I finish applying makeup and arrange my hair so that it lies in loose curls over my shoulders, and then I leave my room. I look nothing like the elegant women I’ve seen here, with their perfectly coiffed hair and painted faces, and for that I’m glad. I can still recognize myself in the mirror.

Outside my room, my father speaks animatedly with one of our guards. Gone is the devastated man who considered defying orders for me.

A wry smile passes over his face when he catches sight of me. “You almost pull off the sweet and innocent look,” he says. “Almost.”

“What ruins it? My scar?” I ask. I grin back at him.

“Nope—it’s all in the eyes and the jaw. And that smile doesn’t help. You look like you want to gut someone.” Now my dad’s grinning.

“You can dress up a pig, but it’s still a pig.”

My dad comes over to me and grasps my hand. “Not a pig,” he says, staring me in the eye, “a soldier.”

My father and I follow Marcus to the banquet hall, our guards shadowing our procession. Inside, people haven’t yet sat down to eat. Instead they mill about the room, sipping on champagne and chatting with one another.

The room stirs as we enter. You’d think that the king’s stuck-up friends would get used to the sight of us, but they haven’t. Nor have the camera crews. I notice that most of their lenses zoom in on me. I guess their audiences are more interested in my (lack of) involvement in the peace talks than they are of my father’s or the king’s.

My father leans into me. “You need to interact with these people tonight. Talk, be friendly, and try not to scare anyone too much. I’m leaving you to mingle.”

He must see the fear in my eyes as he pulls away because he pats my shoulder. “Make me proud.”

I give him a look that tells him what I think about that statement. He grins at me and winks before moving away from me to talk with an elderly man—the former prime minister of what used to be England.

My skin prickles; I can sense the king watching me. I turn and lock eyes with him. He swirls the wine in his glass as he assesses me. His eyes meander down my body and back up, and as he does so, an approving smile spreads across his face.

I suppress a shiver at his gaze. I imagine this is how he looks at unconquered territories.

The camera crews crowd me, despite the WUN soldiers standing guard. I keep my expression bland so the world doesn’t see the terror coursing through me. The king has always been my boogeyman, but boogeymen aren’t supposed to be real. They’re the things of nightmares, the things your parents kiss away.