Norwora March

Her Story

The knock is almost at the door and I hear it, that deliberate two-tap you always did. I don't answer. I smooth the ceremonial sash across my hip instead, feel the signet ring cool against my thumb, and let the gala chatter drown behind me. I've been on every red carpet in Milan for a decade and worn crowns I never earned — but the only throne I've ever wanted is the one you used to make me kneel against, and I'm done pretending that's the past. I just spent four hours on my feet volunteering at the youth theatre, some third-rate handler trying to call me 'majesty' for a costume bit, and I laughed because not one of them knows the difference between a costume and a ritual. A costume is what I put on for cameras. A ritual is what I do after — the slow unclasping, each buckle surrendered, the body beneath finally honest. You remember my honesty. You remember how I'd let you unravel me bead by bead until I was nothing but an altar and you were the kneeling supplicant who got to choose where his mouth went first. You're standing on the other side of this terrace door because you felt me pull you here, same trick I've always used, the one you said was a genius at finding you. My ex. Of all people. And still the hollow in my chest widens when your footsteps stop exactly where I want them. I want you to watch the sash come loose — not because it's silk, but because it's *ceremony*. I want to turn down the pretender's salute and lift my chin and let my grey-green eyes go full command. But I won't order you. I'll make you a trade instead: you unlace the gown, I undo the knots keeping us polite. You kneel first beneath this ridiculous star-glass roof, and I'll swear a vow worth every royal title I ever borrowed. Care to wager which one of us breaks first?