My social life has already begun to suffer. Even though I’m not sure whether or not my pregnancy is showing, I don’t dare to take any chances. What if I went to a public function, an awards show or a party, and a reporter asked an uncomfortable question? How would I handle it? What would my answer be? I’d probably blurt out something completely unhelpful and damning out of sheer nerves.
Then there’s the issue of morning sickness. I’m not suffering today, thank God, but it’s been very unpredictable and on some mornings very severe. I’ve spent hours hunched over the toilet, then crawled back to my bed to lie in the dark, only to discover that it wasn’t over after all.
That means I’m completely out of commission when it comes to anything that takes place in the morning. I’ve canceled meetings with my agent twice now because I don’t want to risk throwing up in her office and having to explain myself.
Even my parents don’t yet know that I’m pregnant, and that’s the most painful thing of all. I’m used to keeping parts of my life secret from my fans and from journalists. I’m not used to keeping secrets from my family.
My original plan was to return to Ohio after I finished filming at Alabaster and spend the rest of hiatus holed up at my parents’ house, but I haven’t been able to return for fear they’ll put the signs together and figure out what’s going on with me. My parents have always been intuitive. Fooling them would be much harder than fooling anyone else.
And more than that, I want to tell them. Their first grandchild. I know they’d be excited. They’ve never been the sort to pressure me about giving them grandchildren, but they love kids, and it’s a big deal. They’ll be ecstatic when they hear the news, and they’ll be deeply hurt, I know, by the fact that I waited so long to tell them. Every day I put it off is one more sprinkle of salt in that wound.
But I can’t tell them. Because the first question they’d ask would be “who’s the father?” And that’s the one question I can’t answer. Until I know what Alex and I are going to do, I can’t tell anybody. It’s excruciating.
He’ll call me. He’ll call me once he has a resolution from his family and from Parliament. I have to believe that.
I pull on a green jersey dress and examine myself in the mirror again. I think maybe the dress fits a little more tightly than I’m used to—the top part across my chest is definitely snug. It’s amazing how much I’m yearning to see my belly swell up when I know it’s the evidence that will blow my cover. I want my baby to grow big and healthy. I want it deeply, viscerally, in a way that subverts and surpasses all logic.
I’ve been completely alone for the past two weeks, with the exception of a few phone calls to my parents and to my agent. I’ve had no one else to talk to. It’s not just the lack of Alex’s voice that’s driving me crazy, it’s the lack of anyone. But who could I call? It’s not like I can talk about what’s going on with me. For lack of anyone to converse with, I’ve found myself going deeper and deeper into my own mind, questioning everything I think I know.
Like that night in Avaran. Was it really as magical as I thought it was? Could any night be that magical?
I must have blown it up in my mind, convinced myself it was more than it was.
I hate that I’m thinking this way. I was so certain when I was with him. I remember that certainty—it’s imprinted on my heart. I can feel it even now, when I think of the feeling of his hands on my body, his breath on my neck, the gentle way he carried me across the beach and back to his cottage.
But he knew the truth at that point, a small voice deep inside me argues. He knew you were pregnant. What if he was already plotting to escape any responsibility for it? What if he wants nothing to do with you or the baby, and he was just too much of a coward to admit it?
No. Alex isn’t like that. He’s a good man. He wants to serve his kingdom. He wants to do right by the people of Avaran. Surely the same intentions apply to his son or daughter.
That’s just what he told you, the voice says. It feels like it’s mocking me. I can actually feel myself blushing. Of course, he would present himself as noble and upstanding. Of course, he wants you to believe he’s a good man. How else would the trick work? You’d never have left him alone if you didn’t believe he was honorable.
I did believe he was honorable…
Could it be true? Could he have been lying the whole time, adopting a false persona, treating me kindly so I’d never suspect that his true intentions were to get rid of me?
I have to admit that his messages have been abrupt to the point of coldness. If I weren’t carrying his child, I would have taken the hint by now and stopped reaching out to him. But this is Alex. It’s so much harder to believe that the man who held me and told me we were meant to be together, and that our baby was a sign, could want me out of his life.
That could be what he wants, though. How well do I really know him?
I know he’s royal, and that he’s been raised to deal with heads of state. Surely he must have the skills of a politician—the ability to flatter and lie, to tell people what they want to hear with the ultimate goal of getting his own way. How easily he convinced me to keep my pregnancy a secret, even from my own family! What a clever strategy it would be to think of a story that makes perfect sense and assure me that that was the reason for the secrecy.
And what a genius move it would be, too. If his ultimate plan is to claim my child isn’t his, then the more time he can put between the night we spent together and my declaration of pregnancy, the muddier the waters will become. Already I could have been with a dozen men. It’s a story tabloid writers won’t hesitate to believe. And it’s not as if I can demand a paternity test of a prince—nor do I want to, really. I don’t want to entrap him into some kind of relationship, and I don’t need his money.
But I do want my child to have a father. I won’t pretend I don’t want that.
And even though I have serious cause to doubt the bond I thought I shared with Alex, I have to admit that I still want the beautiful future with him that I dreamed of.
