. “It’s really you.”
He takes a few slow steps forward, the sound of his boots echoing off the marble.
Belly swallows, heat crawling up her neck. “You… remember who I am?” The disbelief edges into her voice before she can hide it.
Conrad stops in front of her, and God- he’s tall. The air between them hums.
“Of course I remember.” His mouth curves, faint but genuine. “How could I forget the girl who told me to fuck off every chance she got?”
Color floods her cheeks. “I was twelve. And you were the one who taught me how to say ‘fuck.’”
He laughs- low, rougher than she remembers- and the sound hits her square in the chest.
Then another voice cuts through the hall.
“Belly?”
She spins around. “Jere!”
Jeremiah is striding toward them, grin bright enough to light the corridor. Belly rushes the last few steps and throws her arms around him.
“I was looking for you,” she says, muffled against his shoulder.
He laughs, pulling back but keeping his hands on her arms. “I went to the sitting room and you weren’t there.”
“Yeah, well, you were late. I came here to find you.”
If the press ever saw this, they’d have a field day. But Jeremiah has never treated her like someone who needed permission, and Belly’s grateful for that.
Jeremiah glances past her to his brother. “You’re joining us for dinner, right?”
The easy warmth drains from Conrad’s face. His gaze slides somewhere over their shoulders, toward the unseen dining room and all it represents.
“Father made it clear I have no choice.”
The words hang heavy in the air, tasting faintly of bitterness and something unspoken.
***
Conrad follows them at a distance.
Belly doesn’t have to turn to know; she can feel it- the weight of his gaze tracing the back of her neck, steady and unreadable. Every few steps, the fine hairs on her arms rise.
The marble floors catch their reflections as they walk, gilded frames and candlelight slipping past like a moving painting. Belly focuses on the soft click of her heels, on keeping her breath even, but her pulse has a mind of its own.
She tells herself it doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter.
But when she catches a glimpse of herself in one of the tall mirrors- a blur of lavender silk, a touch of shimmer at her collarbone, the careful waves the stylist coaxed into her hair- she feels a rush of something light and giddy.
Maybe it’s wrong, maybe it’s childish, but there’s a flicker of satisfaction in knowing she looks her best tonight, of all nights.
The night Conrad Fisher is seeing her again after ten years.
They reach the double doors to the reception salon, the faint murmur of voices spilling from the other side. A guard steps forward, bowing slightly before pushing them open.
Belly moves instinctively to the side, letting the princes enter first- because that’s how these things are supposed to go.
But Conrad stops beside her.
A quiet pause, the air between them taut as silk.
“Ladies first,” he says softly.
The words brush against her like a current.
“Oh- no, your highness, I-”
He shakes his head once, eyes catching hers. “It’s Conrad, Belly.”
The sound of her name in his voice unravels her composure for a split second. It’s lower now, rougher around the edges, but there’s something familiar beneath it- something she remembers from the balcony nights and whispered dares.
She draws a small, sharp breath. “Conrad.”
His lips twitch- not quite a smile, but close enough to feel like one.
Jeremiah, ever the savior in awkward silences, groans lightly and catches her wrist. “Come on now, before Mother sends a search party.”
Belly lets him tug her forward, her pulse skipping as the guard swings the doors wide.
The room glows with soft gold light- fireplace flickering, crystal glasses chiming faintly as servants move between the guests. Laurel and John are seated near Queen Susannah, laughter rising and falling like the tide. Taylor sits on the edge of a velvet couch beside Steven, twisting her engagement ring absently.
Belly’s eyes find her immediately. Taylor’s gaze flicks up, landing on the princes behind Belly- and freezes.
Her mouth drops open in shock so visible that Belly almost laughs.
Because yes- Prince Conrad Fisher, the ghost of a decade, has just walked into the room as if he never left.
But the rest of the room doesn’t even flinch.
Susannah rises from her chair, her face breaking into a smile so full of quiet emotion that Belly’s chest tightens.
“Conrad,” the Queen says softly.
He bends to kiss her cheek, and the entire space seems to exhale.
Then, to Belly’s utter disbelief, Conrad steps past his mother and moves toward Laurel.
“My sweet boy,” Laurel says, smiling like she’s seeing one of her own sons. She cups his face briefly, maternal and tender. “It’s so good to see you again.”
Conrad’s expression softens in a way Belly’s never seen in any photograph.
Beside her, Taylor murmurs, “Okay, what is happening right now?”
Belly doesn’t answer. She’s too busy trying to reconcile the sight before her- the easy familiarity, the warmth, the way everyone seems to have known this was coming.
