Chapter 10 No.10

The ballroom was a sea of diamonds and silk. The orchestra played a swelling waltz, but nobody was dancing. Everyone was watching the stage.

King Edward stood at the podium. General Stone stood beside him, the newly pinned Imperial Cross gleaming on his chest.

The applause was deafening.

"And now," the King announced, his voice amplified by the microphone, "we have one more hero to honor."

The spotlight swung around, blindingly bright. It landed on Julian and Imogen.

A hush fell over the crowd.

Julian unlocked the brakes on his wheelchair. He gripped the armrests.

"Julian, don't," Imogen whispered. "Your leg..."

"Help me up," he said through gritted teeth.

Imogen hesitated, then slipped her arm under his. With her support, Julian pushed himself up. His bad leg trembled violently. Pain shot up his spine, white-hot and searing.

But he stood.

He stood tall, leaning heavily on Imogen.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the velvet box.

He shifted his weight, a sharp hiss of pain escaping his lips. Wincing, he slowly, agonizingly, lowered himself onto one knee. The fabric of his uniform strained against the bandages, and a fresh, hot spike of agony shot through his side, but he locked his jaw against it.

The crowd gasped. A collective intake of breath.

"Imogen Sterling," Julian's voice was strong, carrying to the back of the room. "I told you I would do this when we weren't covered in blood."

Imogen covered her mouth with her hands. Tears streamed down her face, ruining her makeup. She didn't care.

"Will you marry me?"

"Yes!" she cried out. "Yes, you idiot, stand up!"

She dropped to her knees to hug him. The crowd erupted. Thunderous applause. The King clapped from the stage, sealing the union with royal approval.

In the shadows near the buffet table, Isolde watched them. She was smiling, clapping.

Then, the room spun.

A wave of nausea hit her so hard she almost dropped her clutch. She grabbed Elliot's arm to steady herself.

"Isolde?" Elliot asked, concern instantly replacing his social smile. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," she muttered, swallowing back bile. She instinctively touched her stomach. No. It couldn't be. Not yet. The timing would ruin everything. The thought was a shard of ice in her gut.

She looked up, trying to focus. Her gaze drifted to the stage.

The King was stepping down. As he descended the stairs, a man in a black tuxedo stepped out from behind a heavy velvet curtain.

He was nondescript. Forgettable. But Isolde knew him. Agent Cipher. The head of the King's 'Special Operations' division-the department that handled things that needed to disappear. Not people. Problems.

Cipher caught the King's eye. He gave a single, sharp nod. The King touched his tie-a signal.

Isolde's blood ran cold as she understood. It wasn't an order to kill. It was an activation signal. A green light for an extraction.

She scanned the room frantically. She found her.

Consort Cecilia. The King's wife.

Cecilia was standing near the balcony doors. She wasn't looking at the proposal. She wasn't looking at the King. She was staring at the exit sign with a look of utter, hollow despair.

Isolde remembered the headlines from her past life. Consort Cecilia Dies of Sudden Heart Failure. It was supposed to happen next month.

But the nod. The signal.

They moved the timeline up.

Isolde gripped Elliot's arm tighter, her fingernails digging into his suit fabric. The joy of the engagement evaporated, replaced by the cold, hard reality of the game they were playing.

Julian and Imogen were kissing in the spotlight, bathed in applause.

But in the shadows, the knives were already out for the Queen.