Chapter 34 34
MARIGOLD POV
At last—at last—the maids curtsied themselves right out of the chamber, backs straight, heads down, probably rushing to tattletale every single one of my “refined princess comments” to the king like good little parrots. The heavy door clicked shut, and I froze, listening.
Silence. Blessed, golden, life-saving silence.
“THANK HEAVEN,” I announced, kicking my jeweled heels halfway across the room. “I can finally eat in peace. If I had to ‘delicately nibble’ one more microscopic bite of air disguised as dessert, I’d have screamed into the royal chandelier.”
I grabbed the remaining plate of food—roast duck, something buttery, some overly fancy potatoes—and started devouring like I was about to win an eating contest. Chopsticks would’ve made this a whole lot easier, but I still had a shred of decency left, so I just attacked it with fork and knife like a woman starved.
Sugar was doubled over on the chaise, laughing so hard she looked like she might roll off. “You—oh my God—you had the head maid ready to canonize you. ‘Refined sarcasm,’ she said! Marigold, you’re basically a saint of sass now.”
I pointed my fork at her mid-bite. “Don’t. Mock. Me. Day-long pretending to be a spoiled idiot is harder than surviving on instant ramen for a month. And I’ve done that.”
Gregor was pacing like a caged wolf, still in full alpha-brood mode, arms crossed, jaw tight. His eyes kept cutting to me like he couldn’t decide whether to scold me or laugh. (Spoiler: probably scold. Broody men never choose laugh.)
“You could have ruined everything in there,” he ground out.
“Excuse me?” I snapped, mouth full. “I saved everything in there. Do you know how hard it is to act like a woman whose brain cells were traded for Birkin bags? I deserve an Oscar. Actually, no—a kingdom.”
Sugar clapped, still giggling. “Hear, hear. Give my girl a tiara.”
I jabbed another bite into my mouth, chewing fast, because honestly, dignity was out the window. “I swear, the next person who puts caviar in front of me is getting stabbed with this fork. I need dumplings. Rice. Fried chicken. A bucket of spicy noodles.”
Gregor stopped pacing, staring at me like he didn’t know whether to be horrified or… something else entirely. “You’re supposed to be pretending to be Margaux. Not… whatever this is.”
I licked gravy off my fork, then grinned. “This is Margaux. Just… the improved edition. Deluxe package. Comes with sarcasm, zero patience, and the occasional death threat.”
Sugar clapped again. “Brava! And for the record, if she were the real Margaux, she’d have fainted three times and demanded seventeen Hermes bags by now. So really, Marigold’s doing everyone a service.”
I threw my napkin dramatically into the air like I was finished with the entire kingdom. “Exactly. You’re welcome, Realm. You’re welcome.”
And then I went right back to eating like I was trying to demolish every calorie in the room before someone dared bring me another glass of ‘bankruptcy-flavored wine.’
By the time I was swirling my second glass of wine—don’t ask me the name, all I know is it tasted like grape juice that had gone to college abroad and picked up an accent—Sugar struck again.
She plopped herself right on the armrest of my chair, one leg crossed, her eyes glinting like a mischievous cat. “Okay, darling,” she drawled, “the act earlier was good, but if you want to really sell yourself as Margaux, you need to master…” she paused for dramatic effect, “…the Royal Tantrum.”
I almost spat my wine. “Excuse me?”
Gregor stopped mid-pace, glaring at her like she’d just suggested setting the kingdom on fire. “She’s not throwing a tantrum in front of me.”
“Oh, but she must,” Sugar purred, turning her grin on him. “What better test audience than Mister Alpha Doom-and-Gloom? If she can sass you and survive, she can sass the entire royal court.”
“Absolutely not,” Gregor said flatly. His wolf was practically at the surface—his jaw clenched, his shoulders tight, like he wanted to tear the very idea to shreds.
Which, of course, only made me more interested.
“Sugar,” I said sweetly, “what exactly qualifies as a royal tantrum?”
Her eyes lit up. “Oh, you know… stomping your jeweled heels, demanding ridiculous things, yelling at servants for breathing too loud. My personal favorite—throwing a dramatic faint because the wine wasn’t vintage enough.”
I nearly choked laughing. “Oh my god, that’s perfect.”
Gregor pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is absurd.”
“Absurd,” Sugar agreed brightly, “is exactly the vibe she needs. Go on, Marigold, stomp those pretty slippers. Demand something insane. Like—oh!—tell him you refuse to sleep in this chamber unless the sheets are spun from unicorn hair.”
I slammed my wine glass down on the table and shot to my feet, pointing a dramatic finger at Gregor. “You! Alpha Brood Machine! These sheets are peasant grade! I refuse to let my royal skin touch anything less than unicorn-thread and dragon-scale embroidery!”
Gregor’s head snapped up, eyes glowing gold. “What?”
Sugar cackled. “Yes! That’s it, Marigold, more drama! Pretend he’s the servant. Command him!”
“Ohhh, I like this game,” I purred, sauntering toward Gregor, hips swaying like I owned the entire kingdom. “Gregor, darling, fetch me Hermes bags. Seven of them. In different colors. And don’t come back until you do.”
His nostrils flared so wide I thought his wolf was about to launch itself straight at me. “Marigold,” he growled, “stop.”
But I was on a roll now. I clutched my chest dramatically and let my knees buckle. “Oh noooo, the wine is not from the royal vineyard. I feel faint. Someone catch me before I collapse from this insult!”
I purposely dropped against the chaise, landing halfway on Sugar, who wheezed from laughing too hard.
Gregor’s wolf snapped. His claws flickered through his fingertips before he forced them back, eyes burning. “Enough.” His voice was dark, dangerous. “You’ll push me too far.”
Sugar fanned herself like she was at the opera. “Ohhh, the Alpha almost broke character. Delicious.”
I couldn’t stop laughing, wiping tears from my eyes. “Gregor, relax. It’s just practice. Besides, look how red your ears are. Are you blushing?”
“I do not blush,” he snarled.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Sugar chimed in, “you absolutely do. And if this is how you react to a fake tantrum, I cannot wait to see how you handle a real one.”
Gregor turned on his heel, muttering something in very angry Alpha-language under his breath, while Sugar and I clinked glasses like we’d just won the war.