Coronation Of A Disaster

If I have to smile at one more sweaty politician who thinks "slipping a hand" is part of the diplomatic protocol, I’m going to burn the White House to the ground and roast marshmallows over the ashes.

"Ms. Forbes," Senator Harrison breathed into my ear. He smelled like expensive scotch and bad decisions. "You look absolutely... *radiant* tonight."

His hand, damp and possessive, slid two inches lower on my bare back.

I didn't stiffen. I didn't pull away. I simply turned my head, flashing the thousand-watt grin I’d practiced in the mirror since I was twelve. The grin that said, *I am America’s Sweetheart,* while my brain screamed, *I am plotting your murder.*

"Careful, Senator," I said, my voice sugary enough to give the entire room diabetes. "If you touch me one more time, I’ll scream. And trust me, the Secret Service has bullets with your name on them. They just haven't decided which caliber they like best yet."

Harrison froze, his liver-spotted face turning a fascinating shade of puce. He sputtered something indignant, but I had already checked out. I took a lazy sip of my champagne—$300 a bottle, tasted like sparkling vinegar—and scanned the room.

The East Room was packed. Washington’s elite. Men in ill-fitting tuxedos and women in jewels that cost more than my college tuition. They were all pretending to care about foreign trade agreements, but really, they were just watching me.

Waiting for the screw-up.

They called me the "Disaster Daughter." The *New York Post* had dubbed me "Marigold the Menace." Last month, I’d accidentally set off the fire alarms during a State of the Union preview because I’d tried to vape in the restroom. (In my defense, it was lavender flavored and I was stressed.)

Tonight, I was on my best behavior. Mostly.

My father, the President of the United States, was standing on a podium ten feet away, gripping the lectern like he wanted to throw it across the room. He was mid-speech, droning on about "Global Unity" and "Economic Stability." His eyes, however, were locked on me.

They weren't proud eyes. They were the eyes of a man who realized he had left a loaded gun on the kitchen table.

I winked at him.

He nearly choked on his teleprompter.

"Marigold," a voice hissed from behind a potted fern.

I suppressed a sigh. "Hello, Agent Miller. How’s the gluteal cramp? Standing still all night must be torture for a man of your... stature."

Agent Miller stepped out from the greenery. He looked like he hadn’t slept since the Bush administration. He tapped his earpiece, looking stressed. "The President wants you in the Oval Office. Now."

"Ooh?" I batted my lashes. "Am I getting a medal for not punching Senator Harrison?"

"You’re in trouble, Marigold."

"When am I not?"

I handed my empty glass to a passing waiter with a terrified expression and turned on my heel. The heavy silk of my gown—emerald green, chosen specifically to clash with the hideous beige curtains—swished around my ankles. The crowd parted for me like the Red Sea, only because they were afraid I’d bite them.

We walked in silence through the corridors of power. Portraits of dead presidents judged me from the walls. I stuck my tongue out at Lincoln.

Miller stopped outside the heavy double doors of the Oval Office. "Don't make this worse," he warned, his hand hovering over the doorknob.

"Darling," I smoothed my hair. "I am the definition of 'worse.'"

I pushed the door open.

The room was empty, save for two people.

My father, President Elias Forbes. And a man I had never seen before.

My father didn't look presidential anymore. He looked old. Tired. His tie was loosened, and he was rubbing his temples with a vigor that suggested a migraine was brewing.

The stranger, however...

He stood by the fireplace, his back to the flames. He wasn't American. You could tell immediately. He stood too still. Too straight. He was wearing a suit that probably cost more than my father’s campaign bus, cut in a style that screamed *Old World Money*. Sharp, European, dangerous.

He turned as I entered.

I forgot to breathe.

He was gorgeous in the way a shark is gorgeous. Sleek. Predatory. His hair was dark, cropped short, and his jawline looked like it had been carved from granite. But it was his eyes that stopped me. They were a cold, piercing grey. Dead eyes. Eyes that had seen things and hadn't blinked.

He scanned me from my messy updo to my heels, his expression unreadable.

