It was a grey morning. The King’s jet landed, without pomp, on the wet tarmac. To demonstrate the urgency of the matter at hand, he held court in the hangar.
Flunkies prepared champagne infused strawberries, seared swordfish, and dark chocolate wrapped in silver vark. All nestled peacefully by a hedge of white lilies. The floral scent was powerful enough to obliterate the King’s rage.
Cordelia smeared wasabi on her swordfish with a flash of defiance. Her father had filed a lawsuit (€1.2 trillion) against her to “recover assets essential to the economic prosperity and political stability of the nation.” This morning, he’d asked to see her without their lawyers.
He spoke, judging her. “The Imperial Household is divided but there you sit, eating sashimi.”
“Dad, his cousin’s going to be Empress. She is the rightful successor.”
“You cannot be in love,” trumpeted the monarch. “In this era, love’s flight risk factor is treble thousand. That boy …”
“That man. That heart surgeon.”
“One rank up from butcher, cosplaying as normal. It is undignified for a future Emperor to touch the flesh of yet dead men.”
“This is incredibly bigoted!”
“Pledge your loyalty to me. Rescind this vile protest and I will abdicate. You will be Queen.”
Succession contracts wafted about her face, close enough so she would catch sight of the lucrative terms. Cordelia did not flinch.
Lear | SB
Photo credits: 365/26 – Lotus Elise and Karl der Große, Rathaus Osnabrück, both by Dominik Bartsch via Flickr.