As expected Luke's bedroom was just as absurdly luxurious as the rest of his dedicated floor. Rhiane had a passing thought she had never [i]seen[/i] a bed quite so massive, not even in vacation brochures, and had no notion why bigger was always better. Unless the crown prince was entertaining several women at a time- something that would not escape the tabloids- it was too wasteful to be impressive. Her gaze slipped over the space as she noted his minimalism and wondered idly if it was a reflection of who he truly was. Interviews and magazines did not give an accurate portrait of the royal. Given that he did not drift around the engagement ball for long and had a distaste for idle chatter she suspected at least socially he was a person who believed only in fostering relationships that proved themselves necessary. People that had no use earned his disdain as surely as furniture that had no function.

In response to her jesting Luke made a reference to a lizard she had never heard of, Godzilla, and then began to casually prattle on about a dog. The farmer was slightly intrigued that someone so emotionally distant had a pet. To keep one required care of a beast that possessed little objective value, yet that was unlike the condescending man who had been so insistent he did not need a commoner wife. It was hard not to be insulted by the implications the bearer of his progeny was less tolerable than a canine.

Her annoyance was short-lived. As he turned to grin at her Rhiane felt her good leg, the one not supported by a brace, crumple under the strain of her weight. Expecting to meet the cold, hard floor she was surprised to find that Luke had crossed the distance and instinctively grabbed her arm. The room was now spinning as she made a feeble effort to gather the offending limbs under her in hopes of steadying herself. It was the supporting arm of the prince that kept her upright as she leaned against him heavily. This moment was the culminations of weeks of trials that taxed her mentally and physically, a restless night of sleep, of a sore joint, of inadequate meals. The doctor had ordered her to her bedchambers to recover but had underestimated how uncomfortable she'd feel with the silicone sleeve, how unaccustomed she was to being up past sunset, how worried she was about the news coverage that she could no longer effect.

Swept up into Luke's arms she very nearly succumbed to slumber. Her eyelids drooped as both her breathing and pulse slowed to embrace the state of repose. The princess elect was too numb and drowsy to appreciate the tender way in which she was deposited onto the bedding rather than dropped. Even his chiding was softened. Being called a silly girl was not an insult, not for someone as sharp-tongued as Luke, and perhaps later she would realize he was not without compassion even for a peasant. Cally was neither naive or blindly placing her brother on a pedestal when she asserted he 'wasn't that bad.' There was still hope that the charade wouldn't be a mangled show of disappointment.

A tiny sigh escaped Rhiane's lips at his question. Caught between the waking world and the world of dreams as she was there were no inhibitions. She had been truthful when she stated she would not lie to Luke, that she would be sincere, but she was unable to deceptive even if so inclined at present. There was not the presence of mind to be anything more than forthright. "The pizza," she murmured, "It's hard to eat when I'm upset and... the marinara. They warned me to be careful eating too many things I don't normally, that it could give me indigestion, and that would have made us both miserable. At home we usually just had pizza with oil, keeps longer, easier to make..." The farmer would have balked at knowing she had just admitted that part of her decision making had anything to do with his benefit. Her outward projection was seeking ways to find Luke miserable rather than deftly avoiding them when it was minimally convenient.

Her eyes, which had glazed over, finally fluttered closed as she let out a soft exhale. Rhiane's features took on a more tortured, melancholy expression as she rolled on her side, not avoiding his latter inquiry but rather thinking of the subject before speaking. "Edwin," she breathed with yearning, "it should have been me, not Edwin. He was the best of us, should have inherited everything, would have... have made Dad proud. He always knew what to do," she confessed as her words began to slur together, "but he's gone." There was a finality with which she spoke that mad it clear that 'gone' did not mean he had moved, or run away, or traveled to a distant country with wanderlust. Edwin was clearly a sibling she idolized and had died, years ago from the furtive distance in her words, and whom she thought had been more worthy of being among the living.

Rhiane had joined the contest knowing the end result. In all the psychological tests and assessments they had brought up Edwin, her mother, her childhood, and everything else that conventional wisdom told them would have shaped her as a person. Not once had she given voice to the belief that the wrong child of the Black family had perished. She had known what conclusion they would inevitably arrive at: that she had extremely unhealthy views of her own mortality. It was her biggest secret and one she had just alluded to while drunk on the need for sleep. Oblivious, and still vulnerable to the inquiring mind sitting beside her on the bed, she started to ease into a light doze.