Chapter Text
Only insufferable people ring doorbells on Sunday mornings. So when the buzzing persists three times—three times—right before my moment to enjoy the first shot of espresso, I know my peace that day is over.
I stomp my way to the door imagining the complaint forms and whatever paperwork I’m ready to submit to the municipality for reporting an unacceptable behavior. Because whoever this person is, they need to learn the basic human decency in this nation.
Two men in black suits, red sash with golden embroidery around their waists greet me when I open the door.
Shit.
“Ambassador Rosanov,” they vow.
Synchronized fucking vows.
Forget about the complaint form. I wouldn’t even have the right to sue these men even if they burn my house. These kingdom stewards have full immunity under the constitution of the West Kingdom.
“Is the king dead?” I ask, still processing this visit.
“No, Ambassador,” one of them answers. “He’s perfectly healthy and enjoying his break,” the other continues.
“So someone else— "
“No one is dead, or dying, Ambassador,” reassures the higher ranking steward, given by the number of medals hanging on their suits.
I let them in.
I manage my curls and change to a visitor-proof casuals for less than five minutes before I return to the living room. The men, who are not at all in today’s agenda, are sitting in similar posture, barely making a move. I insist on making tea, because I’m not sure if I’m ready to hear what they traveled thousands of kilometer to come here for.
I knew there were heated things happening in the kingdom. Possibly the biggest scandal of the family in the past three generations. In the last years, when minor scandals that involved international relations happened, they asked for my advice. I represent another kingdom now, which gives me a better perspective of how the issues and scandals in my birth-country are seen internationally. But they never sent their people like this. In person.
When we’re all seated with drinks in our hands—mine to channel my anxiety in bracing myself to the message—the lower ranking steward, the one with less medal as established earlier, hands me an envelop.
Seriously, an envelop? Sealed with a golden wax and etched by the royal family’s emblem.
“You know you could’ve just sent me an email, right?” I ask as I carefully unseal the delicate art piece that is the wax. It will look good on my vision board. “Or a zoom meeting invite?”
Their poker faces remain. I haven’t even seen any of them blink.
When I finally pulled the card and read the message, I freeze.
Dear Ambassador Ilya Rosanov, son of Grigori and Irina Rosanov, a lawful citizen of the Kingdom,
His Majesty, The King, has commanded me to hereby summon you to return to the kingdom of Wasia, for you are to marry The Prince.
Signed, Head of Royal Correspondence