Aziza had always believed that being a princess involved a crown. Apparently, she had been wrong. According to the woman sitting across from her at the long table in one of the palace's smaller receiving rooms, being a princess involved posture, pronunciation, history, etiquette, diplomacy, charity, public speaking, and an alarming number of rules about which fork to use.
Aziza stared at the silverware arranged before her. There were six forks.
Six.
She glanced at Mrs. Hart, “Are all of those necessary?”
The woman didn't even blink. “For a formal state dinner, yes.”
Aziza slowly looked back at the table, “I think I'm beginning to understand why some cultures eat with their hands.”
A tiny smile appeared at the corner of the woman's mouth before disappearing.
Success!
Since the start of the lesson, Aziza had been trying to break through the woman’s outer exterior. According to Reggie, Mrs. Hart was a very stern and strict teacher. She had spent nearly twenty years preparing members of Valoria's royal family for public life. She had an elegant posture, perfectly pinned gray hair, and the unnerving ability to notice every mistake Aziza made. Including the way she was currently sitting.
“Shoulders back, Your Highness.”
Aziza immediately straightened, “Sorry.”
“There's no need to apologize. Simply correct it.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
Mrs. Hart nodded. “Again.”
Sighing, Aziza lifted her chin, straightened her shoulders, placed her hands neatly in her lap, and tried very hard not to think about how much easier college had been. The professors, at least, didn't care which fork she used.
The lesson had started nearly an hour ago with introductions and an explanation of what her new responsibilities might eventually look like. Mrs. Hart had talked about charity appearances, cultural events, diplomatic functions, and the importance of understanding Valorian traditions.
Aziza had listened carefully. She wanted to learn, but that was the problem. She actually wanted to learn. She just didn't want to become someone else in the process.
“Your Highness?”
“Yes,” Aziza blinked.
Mrs. Hart folded her hands, “What is the purpose of a royal greeting?”
Aziza considered the question. “To greet someone?”
Mrs. Hart waited.
“That was probably not the answer you were looking for,” Aziza sighed.
“No.”
“To show respect?”
“Better.”
“To make the other person feel welcome?”
Mrs. Hart nodded, “Precisely. Royal etiquette isn't merely about appearances. It is about communicating respect.”
Aziza relaxed slightly. That made sense. “So it's not really about memorizing rules.”
“Rules help you communicate without thinking about the mechanics.”
Aziza glanced at the forks again, “Except for those.”
Mrs. Hart smiled, “Those are still about communication.”
“How does a fork communicate?”
“That you know what you're doing.”
Aziza couldn't help laughing.
The door opened and they both looked up. Greg stood in the doorway. He had changed from the formal clothes he'd worn earlier into dark trousers and a simple button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. Aziza's heart gave an annoying little flutter, which she immediately ignored.
Greg looked from her to Mrs. Hart, “Am I interrupting?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Hart answered.
Greg nodded solemnly, “Excellent.”
Aziza laughed. How could he have such a serious look on his face, while making a joke?
Mrs. Hart shook her head, “His Highness has always been a difficult student.”
“That's a very polite way of saying it,” Greg said. “I've heard worse.”
He walked into the room and leaned against the edge of the table. “How's it going?”
Aziza pointed at the silverware, “There are six forks.”
“I know.”
“Why?”
“Because the palace enjoys making people nervous.”
Mrs. Hart cleared her throat, “Prince Alexander.”
“Yes?”
“You have a lesson scheduled immediately after this one.”
Greg looked at Aziza, “So do you.”
“What?” Aziza's smile disappeared.
“Dance lessons.”
Her stomach dropped, “No.”
“Yes.”
“I don't dance.”
“You did in Vegas.”
“I don't remember Vegas.”
“That might explain why you think you don't dance.”
She narrowed her eyes, “You're enjoying this.”
“Immensely.”
Mrs. Hart stood, “Well, I believe I'll leave the two of you to your next lesson.”
Aziza watched her gather her notes, “Wait. You're leaving me alone with him?”
Mrs. Hart's expression remained perfectly serious, “You've apparently survived worse.”
Greg grinned, as Aziza groaned. This was not how she expected her first full day at the palace would go.
A few minutes later, they were in a larger ballroom. The polished floor reflected the sunlight pouring through enormous windows. Aziza stared at their reflections.
“This is ridiculous.”
