With no fanfare to announce her arrival, Rhiane had arrived in her tent less than two minutes before the imposed deadline, falling into her chair with a sigh that belied the weight she felt upon her shoulders. The servants that prepared the royal breakfast had obviously been advised by either the queen or her favorite mouthpiece, Anelle, to restrict her options to 'healthy choices' that would slim her figure to their impossible standards. Surprisingly, her brother Gerald had rushed to the rescue, sacrificing his meal of eggs (rather than only the whites), crisped meat, and carbohydrates. At first she had resisted the gift, but she was too frustrated, upset, and stressed to not indulge herself with fatty deliciousness. She consoled herself with the fact that he was due to have groceries delivered shortly after his new appliances arrived later in the afternoon, special ordered and expedited, one of the first times she had thrown around her title as princess elect for anyone's benefit. 

"I don't believe I saw that on the approved menu," Anelle asserted smugly as she strolled in with her typical haughty, condescending attitude. Two beauticians flanked the former farmer as they prepared her for the trials of the day ahead. One was brushing her hair, trimming stray split ends, and warming a ceramic iron to curl her bangs to match the aesthetic that had been selected by senior staff. The second cosmetologist was customizing a foundation specially equipped to not streak if Rhiane was brought to tears by the sight of her mother and brother's graves. No one had discussed the taboo topic aloud, but that did not mean they ignored the possibility that she would weep, or that they had not taken into account her probable emotional reaction. The monarchy expected them to anticipate the needs of the royalty without being explicitly told how to perform their jobs. Technically the brunette was not yet royalty, but she was close enough, and they knew that the queen would be judging their product with the same level of scrutiny if shoddy workmanship was spotted by the media.

"You're right, it's not," Rhiane retorted boldly, stabbing a piece of sausage with her fork before sticking it in her mouth and chewing unabashedly. For a brief moment Anelle was stunned into silence. She had always thought poorly of the commoner, for her low birth, misplaced pride in her previous life, and for not groveling in the presence of her superiors. That the woman had managed to sink her claws into Luke only made the aristocrat hate her even more. This was the first time, however, that Rhiane had confronted her so directly without resorting to passive aggressive behavior or veiled commentary.

"I will have have someone replace..." Anelle began with pursed lips.

"Not today, Satan," Rhiane replied defiantly, using a popular slang that was not used among the nobility in polite company, but whose meaning was clear enough. Outside her tent, one of her bodyguards giggled despite herself. It was an unusual scenario to say the least. Because she had been so warm, kind, considerate, and appreciative of the support staff, they had come to like her personally, even if social circumstances meant they were not comfortable forging a friendship with the peasant. On the other hand, Anelle was cold, distant, and quick to order around her subordinates, without an inkling of care about their lives, struggles, or difficulties. She considered herself above them both in terms of rank and as a image manager. They liked Rhiane, but did not respect her; they respected Anelle, but did not like her. It was what made the two working on her hair and cosmetics suppress their amusement to hear Anelle compared to [i]Satan[/i], and made a bodyguard giggle- they empathized with the sentiment and found it humorous it was said to her face. 

"What did you just say?" Anelle gasped with indignant rage, cheeks red with fury, not just because a country bumpkin had dared to insult her, but also because another had dared to laugh. It was difficult to discern where her ire ended and her humiliation began. Rhiane had not kept her voice particularly quiet; this exchange would be a source of rumors that would tarnish her reputation among the entourage.

"Get out," Rhiane said as she leveled a hard stare on Anelle, unflinching, her expression deadly calm. "Get out of my tent before I ask Tobias to remove you. I have a difficult day ahead of me and I am not wasting another moment on your nonsense." She was not bluffing. If the prince's cousin was summoned, they both knew whom he would side with, and there would be an extra layer of embarrassment to be suffered if she was forcibly ejected from a tent in full view of the tour's royal retinue.

They probably all thought she had gone insane, but she had simply reached her breaking point. For weeks she had gone [i]beyond[/i] every metric set before her in gaining the favor of the public. The upper echelon of the country was less convinced of her merit, but they would have been prejudiced against any princess elect, and their lack if enthusiasm was not reflective of her individually. If the throne continued to treat her as if she needed them, but they did not need her, that she was a charity case, a benevolent entity dispersing a favor, then she would make them swallow the bitter pill of consequences to follow. Were she to break the engagement she could seek other opportunities, but they would be stained, marred by her departure, for every candidate would be measured against her unprecedented success, and still some loyalists would vocalize their preference for Rhiane. Conspiracy theories would flourish about her reasons for turning down a life of wealth, fame, and recognition, with a handsome prince who apparently loved her. Discord would spread far and wide, suspicions would grow about the fairy tale romance's validity, and the rebellion would gain a stronger foothold in the populace.

She was a fool for thinking that Luke could reciprocate her feelings, that he would make grand gestures, that he would defend her any more than he would a toy of which he was inherently possessive. If she could not have love, if she could not have a pretense of mutual understanding, and civility, then she would force clarity. Rhiane was tired of waiting for everyone else to realize all the pieces on the chess board; she was not the queen, but she was also not the pawn, and she refused to accept treatment as if she was, as if she was anything or anyone that could be a convenient scapegoat or dumping ground for socioeconomic bias. "Which one will it be? My attendants need to finish getting me ready," she asked evenly.