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Is that breakfast?
I’m sure it is.
Yes, definitely.
My nostrils twitched, and my eyes flickered until they were prised fully open. I felt the bed next to me and sensed Victor was gone. An early fall sunrise was in its zenith, splashing shards of warmth on my face, arms, and duvet cover.
I sat, straightened my hair, scanned our bedroom, and saw the secret door to my study was wide open. It was the source of the hunger-inducing aroma, so I slipped out of bed, checked my engagement ring, which was still on my finger, and then shrugged my way into a three-quarter-length bathrobe, fighting with the arms pulled through the wrong way.
As I strolled through our secret passage, the smell of grilled, smoked bacon wafted, lighting up my senses. In my study, a stunning breakfast buffet was laid out with crispy bacon, fluffy pancakes, fruit, yogurt, and poached eggs with toasted soldiers beside them.
Victor used his ass to push open my study room door, grinning widely when he spotted me.
“Good morning, Princess.”
“I hope that’s not a reference to my Russian connection.”
“You’ll always be my Princess Amy.”
I hugged my fiancee, carefully spinning around on one foot as he moved with both hands full, setting more plates on the buffet table. When he kissed me, I realized I hadn’t brushed or flossed, so I looked at him, terrified my scandalous breath might offend.
“It’s not that bad, actually, Amy.”
“ƒI puffed on my palm and sniffed.”
“I’m joking.”
I playfully slapped him and lifted a coffee from the buffet table, sipping while examining his excellent work.
“It’s as good as any Martin produces, honey, but why did you go to all this effort?”
“I figured that with your press conference this morning, you would enjoy having a private breakfast.”
“Do you mean away from your parents?”
“Anastasia, too.”
“Why?”
“They are all exuberant Russians; your heritage is a big deal for them. I think you should speak with your voice, not theirs. Breakfast should be restful and a time to connect with family, and I suspect my mother and father will be highly excitable this morning.”
“They mean well, and I rather like them.”
“Of course, but Amy… historians will record your speech today, dissect it, and study what you said for generations. You are a pure daughter of a Romanov Emperor, and that matters in the human story to a great deal of people.”
I saw a tremor on the surface of the creamy brown nectar in my coffee cup. My fingers trembled, and I felt cold, blinking my eyes and turning my head, searching for answers to his rhetorical statement, albeit that was an exercise in futility.
“Of course. I knew that.”
“You didn’t really, Amy.”
“No. You’re right. I hadn’t considered how momentous this coming moment might be for other people. It means so little to me.”
“Because you lost both parents as a result?”
“You understand me, Victor. Perhaps you are the only one who does.”
“You have Gabriella, too. You chose a great Lieutenant for a life’s journey, Amy.”
“Gabrielle is meeting me here in two hours. Can we go over my speech before she arrives?”
“Of course, honey.”
His comment felt like a buzzkill, but that was far from the truth. My speech wasn’t the problem. My attitude was. The core of the issue surrounding my family history was a matter of perception and perspective. I considered the former a personal reflection of my status in a Russian context, amounting to very little interest, rather than the latter, which determined how the world saw me.
“I’m being selfish.”
“Not by maintaining the status quo, Amy. Your strategy makes a great deal of sense. Don’t fuel acrimony that ends in conflict or controversy, and don’t allow your life to become a political football… that’s all very wise, and I agree.”
“But I should consider the royalists. The people who love the old Russia… yes?”
“I think they are owed some respect.”
“I think so too, Victor. Thank you.”