Greg held out his hand, “You're going to be fine.”
“I nearly died learning which fork to use.”
“You survived, though.”
“Barely.”
He laughed, still waiting on her. She reluctantly placed her hand in his, while he placed his other hand respectfully at her upper back. She became suddenly aware of how close they were. Not too close, and not inappropriate. Just close enough for her to notice the warmth of his hand and the familiar scent of his cologne.
Her pulse quickened, and she hated that.
“You're nervous,” Greg said.
“I am not.”
“Then why are you holding my hand like you're trying to break it?”
Immediately, she loosened her grip, “Sorry.”
“There you go again.”
“What?”
“Apologizing.”
Aziza looked at him, “You make me nervous.”
The words slipped out before she could stop them. That was not what she meant to say.
Greg's expression softened, “I know.”
Something about the way he said it made her chest tighten.
He stepped backward, “Now, follow me.”
She tried; however, she ended up stepping left when he stepped right. Then, she stepped on his foot.
“Oh!” Greg winced.
“Sorry!”
He laughed, “Aziza.”
“I did it again.”
“You're allowed to make mistakes,” he smiled. “Especially when you're learning.”
She looked at him, and found she couldn't help smiling back.
“Okay, but this would probably work better if we had some music playing.”
“Next time. Let’s just focus on the basics,” he paused for a moment. “However, if it would help, how about this?”
Immediately, Greg started humming a tune, before leading her into a waltz. This time, she managed three steps, then four. By the fifth step, she wasn't thinking about the rules anymore. She was just following him.
When he ended his humming, Greg didn't immediately let go and neither did she. For a moment, they simply stood there. Somewhere along the way, the distance between them had vanished. This time she was aware of more than just his smell and warm hand. Greg had a tighter hold on her and his hand had slid down to the small of her back. Aziza’s heart began to race as he moved his head a little closer to hers, causing her to wonder if he was about to kiss her.
Then he smiled, “See?”
“I still don't like dancing.”
“I don’t believe you really hated it.”
“I didn't say that I hated it,” Aziza rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t help smiling.
As they walked from the ballroom, she realized something unexpected. She may not understand this world very well, but it did come with some tempting perks. Maybe learning to be a princess wouldn't mean becoming someone else. That thought made the palace feel just a little less intimidating.
By the time the afternoon lesson began, Aziza was exhausted.
She had learned about Valorian traditions, practiced formal greetings, survived a dance lesson, and spent nearly twenty minutes being corrected on the proper way to accept flowers from a visiting dignitary. Apparently, there was a proper way, though she wasn't sure there was an improper way to accept flowers. She was beginning to understand why Greg had spent years trying to escape palace life.
She found him in the sitting room later that afternoon, sitting on one of the couches with a tablet balanced on his knee.
He looked up, “How did it go?”
“I have decided that being a princess is too much work.”
Greg smiled, “Give it another day.”
“I’ll be lucky if I give it five more minutes, let alone another day.”
He set the tablet aside. “Come sit.”
Aziza hesitated, then sat beside him, leaving a respectable amount of space between them. She knew he noticed and was glad that he didn’t mention it.
“How many lessons did you have?” he asked.
“Four.”
“Four?”
“Yes.”
“That's excessive.”
“Tell me ‘bout it,” she sighed heavily.
Silence settled between them. It wasn’t uncomfortable, just thoughtful.
Aziza looked around the room. Everything was beautiful. The furniture was elegant. The walls held portraits of people whose names she hadn't learned yet. Tall windows overlooked gardens that seemed to stretch forever. Yet, she still felt like a visitor. A very well-dressed visitor who happened to be married to a prince.
“You know,” she said quietly, “I don't think your mother was entirely wrong.”
Greg's expression changed, “About what?”
“About me not knowing anything about this world.”
He didn't argue. Instead, he said, “You don't.”
Aziza glared at him, “Thanks.”
He smiled, “But neither did I.”
“What are you talking about,” she asked, turning towards him. “You grew up here.”
“That doesn't mean I understood it.”
She studied him.
“You really hated it, didn’t you?”
“Sometimes.”
“Why?”
Greg leaned back, “Because everyone already knew who I was supposed to be.”
Aziza understood that more than she expected. It wasn’t too far off from what she had to deal with in her own family. Everyone expected her to study to become a doctor, but she had other plans.