Steven shakes Conrad’s hand, laughing like this is the most natural reunion in the world. Even John nods at him with quiet approval.
Why is no one surprised?
Belly stands frozen, a polite smile plastered on her face, her heart beating so hard it almost hurts.
Why is everyone acting as if he didn’t just appear out of nowhere?
As if ten years of silence never happened.
As if it’s only her who didn’t know he was back.
And maybe it is.
Maybe she’s the only one who didn’t see this coming.
***
The dining hall glows like something out of a dream.
Soft chandeliers drip light onto the long table, the crystal glinting, the air carrying faint notes of citrus and wine. Conversations weave in and out- graceful, practiced, the way people sound when they’ve lived their whole lives around cameras.
Belly sits between her mother and Steven, her back straight, her napkin folded neatly in her lap. Across from her- almost perfectly opposite- sits Conrad.
The distance between them is no more than a few feet, but it feels impossible, like a chasm ten years wide.
He looks exactly as she remembers, and nothing like she remembers at all.
There’s a new calmness to him- shoulders squared, movements measured- but his eyes are still the same sea green that once watched the stars with her until dawn.
She glances up once, twice, tells herself to stop- but every time, she finds him already looking back.
It’s subtle, the kind of thing no one else would notice- the faint tilt of his head when she laughs at something Steven says, the way his gaze lingers a second too long when she reaches for her glass.
Belly feels heat rise to her cheeks and looks away, forcing herself to focus on the silverware, the murmured conversation about trade reforms, the faint clinking of plates.
But her chest feels tight, her heart thrumming in a rhythm she hasn’t heard in a decade.
Why is he looking at her like that?
Why does he get to look at her at all after all these years?
Laurel and Conrad are deep in conversation. Belly catches snippets- charity projects, Switzerland, the new advisory council. There’s laughter, soft and familiar.
And something inside her twists.
He’s been in touch.
Of course he has.
Laurel’s eyes light up when she talks to him, the way they used to when the princes were younger and the families spent summers together at the palace. Steven chimes in now and then, asking about the school Conrad attended, about skiing in Geneva, about his return.
None of them sound like they’re seeing him for the first time in years.
Belly stares down at her plate, her appetite gone.
So he never disappeared, not really.
He just disappeared from her.
When he left at fifteen- sent to that prestigious academy meant to carve him into a king- she’d told herself she understood. He wasn’t allowed a phone, the palace had said. His letters would be read, screened. She’d waited anyway, every day for months, checking the mailbox like it might have something more than bills and magazines.
Nothing ever came.
She’d thought maybe he’d forgotten her. Or maybe he’d just… changed.
But now, watching him talk so easily to her mother- to her brother- it hits her that he hadn’t been cut off from everyone. He’d simply chosen who to stay in touch with.
And it hadn’t been her.
Her throat feels tight. She takes a sip of water to hide the tremor in her jaw.
Later, when he left for Switzerland, she’d seen the headlines- Prince Conrad to Attend University Abroad. She remembers scrolling through articles, staring at grainy photos of him surrounded by classmates in crisp coats, wondering if he’d still think of her when he saw the night sky.
Apparently not.
She tells herself it’s fine. That it doesn’t matter.
They were just friends. A diplomat’s daughter and a crown princ- what could that ever mean, really?
So what if she’d spent half her teenage years pretending she didn’t have a crush on him? So what if she’d imagined what it would’ve been like if he’d stayed, if maybe-
No.
She cuts the thought off before it can go anywhere.
She smiles at something Taylor whispers, pretending her chest isn’t aching. Pretending the boy across from her didn’t once make her world feel like summer- and then leave her in the longest winter.
But when she looks up again, just for a moment- he’s still watching her.
Eyes steady. Unflinching.
Like maybe he’s wondering the same thing she is.
***
The sitting room smells faintly of sandalwood and polished oak, the air heavy with something unspoken.
The family gathers as if for a private performance- two sets of parents, and their children arranged neatly between them like chess pieces waiting to be moved.
The Queen’s pearls catch the light when she lifts her chin. “The reason we’ve all gathered here- and the reason we have insisted for the Crown Prince to return to the kingdom- has to do with… certain unfortunate events that have happened recently.”
Her tone is calm, but there’s a tremor beneath it.
Even the fire in the hearth crackles softly, as though careful not to intrude.
Belly sits stiffly beside her mother, hands folded in her lap. She glances at Conrad, who’s leaning back in his chair, one long leg crossed over the other, expression unreadable. Jeremiah sits beside him, frowning slightly, gaze flicking between his brother and the Queen.
