He’d said all the words I’d ever hoped to hear: queen, wife, adore. The dreams I’d stored in my heart were actually coming true.
“You should go back to sleep. That attack today was one of the cruelest ones yet. I want you to fully recover.”
“As you wish,” I said.
He ran a finger down my cheek, pleased with my response. “Good night, Amberly.”
“Good night, Clarkson.”
I tucked myself back into bed as he left, but I knew there was no way I’d be able to sleep now. How could I with my heart beating double time and my mind running through every possibility of our future?
I slowly rose and went over to my desk. I could think of only one way to get this out of my system.
Dear Adele,
Can you keep a secret?
The first time I stepped into someone else’s thoughts in the Selection world was for Maxon. Over here on the creative side, there were lots of questions about our handsome prince. Why didn’t he seem to know any of the girls’ names when they arrived at the palace? I mean, this was a huge deal for him, so it was strange that he was so unaware. And why did he go from being a bit of a showman, trying to make people laugh, to getting very angry so quickly? It seemed like a big leap for him. And, of course, what was he actually thinking when he met America?
By this point in the process I’ve stepped into the heads of seven different characters in the original Selection cast. I have to say that, by far, Maxon’s was the easiest. Despite his worries and his occasional temperamental flare-up, he was the most willing to share, even more than America. It made my job as a storyteller much easier, and I’ll always love that about him.
—Kiera
I PACED THE FLOOR, TRYING to walk the anxiety out of my body. When the Selection was something in the distance—a possibility for my future—it sounded thrilling. But now? Well, I wasn’t so sure.
The census had been compiled, the figures checked multiple times. The palace staff was being reallocated, wardrobe preparations were being made, and rooms were being readied for our new guests. The momentum was building, exciting and terrifying in one fell swoop.
For the girls, the process started once they filled out the forms—thousands must have done so by this point. For me, it started tonight.
I was nineteen. Now, I was eligible.
Stopping in front of my mirror, I checked my tie again. There would be more eyes watching than usual tonight, and I needed to look like the self-confident prince everyone was expecting. Finding no fault, I left for my father’s study.
I nodded at advisors and familiar guards along the way. It was hard to imagine that in less than two weeks, these halls would be flooded with girls. My knock was firm, a request made by Father himself. It seemed there was always a lesson for me to learn.
Knock with authority, Maxon.
Stop pacing all the time, Maxon.
Be faster, smarter, better, Maxon.
“Come in.”
I entered the study, and Father briefly moved his eyes from his reflection to acknowledge me. “Ah, there you are. Your mother will be along shortly. Are you ready?”
“Of course,” I replied. There was no other acceptable answer.
He reached over and grabbed a small box, placing it in front of me on his desk. “Happy birthday.”
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