Royally Not Ready(131)

“No, it’s not. It hurts, but I’m more angry than heartbroken, if I’m honest.”

“I can understand that.” And then, because I can’t help myself, I ask, “Do you think I’m being ridiculous?”

“Not in the slightest. He hurt you and probably in one of the worst ways. Your feelings are completely justified. Now, read that note.”

“Okay.” I unfold it and focus on his familiar handwriting. I scroll over it briefly and say, “I think it’s a poem.”

Lara smiles. “Ah, that seems right.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, there’s some Viking in that man, if you haven’t noticed.”

“I have,” I say, my mind going to his large frame and blond hair, his protective instincts.

“One of the ways a Viking would express their love to someone was through simple poetry. There’s no structure, no format, just a declaration of their feelings. This makes sense to me.”

“Oh.” And then I remember something he said to me at Harrogate. If he ever tried to woo me, he’d write poetry. Is that what he’s trying to do? Only one way to find out. I focus on the poem and read it quietly to myself.

There is no way to explain,

This burning, merciless feeling,

Biting through my bones.

It eclipses my thoughts,

It burrows into my veins,

A cataclysmic force so strong,

I can’t breathe.

I need you.

I broke us.

It’s broken me.

My teeth run over my bottom lip as I read the poem a few more times, his words hitting me like a tornado, swirling around, confusing yet comforting.

I look up and stare at the road ahead.

Quietly, Lara asks, “Was it good?”

I nod, my tongue peeking out to wet my lips. “It was good.”

“Not surprised,” she says.

And the rest of the drive, we’re both silent, Keller on my mind the whole time.





“Right this way, Miss Campbell,” Henrik says as he moves me past a swarm of people and into an art gallery.

I can feel Lara right behind me as we make our way into an open, wood-planked room with vaulted ceilings, white walls, and beautiful art hung all around the perimeter, ranging from landscapes to abstracts to portraits.

“Oh, wow,” I say as I take in all the walls. “This is stunning.”

“We have some truly brilliant artists in Torskethorpe,” says Olga, the art curator. “I’m going to take you around the room and have the artists speak of their work.”

“That would be wonderful,” I say as we walk up to a beautiful landscape depicting the ocean. Familiar hot springs are nestled in the corner, and as I get closer, it hits me. I know exactly where this is located. My eyes drift to the name of the picture. My First and Only Love. And then underneath the title is the name. Keller Fitzwilliam.

What on earth?

There’s no way.

“Ah, and here is the artist now,” Olga says as a large presence steps into my line of vision.

Keller stands before me in a navy blue suit and black button-up shirt, the top two buttons undone. His hair is slicked to the side, and his face is freshly shaved. Just the slightest hint of the bruise under his eye remains. If I didn’t know it was there, I wouldn’t have noticed.

“Mr. Keller Fitzwilliam.”

As I’ve been taught, I hold out my hand, and Keller takes it, slipping another piece of paper into my fingers as he bows.

“Princess Lilly, it’s a pleasure,” he says, his fingers lingering on mine for a brief moment before he squeezes them three times and pulls away.

I love you.

It’s subtle. I’m the only one who knows what he’s saying and doing, but it feels like the entire world is watching my reaction.

“H-hello,” I say, stumbling over my words thanks to my racing heart. I’m holding on tightly to the piece of paper in my hand. “Please, tell me about your beautiful painting.”

“This is called My First and Only Love, inspired by the place where I fell in love off the coast of the southern peninsula. I’ve never felt a love as fierce, as powerful, as for the woman who captured my heart. I wanted to express the devotion I have for her through art.”

My heart is hammering so hard I can barely hear Keller over the roar. “It’s . . . it’s breathtaking,” I say.

He nods. “Just like the love of my life.”

Dear.

God.

I clear my throat and offer him a small smile before Olga directs me to the next artist. I gently place the note in Lara’s hand, knowing she’ll keep it safe for me.

We walk through the gallery, and I hear story after story for every piece of art. The whole time, I can feel Keller’s eyes burning for me, following me, and when it’s time for me to leave, he’s still standing next to his painting, his hands in front of him. There’s a proud set to his shoulders. He looks less defeated, more empowered—as he should. I can’t remember a single thing about any of the other paintings in this room, besides his.

“I’ve never felt a love as fierce or powerful as for the woman who captured my heart. I wanted to express the devotion I have for her through art.”

I don’t even know if I acted the way I was supposed to, because my mind has been molded into only thinking about Keller.