I don’t have time to ponder that.
There’s another knock at the door.
“Come in,” I say, wondering who it could be now.
The door opens and a gaggle of blonde heads in light-blue gowns scatter into the room, followed by Jane. It’s Magnus’s sisters, my bridesmaids.
They all stop the moment they see my father.
“Oh,” Mari cries out, automatically curtseying. “I am so sorry, Your Serene Highness.”
My father waves her away. “No need for that formality, we’ve already met.”
“What’s going on?” I ask them.
“It’s time!” Jane barks, pulling down at her sleeves. “Bloody hell, I think my arms got fatter since the last fitting. It’s like they’re wrapped in sausage casing.”
I’m too nervous to roll my eyes. Jane’s actually lost some weight since coming to Norway. Must be trading in all the British pies for all that herring.
“Are you ready?” Mari asks, looking me up and down. “You’re absolutely gorgeous.”
“Magnus is going to die when he sees you,” Britt says.
“Not literally, I hope,” says Irene.
Cristina rolls her eyes at her.
My father looks at me and holds out his arm. “Shall we get going then?”
I gulp, my heart beating faster than ever.
It’s show time.
My bridal party and I are taken by limo through the streets of Oslo to the Cathedral. Though the Cathedral itself is pretty, especially as it’s all done up for Christmas as well, my jaw drops at the sight of the people crowded around outside, held back by barricades. There must be thousands of them all bundled up in the cold and waving tiny Norwegian flags.
They’re here for me? For us?
Holy hell, now I’m even more nervous than before. So nervous that I think I’m going to pass right out.
“You’re going to be fine,” Jane says, patting my arm. “Trust me.”
I don’t have a choice.
I take in a deep breath and exit the limo.
Everything after that happens in a blur.
There are flashbulbs and cheers from the crowd.
Music inside starts playing.
Jane and the sisters start walking down the aisle.
My father appears at the doorway of the Cathedral and offers me his arm again.
I take it and my other hand is shaking as it holds onto the bouquet, a mix of yellow lilies, Liechtenstein’s flower, plus some tiny white flowers that symbolize Norway.
We start walking down the aisle.
Everyone stands.
The music plays.
A TV camera records it all.
And there, standing at the altar, looking absolutely dashing in a black uniform with red sash and medals, is Magnus. I can see his beautiful smile, feel his burning eyes from all the way across the Cathedral, shining like divine light.
The minute I see him, I know I’m going to be okay.
As long as I have him in my sights, I’m going to be okay.
I hold onto his gaze the entire time until my father has given me away at the altar. It’s only then I notice Viktor, his best man, standing proudly beside him in his own country’s military uniform, nodding at me with a big smile on his face.
Then I notice the elderly Bishop standing between me and Magnus.
I flash him a quick smile—I met him at the rehearsal ceremony—but then my eyes go back to Magnus.
I never want to look away.
He looks just as excited, nervous and elated as I feel.
He can’t stop smiling at me.
I can’t stop smiling at him.
But, eventually, I do.
Because the Bishop blabbers on, and on, and on. This isn’t one of those quick weddings where we go straight to our vows and be done with it (which is, frankly, what I would have wanted) because the Queen wanted to drag this out as long as possible. I guess if it’s a national holiday, you have to make it worth their while.
So, my gaze starts to wander over the crowd. There’s a staggering amount of people in here, packed to the pews. The entire front section seems to be taken up by royalty of sorts. There are Kings and Queens and Princes and Princesses and Dukes and Duchesses of Monaco and Belgium and the Netherlands and Spain and so on.
There’s Magnus’s parents, the King looking better than I expected, the Queen I think might even be crying. I see Maggie, Viktor’s American fiancé, sitting with the King and Queen of Sweden. I see King Aksel. Then behind that row of royals, I see the prime minister, looking especially greasy today. Then a spindly-looking woman I assume is his wife. And then…Heidi. Her long, red hair side-parted with movie star waves, wearing a demure black dress with a high collar.
Our eyes lock and she stares at me with that blank, vapid expression.
I hate to admit it, but it’s getting to me.
Don’t let her win. There’s a reason why she’s sitting there and she’s not up here.
I bring my focus back to Magnus.
Magnus.
His beautiful face.
Those fathomless dark eyes that seem to hold a world of love for me.
