SAMANTHA
The summons came again. This time, it was not a folded piece of parchment with crimson wax. This time, it was a guard at my door with a stern expression and a message from the king himself.
"Miss Samuels," the guard said, his voice flat and official. "You are required in the throne room. Immediately."
I stared at him. "Why?"
"I do not ask questions. I deliver messages."
"What am I supposed to wear?"
He shrugged. "Something appropriate."
The door closed behind him and I stood alone in my penthouse, my heart pounding, my hands trembling. Joanne appeared at my side, her face tight with worry.
"Something appropriate," Joanne repeated. "That is what he said?"
"Yes."
"That means the king wants you to look like a slave. A showpiece. A decoration."