He continued, “People decided what I would become before I had any idea what I wanted. That was the expectation, especially with my father’s namesake… Alexander.”
She looked at him. “And America?”
“It was freedom.”
She nodded slowly, “That's why you liked being Greg.”
“Partly.”
“And now?”
Greg looked at her, “Now I'm trying to figure out how to be both, but it’s not easy. Not when I don’t feel like an Alexander. My father and my brother are both Alexander, so where does that leave me?”
The words stayed with her. Alexander. Greg. Prince. Study buddy. Husband. She was beginning to realize there wasn't one version of him. Just as there wasn't one version of her.
“On top of that,” he continued, rubbing the back of his neck. “I spent so much time trying to run away from the weight of that name that I ended up tarnishing it with a not so reputable image. Now, I’m afraid that’s how everyone sees me… the degenerate Prince Alexander, which means it could very well affect you negatively.”
He paused, locking eyes with her and said, “And if that were to happen to you, I could not and will not stand for it.”
She swallowed around the lump in her throat.
Looking down at her hands, she asked, “Do you ever regret it?”
“Vegas…”
It wasn’t a question, but she nodded anyway. He was quiet for a moment, then he said, “No.”
Her heart skipped. “Even with everything that's happened?”
“Even with everything.”
“But, your father threatened you…”
“I know.”
“...and your mother hates the marriage.”
“She doesn't hate you,” he said softly.
Aziza gave him a look, “She definitely doesn't like me.”
Greg's smile faded. “She'll come around.”
“You don't know that.”
“No,” he looked down at his hands. “But I know my mother.”
Aziza smiled faintly, “What about your father?”
Greg exhaled, “That may take longer.”
She didn't know what to say. The king's ultimatum still haunted her. Greg was risking everything… titles, succession, exile… all because of her. That didn't feel romantic, though neither did a drunken Vegas wedding… it just felt frightening.
“Greg?”
“Hmm?”
“I don't want you to lose everything because of me.”
His expression softened, “You aren't making me lose anything.”
“But…”
“Aziza.”
She stopped.
“You didn't force me to stay married.”
“I know, but…”
“I chose to.”
She swallowed, “You chose me?”
“Yes.”
The simple answer left her speechless. Greg reached over and gently touched her hand. It wasn’t dramatic or rushed, just his fingers resting over hers. However, the feel of his hand on hers sent a shiver throughout her body.
She looked down at their hands. “You make this very difficult.”
He smiled, “I'm aware.”
She laughed, as her fingers automatically intertwined with his. He moved over, closing the space between them and leaned his face near hers.
Suddenly, the door opened. Daphne walked in without knocking, “Greg, Mother wants…”
She stopped. Her eyes dropped from their faces to their hands, and a smile slowly spread across her face. “Oh.”
Aziza quickly pulled her hand back.
Daphne's smile widened, “I didn't see anything.”
“You saw everything,” Greg said.
“I saw nothing,” she backed toward the door. “Carry on.”
“Daphne.”
“Yes?”
“Tell Mother I'll be there in ten minutes.”
“Of course,” she disappeared, but not before winking at Aziza.
Aziza covered her face, “She is never going to let me live that down.”
“Probably not,” Greg chuckled.
“You're laughing.”
“A little.”
She lowered her hands, “You're impossible.”
Greg leaned toward her slightly, “And yet you're still here.”
Warmth spread across Aziza’s face, as she looked at him. That was the problem. She was still here, and she increasingly wasn't sure she wanted to be anywhere else. However, was it out of loyalty to a friend or was something more developing between them?
She stood, “I should go finish my lessons.”
Greg nodded, “Good luck.”
“Greg?” she said, reaching the door.
“Yeah?”
She turned. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For always helping me sort through things.”
His smile was small, but genuine. “Anytime.”
“Oh, and as far as your name is concerned,” she said thoughtfully, “instead of trying to live up to being Prince Alexander, why not show everyone who Greg really is?”
Aziza shrugged her shoulders and gave a little wave before leaving the room. She walked halfway down the corridor before stopping. Pressing one hand against her chest, she slowly breathed in and out to calm herself. Her heart was beating too quickly again. She had spent the entire day learning what it meant to be a princess, but perhaps the harder lesson wasn't etiquette, diplomacy, or dancing. It was learning what it meant to be his wife, and somewhere along the way, she had started to suspect that lesson might be the one she was most afraid to fail.