"Marigold," my father said, his voice tight. "Close the door."

I did, slowly. "Dad, you didn't tell me we had guests. I would have worn my necklace made of human teeth."

"Shut up, Marigold." My father never told me to shut up. He usually told me to "calm down" or "be quiet." This was new. This was bad.

He gestured to the shark by the fire. "This is Ambassador Vane. From the Kingdom of Regalia."

"Regalia," I repeated, rolling the name around my mouth. "Sounds like a medication for erectile dysfunction."

The Ambassador’s lip twitched. Just a fraction of an inch. It was the first sign of life he’d shown. "Your humor is... noted, Ms. Forbes."

"Please, call me Marigold. 'Ms. Forbes' is my mother, and she currently hates you for ruining her party."

"We have a proposition," the Ambassador said, ignoring the dig. His voice was low. Smooth. Like velvet wrapped around a razor blade. "A trade agreement."

My father perked up. "Yes. A historic deal. It will save the economy. Secure the legacy."

"Great," I said, moving to the liquor cabinet and pouring myself a glass of whiskey. Neat. "Send a memo. Why am I here?"

The Ambassador took a step toward me. The air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.

"Because the deal," he said softly, "has a condition."

I paused, the glass halfway to my lips. "I'm listening."

"The Kingdom of Regalia is in need of stability," he said. "We require a unifying figure. A bridge between our old ways and the new world."

He paused for effect. Theatrical. I hated theatrical.

"We require a marriage alliance."

I choked on my whiskey. It burned my nose, but I forced myself to swallow, coughing. "Excuse me? You want me to marry someone? No. Absolutely not. I’m twenty-two. I have a Tinder profile to manage."

"Not me," the Ambassador said, a flicker of actual disdain crossing his face. "My Prince."

"You have a Prince?" I looked at my dad. "Since when are we brokering royal mail-order brides?"

"It’s not like that, Marigold!" My father slammed his hand on the Resolute Desk. "We are on the brink of a recession! The polls are down! This deal with Regalia—it gives us access to their tech sector, their lithium reserves... it saves us."

"And the price is your daughter," I said, my voice dropping. The sarcasm was gone, replaced by a cold, hard knot in my stomach. "You’re selling me."

"I am saving this country!" my father roared.

"You’re saving your approval rating!" I screamed back. "I’m not doing it! You can’t force me!"

The Ambassador moved then. Fast. He was in front of me in a second, looming over me. I stumbled back, hitting the edge of the liquor cabinet.

"You can," he said, staring down at me with those dead grey eyes. "And you will."

"Or what?" I lifted my chin, refusing to look away. "You’ll ground me?"

He leaned in close. I could smell him now. Sandalwood and gun oil. A strange, intoxicating mix.

"Or," he whispered, "we leak the videos from the Chappaqua dorms."

My blood ran cold.

I froze. The room spun. "How..."

"We know everything, Marigold," he said, pulling back, his face returning to that mask of indifference. "We know about the gambling. The fake IDs. The little incident in Las Vegas last summer. If you do not get on that plane tonight, the world will see the First Daughter for exactly what she is."

"A disaster," I whispered.

"No," he said, checking his watch. "A liability."

He turned to my father. "We leave at 0400 hours. Have her packed."

And just like that, the shark turned and walked out of the Oval Office, leaving me alone with the man who was supposed to be my father.

"Dad?" I whispered. It came out small. Broken.

He wouldn't look at me. He was looking at his desk. At the history books.

"I'm sorry, Mari," he said softly. "But it’s the Presidency."

I looked at the door where the Ambassador had disappeared. I looked at the whiskey in my hand.

Fine.

I threw the glass into the fireplace. It shattered, sending a spray of amber glass into the flames. The fire hissed and roared, flaring up bright orange.

They wanted a Princess? They wanted a bargaining chip?

They were going to regret the day they messed with the Forbes family.

"I hope their Prince likes explosions," I said to the empty room. "Because I’m going to blow their kingdom to hell."