The Heiress Queen (Season Series Prequel)

Chapter 45

Prince Graham's letters became Isabelle's salvation, banishing the shadows that crowded the corners of her mind every night once the sun had set. Some days, his words filled pages, while other letters were simply a few sentences. No matter how long or short they were, they kept the distance between them seeming less like days and more like moments.

Marcus arrived with a particularly large envelope on the very same morning that they received word from Umberwood that Lord Winters would arrive within the week. Shelving their usual daily tasks, she and Marcus set to organizing for Callum Winters' arrival, Graham's letter put aside for later. Marcus took every spare moment to brief her about what to expect, what to agree to negotiate and what policies of her father's she ought to hold firm on.

"Above all else, you must be strong. You cannot be the little girl he knew before," Marcus said, his parting words before leaving her for the evening.

It was a mantle Isabelle had been hesitant to assume. Some sad, desperate part of her kept wishing her father would somehow magically return, the flowers she laid daily at his grave not sufficient to remind her that he wouldn't. Sitting in his chair during her Sunday mediation sessions had helped to somewhat steel her against the more official duties she would soon be forced to assume.

Sitting across her father's desk from Lord Winters would only be her first test; sitting at the king's council table would be the final one.

Distracted by her thoughts, she broke the wax seal of Graham's envelope only for the contents to tumble to the floor. She stared at the inky black card lying on the ground, the silver calligraphy glittering up at her in the firelight.

His Royal Highness Prince Graham of Pretania

requests the pleasure of your presence

at the Highcastle Palace Midwinter Ball

Isabelle plucked the invitation from the floor and laid it aside on the desk, the walls seeming to close in around her. Her ears were roaring in the silence as the implication of that invitation laid yet more upon her overburdened shoulders.

Midwinter, mere weeks away...

She hadn't had enough time.

She hadn't had enough time to ensure Kentshire that would survive without her. She hadn't had enough time to decide whether she wanted to be queen. She hadn't had enough time to choose the path she wanted for her future.

Swallowing, she turned her eyes to the letter in her hands, steeling herself for a command to return. For an ultimatum. For something that would force her hand.

Instead she found an apology.

Isabelle,

I'm sorry.

I know that I promised you time, but all my tactics to delay a decision have worn out. Father is forcing me to choose my top three candidates and I cannot choose you if you are not in attendance.

I will understand if you remain in Kentshire, but you deserve to be the recipient of my only personal invitation. You will always have my heart, Isabelle, even if our paths were only meant to cross for such a short time.

Promise me that you will think long and hard about this. I will accept your decision either way, but you know what I would prefer. I shall await you on the evening of the ball, for my first dance is yours should you still want it.

If the world were a simpler place, I wouldn't be writing this letter wondering if my heart is about to break. I know how much I am asking of you. I know I am breaking my promise to give you time. You should know that I will understand if you cannot accept.