The communications secretary to the king and the queen, Mr. James- a thin, severe man with a voice like paper- clears his throat.
“The palace,” he begins, “is under immense scrutiny from the public and facing pressure from Parliament. It is our duty to protect the integrity of the Crown and the confidence of our people.”
His words fall like small stones into a well.
Belly doesn’t understand what any of this has to do with them. But Laurel and John… they’re sitting too still, too prepared. They already know.
And that’s when it hits her- whatever this is, her parents have already agreed.
Conrad’s voice slices through the silence, smooth and cold.
“You mean how Father has fucked up again and now we’re all here to clean his mess.”
The word fucked lands like a slap in the royal salon.
No one breathes for a moment.
“Conrad,” Queen Susannah sighs, a quiet plea. “Please.”
And like a child caught in the act, he exhales and leans back, the rebellion slipping from his face, leaving only fatigue.
Mr. James nods stiffly, as if such remarks are expected from the prince. “Yes, well… as His Royal Highness said, the situation has become quite challenging. The Palace’s image must be restored. We must divert public attention and present a narrative that reinforces trust in the monarchy.”
He straightens his notes, his eyes flicking across the room.
“The Palace has therefore proposed an alliance between the Crown and its most trusted subjects- the Conklin family.”
A shiver runs through Belly’s spine. Alliance sounds old-fashioned. Medieval.
Something in her stomach twists.
“What sort of alliance?” Steven asks, his diplomat’s son voice measured, cautious.
Mr. James hesitates only a fraction before he turns toward Belly.
“A marriage alliance,” he says smoothly. “Between Ms. Isabel Conklin… and His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Conrad.”
The world drops out from under her feet.
It’s as if the sound drains from the room- the ticking clock, the fire, even her own breathing.
Across the room, Conrad’s head jerks toward his mother. His eyes find Belly’s for half a second, wide and stunned, before darting away again.
“Mother-”
“Conrad,” Queen Susannah says softly, her smile gentle, her eyes determined. “We have decided this after much consideration.”
Belly can barely hear over the ringing in her ears.
Marriage. To him.
Once- long ago- she would have wept with joy to hear those words. When she was ten, she used to dream of it- her Prince Charming. But dreams are cruel things- they never survive the light of growing up.
Especially not after he left without a word.
“It’s a little hard to believe people would buy it so easily,” Steven says, his tone calm but sharp-edged, like their father’s. “A sudden marriage between a returning prince and a diplomat’s daughter doesn’t sound very convincing.”
Mr. James inclines his head. “A very fair observation, Mr. Conklin. Which is why we plan to build the narrative.”
He speaks clinically, like he’s explaining a press rollout, not rewriting their lives.
“There will be photographs leaked to the press- images of the prince and Ms. Conklin spending time together. The public will believe the childhood friends have reconnected. In a few weeks, we will release more content, building the story of a rekindled romance. Finally, the formal engagement will be announced.”
Belly’s throat tightens. Childhood friends reuniting.
They’re taking her memories- real, fragile pieces of her- and turning them into a publicity strategy.
“Isabel,” the Queen says suddenly, her voice softer, almost kind. “You have always been dear to me. I’ve loved you like my own daughter. I would very much like to make that true.”
Belly opens her mouth, but no sound comes out.
Her pulse pounds in her ears.
“Why him?” Jeremiah’s voice cuts through the quiet.
All heads turn.
He’s sitting forward now, eyes hard, voice unsteady. “Why should Belly have to marry him? If a marriage alliance is what you need, it should be me and Belly.”
Belly blinks. The words don’t make sense at first. Jeremiah- sweet, sunlit Jeremiah?
“What I mean is,” he says quickly, more composed, “Belly doesn’t even know him anymore. I think she and I would be a far better match.”
Belly feels heat climb her neck- embarrassment, confusion, anger.
Why are they all talking like she isn’t even here? Like her life is something to be passed across a table and negotiated in low voices?
But before she can speak, Conrad does.
“Yes,” he says flatly, his jaw tight. “Let them marry each other. I’ve sacrificed enough of my life for the crown.”
The words hit her like a blow.
Her face burns.
So that’s how it is.
The idea of marrying her is that unbearable.
Her chair scrapes quietly against the marble as she stands. Her knees are trembling, but her voice is steady.
“My sincere apologies, Your Majesty,” she says, her throat raw. “But I’m not interested in marrying either of your sons.”
She curtsies.
Bows her head.
And walks out, each step measured, graceful- until she’s out of their sight, and her breath breaks.
She doesn’t look back. Not once.
***