Rhiane didn't object to Luke taking a cannoli although she perhaps should have; a moment of compassion did not signify a sudden parting of the ocean of condescending arrogance. Rather than voicing a protest she rolled her eyes as he ate the entire thing in two bites, wasting the opportunity to savor the flavor, which she viewed as his loss more than his own. Truthfully even if he took his time he might not have enjoyed it as she did. The princess elect was but a peasant whose palate had not the opportunity to become refined over the years. She did not have the finest chefs in the kingdom creating every meal with her personal proclivities in mind and indulging her every whim. Even after she was officially royalty she wagered the menu would be dictated by the queen or her husband, who someday would become king, before she was allowed to give input that might contradict their taste.

As he fished for a second confection she snapped out of her rumination and pulled the box out of his range, forcing him to either abandon the wheel or his pastry quarry. Before Luke could make the decision the latter was more enticing she took a bite out of each cannoli to possessively lay claim to them. It was sufficient to make the royal disinterested if not disgusted by her petty action. For the rest of the trip Rhiane kept herself pressed against her window to artificially create as much distance as was humanly possible in the confines of a hovercraft. The cannolis were consumed more quickly than she had planned prior if only to secure that she did not starve between lunch and dinner. An appetizer alone was woefully inadequate to keep her fueled. The princess elect's newly appointed nutritionist had even admitted, after an exhaustive analysis of her metabolism and digestive system, that their initial plan for her 'diet' would have to be heavily modified. To let her become too thin would be unhealthy, cause a cessation in her menstrual cycle, and impact her fertility.

Rhiane knew she was a brooding mare to the crown. It was when she was given latitude with her breakfast items the day prior she had an epiphany they wanted her prepared for carrying a child as possible. Little did they know that Luke would probably himself do everything in his power not to touch his fiancee more than was necessary. Were he to lower himself to undressing in her presence on their wedding night she would be impressed. In the mean time, while their charade carried on, the farmer would take as much advantage as possible to eat luxurious and unhealthy desserts. There was no reason to correct their ignorance. It was not lying to fail to mention that they could be poised beneath her hips as long as they liked but that an immaculate conception would not produce an heir.

As they arrived back at the palace she sighed and frowned at the sight of both the nurse and wheelchair. Knowing that it would ultimately not matter to Luke one way or another she had failed to disclose her dislike of those in the medical profession. Though she had been nothing but cooperative, polite, and obedient with the royal doctor when her ankle had been twisted at an unnatural angle, there had been no choice in the matter except to comply. Having a nurse here and now felt superfluous. The presence of the wheelchair was adding insult to injury. No matter how much strain she had placed on the recovering limb she was capable and willing to walk to wherever it was she was to be escorted.

Luke anticipated her displeasure. She let the guard, who was innocent in this social tug of war, assist her into the wheelchair as she painted on a smile for everyone's benefit. Honestly she [i]would[/i] have preferred the arms of the crown prince though not out of emotional attachment. Rhiane would not, could not, should not every let it be known, but there was something comforting about being carried like a princess, allowing herself to be protected rather than being the towering shield that sought to shelter her loved ones from harm no matter the cost.

News that she had been well-received was welcome even if the greeting party had not been. The faux smile planted on her lips grew to one of earnest pride that her performance had achieved success. Mrs. Viscomi's praise, after the adoration of the restaurant patrons, made her heart swell with hope that she might last despite Luke's inherent ability to torpedo his own public image. Should the queen share the opinion of the expert that was to handle them then they might see Rhiane as the best possible solution to the lack of appeal the crown prince had with the rural citizens. No one could completely save him from himself, for not even an implant could rob him of his agency, but if she continued to present herself flawlessly they would not see merit on a replacement.

The icing on the cake was hearing Luke chastised and encouraged to be [i]more like her[/i]. It had to make his blood boil. He dismissed this advice out of hand and perhaps it was because he sincerely thought the woman misguided, but it would burn nonetheless. That anyone of status would see him inferior to her would be an infuriating blow to his massive ego no matter how erroneous he perceived it to be. During the rest of the exchange she rested comfortably in her seat as she imagined how he would react if his own mother asserted such a theory. Criticism was not something her firstborn accepted well. That a [i]farmer[/i] succeeded when he faltered, or failed, was unimaginable.

This was Rhiane's truest victory, even more so than the contest itself, and she would relish it no matter how short-lived.

Upon entering the floor that housed Luke the nurse was dismissed and Rhiane leapt up from the wheelchair the second the attendant was out of sight. Being mindful of the ten meters that she was allowed before either of them were left writing in pain she looked around curiously. Her own accommodations were lavish but not [i]this[/i] opulent. That he had his own private swimming pool was both astonishing and revolting in equal measure. The excessive wealth that was gifted to the nobility was breathtaking but made her insides churn when she thought of how destitute others were as a result. Just last year there had been famine on the opposite end of their borders when a monstrous storm destroyed so much farmland that humanitarian efforts had not been sufficient to supply the populace.

"I'm not taking any medication," she announced as she limped along towards the bedroom. Rather than enter it she paused to enjoy the scenic view allowed by the walls of glass. Jaded, tired, and in increasing pain from the throbbing of her ankle, she felt the next sentence catch in her throat at the dazzling light of day bouncing off the landscape beyond. From this tower it easy to forget all the filth of living in abject poverty and be lost in the beauty of New Rome's capital city. The princess elect did not know how long she stood there utterly transfixed before she lost her balance and barely caught herself before she fell to the floor.

"I wondered if a doppelganger had taken over, but I see you are back to your lizard self," she prodded. There was a comical conspiracy theory hundreds of years old that the upper echelons of society were not in fact human but some creature descended from alien bipedal species that had subversively claimed the earth. Every once in a while those still able to joke about their bad fortune would accuse the 'blessed' dripping in jewels and designer clothing of being this bizarre inhuman race. It was a jab at him but not overtly cruel. "If I rest on the floor do I not prove my pet theory rather and defy your command to act like a princess?" she asked as she rounded the corner with pronounced hobbling.