Chapter 6 - The Uninvited Guest
Up in her bridal suite, Serena Ashworth was glowing.
The clock on her mahogany mantelpiece read 8:05 p.m. In less than twenty-five minutes, the grand double doors of the ballroom would open, the brass fanfare would sound, and she would make her grand entrance on Edward’s arm as the future mistress of the estate.
She paced the room, practicing her radiant smile, adjusting the diamond tennis bracelet Edward had gifted her the week before.
Suddenly, a sharp, authoritative knock sounded at her door.
Serena frowned. Antoine had already left, and hotel-style service wasn't supposed to interrupt her at this hour.
“Come in!” she called out, smoothing down the front of her stunning ivory gown.
The door swung open. It wasn't a maid or a caterer.
It was Mrs. Farrow.
Serena’s expression instantly twisted into a mask of arrogant annoyance. She put her hands on her hips, towering over the older woman.
“What do you want, Mrs. Farrow? If you’re here to complain about your duties, save it for tomorrow. Tonight is my night, and I don't need any incompetent staff members ruining my mood.”
Mrs. Farrow did not cower. She did not look down at the floor as she had done for decades when bullied by high-society employers. Instead, she stood tall, her hands folded neatly in front of her apron.
“Miss Ashworth,” Mrs. Farrow said, her voice eerily calm. “You are summoned to the east drawing room immediately.”
Serena let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. “Summoned? Are you out of your mind? I am not a schoolgirl being called to the principal's office! I am getting married in twenty minutes! Tell Edward I’m busy.”
“Mr. Moore is not in the drawing room,” Mrs. Farrow replied steadily.
“Then who is?”
“The Queen Mother requests your presence.”
Silence fell over the bridal suite so heavy that the ticking of the mantel clock sounded like drumbeats.
Serena blinked, staring at the housekeeper as if she had spoken in a foreign language. “The... the who?”
“Her Majesty, Queen Margaret of the House of Valdemore,” Mrs. Farrow repeated, every word deliberate and absolute. “Your presence is required downstairs. Now.”
For three terrifying seconds, Serena’s brain completely stalled. Queen? Queen Margaret? What kind of sick joke is this?
Then, anger surged through her veins.
“Is this some kind of pathetic prank orchestrated by the staff?!” Serena shrieked, her face turning crimson. “You think because I made you clean up that coffee spill earlier today, you can pull this little stunt?! Get out of my room before I have Edward fire every single one of you!”
Mrs. Farrow did not flinch. She simply turned toward the hallway, gesturing outward.
“You can walk down on your own accord, Miss Ashworth,” Mrs. Farrow said quietly. “Or four royal guards can carry you down. The choice is yours.”
Before Serena could scream another insult, two massive, stone-faced men in dark tactical suits bearing foreign military insignia stepped silently into the doorway, blocking every exit.
The air in the room turned ice cold.
May you like
Serena looked from the guards back to Mrs. Farrow, a cold wave of dread finally piercing through her arrogant denial.
Something was terribly, catastrophically wrong.
