I resigned myself, from the very first day at Bridgemont Academy, to the fact that amongst the many privileges my charmed life as royalty offers, freedom is not one of them. My entire life was pre-determined for me before I even took my first breath.

Being the sole heir to the throne offers limited opportunities, but still slightly more agency than the ruling monarch. I hadn’t realized how much that distinction mattered to me until I learned how soon it will become irrelevant.

Just hours ago, I was slammed with the second bombshell of my week, when I found out the antiquated law requiring a female heir to be married in order to become queen still applies to me. My father sought to abolish it as soon as he became king, and he finally convinced the misogynistic men comprising the Royal Council to change it. It was officially signed two days after my birth.

Turns out, I missed my chance at ruling solo by forty-eight hours.

My parents decided not to tell me until now, hoping they would be able to find a loophole, or that I would already be married and middle-aged before having to take the throne.

In light of recent events, the first is looking unlikely, and the second, impossible. I feel as though I’m clutching a bunch of balloons whose strings have just been snipped, now stuck watching the colorful circles float away with no chance of ever recovering them.

I was disinterested in attending Edgewood College before, but the past few days have been more than enough to change my feelings on the topic to strongly averse. Learning the next four years will be my last without the constraints and obligations of being monarch makes the prospect of having to spend them at Edgewood College sound all the more dreadful.

Since I have no alternatives, there’s nothing I’d like to do more than consume a copious amount of whiskey. I’ve spent the remainder of the day, since the marriage bomb was dropped, contemplating a plan to sneak out tonight. My chances of actually leaving the palace grounds are low and my intentions for doing so are entirely selfish, but the allure of alcohol and complete solitude is too tempting to ignore.

Dinner with my parents is a mostly silent affair. The occasional clink of crystal or clatter of china are the only sounds that resonate in the massive dining hall meant to seat a hundred. My father sits at the head of the table, with my mother and me on either side of him. I know my parents are as worried and overwhelmed as I am, but I can’t muster the words to comfort them as I grapple with my own feelings regarding recent events.

When the strained supper finally ends, I sneak into the kitchen corridor, where I snag a black hooded jacket from one of the lockers belonging to the staff. I slip outside without anyone spotting me. The cool night air is tinged with the scent of fresh rain, and I inhale deeply as I emerge from underneath the overhang into a heavy downpour.