How did I ever get so lucky?
That keeps running through my mind, even as we say our vows, even as we slide the rings on each other’s fingers and promise to be there and love each other until the end of time, even as the tears come to my eyes.
So, so, lucky.
“Now,” the Bishop says with a smile, addressing the crowd, “if anyone should know of a reason why these two should not be married in holy matrimony, speak now or forever hold your peace.”
Normally no one ever pays attention to this part of the wedding.
But now these words have weight, a weight that I know both Magnus and I are feeling at this very moment, a weight that could threaten to undo everything we’ve worked hard for.
My mind trips back to when I saw Heidi in the museum.
When she said this was a sham marriage.
When she said I had been invented.
How had she known that?
Was it just a guess?
Good lord, is she going to say something?
I look at Magnus, trying to hide the fear in my eyes, but he picks up on it. As subtly as we can, we both look over at Heidi in the crowd.
She’s staring right at us.
And grinning.
I don’t think it’s her blessing.
“Then, by the power vested in me,” the Bishop says, and his words bring our attention back to each other, “I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride.”
And just like that, crazy Heidi is forgotten. She stayed silent. And now our love is speaking the loudest.
Magnus steps forward, takes my face in his hands, tells me he loves me, then places a deep, passionate, searing kiss on my mouth, the kind that I’ll never, ever forget.
Everyone starts applauding and cheering, but I don’t hear it.
I only hear his heartbeat and mine.
The fact that we did it, that we made it, that we’re married, doesn’t actually hit me until later, after we get in the horse-drawn carriage and are paraded around the snow-covered cobblestone streets, bundled up with faux furs, waving to everyone as we pass.
It all hits me when Magnus and I are standing on the palace balcony in front of the palace square and waving at the thousands and thousands of citizens, tourists and well-wishers who have gathered below.
With bands playing and champagne corks popping and cannons firing and a whole nation celebrating, that’s when I realize that I’m Magnus’s wife.
The Crown Princess of Norway.
Eternally his.
I turn to him and pull him toward me, kissing him hard, the crowd going wild.
But it’s not for them.
It’s for him.
“My husband,” I whisper to him as I pull away.
“My wife,” he whispers back.
Twenty-One
Ella
“Do we really have to go home?” I whine.
I never thought I’d be much of a whiner and I hate the fact that I’ve only been a wife for a few weeks before I started but the truth is…
I really don’t want to go home.
Right now, it’s cold and snowbound in Norway, and here on a yacht anchored off Tenerife in the Canary Islands, it’s warm and sunny and majestic.
Granted, this honeymoon might feel especially warranted as it was a bit delayed. After our wedding, it was just a few days before Christmas, which meant a lot of time spent with the new family between our estate and the royal palace while we celebrated the holidays.
Now, it’s finally January and everything is off to a fresh start.
Helps that my royally hot prince of a husband has been lounging around on the deck beside me in next to nothing, his skin all oiled and glistening from the sun.
God, I love this man.
I love how much closer we’ve gotten since we’ve gotten married. It’s like we finally passed the test and now we can just relax with each other and enjoy the relationship we cultivated for ourselves instead of the one the public knows about.
It doesn’t even bother me anymore how we started out. The way I look at it, it’s just the way that we met—in an extremely unconventional way. Maybe it’s not the way everyone knows, but it’s our way and it’s still valid. What counts is how we feel for each other now.
And what I’m feeling at this moment, is well, kind of frisky.
Magnus is lying on his back, a towel covering his face from the sun, his body on full display. As we’ve been stationed on the yacht, there hasn’t been any paparazzi around. I think it’s because the actual royal yacht is currently sitting off the coast of Greece with Cristina and her boyfriend who, at a far away glance, resembles me and Magnus. They’re the perfect decoy and it’s worked for our entire honeymoon, giving us all the much-needed privacy in the world.
And it’s needed. Just lying here and staring at my husband in all his sculpted, muscled, sun-kissed glory, I have a hard time keeping my hands to myself.
I move on over, sidling up to him.
“Magnus,” I whisper so that I don’t surprise him.
“Mmmm?” he asks lazily from under the towel.
I place my fingers on the hard, taut planes of his chest and slowly, teasingly run them down until they’re skimming over his rigid abs, the oils from his suntan lotion making his skin slick.