I still fantasize about his touch and the sound of his voice in my ear, his thick, powerful muscles dominating me, taking command as we make love, then losing it at the very last moment. I fantasize about the thrill of my body being enough to shatter his perfect control. That much happened the way I’m remembering it; I’m sure it did. Sex like that couldn’t have been faked. It was real, and it was the most intense thing I’ve ever experienced in my life. Alex couldn’t possibly walk away from that twice, could he?
Unless it was only good for me?
No. I don’t believe that. I refuse to believe that. I was there in that moment with him. This isn’t about him not having an interest in me, physically or even personally. This is about him wanting nothing to do with my pregnancy and trying to establish a credible distance between us. This is him dropping hints that I should just go away.
I rest a hand on my belly, where even now my child is growing. I have to protect my baby. I have to provide the best possible life for him or her. I am not going to just go away.
I grab my phone, intending to call Alex and force him to speak to me. I pull up his contact information, but as my thumb hovers over the call button, I lose my nerve.
Who knows what he’s doing right now? Even though he’s treated me poorly, even though I do want to call him out on it, I still don’t have any wish to shame him in front of the rest of Avaran. If the wrong person is in the room when my call comes through, if someone overhears me, it could spell trouble for all of us.
All of this is true, but it’s also an excuse. Really, I’m just too nervous to speak to him.
I type out a text—“we need to talk”—and press send.
I’m expecting his usual quick reply, but there’s no answer.
I set the phone down, walk into the kitchen, and occupy myself by making a sandwich. When I pick up the phone again, there’s still nothing from Alex.
Is he ignoring me altogether now?
“Get back to me ASAP.” I type. “This is important.”
I know he’s a prince, but I’m used to him responding promptly. It’s the one thing I’ve grown to count on. Yes, his answers are short and impersonal, but they always come. It’s the one thing I’ve hung my hopes on as it’s gotten harder and harder to keep faith in him. Why would he keep answering me if I meant nothing to him? It’s hard to know.
But half an hour goes by, and then an hour, and there’s still no answer. I have to assume he’s avoiding me. And I can’t allow it. Fine for him to ignore this pregnancy, shove it under the rug and pretend it doesn’t exist, but I’m not going to be able to keep up the pretense much longer.
“Just so you know, I’ve kept my promise and not told anyone what I told you on the beach,” I write. “But that can’t go on forever. It’s going to be obvious pretty soon. People will be able to see, and then there will be questions. You know which questions I mean.”
I send that text, think a moment, then text again:
“Are you expecting me to come up with a lie? People are going to ask me for a name. I’m going to have to say something. These are things that have to be decided sooner rather than later.”
There. I think that gets the point across without making it too obvious what I’m talking about, in case the message falls into the wrong hands.
I hit send again and cross my fingers that he’ll finally respond with something I can actually work with.
Chapter 16
The day passes, and no response comes. I am tortured by my silent phone. I put it in my bedside drawer and walk away from it, hoping to distract myself, and then moments later I run to retrieve it, terrified that I’ve missed my chance to talk to Alex.
This is crazy. I must be losing my mind.
When the phone finally does ring, around seven o’clock in the evening, I’m so sure it’s finally Alex that I dive across the room for it and bang my knee on a chair, yelping when pain spikes through me. My dignity has completely evaporated at this point. But it’s not about me, I remind myself. It’s about the baby.
Right. Nice try, Erica. Of course, this isn’t about me wanting to hold onto the best sex I’ve ever had, the best connection to a man I’ve ever had. No, I’m just being a good mother. I have to roll my eyes at myself as I answer the phone.
“Hello?”
“Erica?”
My heart sinks like a stone. The voice is brusque, businesslike, female. The voice of my agent.
“Hi, Debra.”
“I have an audition for you, hon. You’d be perfect for it. Can you come into the office so we can discuss?”
I sigh. “Deb, I told you. I’m taking some time off.”
“Yeah, you told me,” she says. “Thing is, I’m not sure you’ve really thought that through. You need to keep working, hon. You’re not going to be able to coast on that Royal Blue gig forever. You saw what happened to Gary Breyer this season. His character was killed off, and now he’s out of a job.”
“Gary’s going to be fine,” I say. “He’s a great actor and a big name.”
“Yes, he is,” Debra says, her voice thick with false patience. “But you aren’t, are you? You’re new to the industry, and no one knows you as anything but Aeryn Redfall. If you don’t use this time off to prove you can do more, you’re going to end up getting typecast. Or worse, not cast at all.”
“I just did a movie,” I protest.
“And that wrapped, and now you need to put yourself back out there. I have a four-episode guest spot on a crime series, and your combat training would really come in handy.”
Combat. There’s no way I’m going to involve myself in combat while I’m pregnant.
I close my eyes, wishing more than ever that Alex had come through with a plan so that I’d have something I could say to Debra right now.
“I’m really sorry,” I say. “I can’t do it now.”
She’s silent for a moment. “You know, I took a chance on you,” she says, her voice chilly. “Do you know how many girls come to LA looking for their big break?”
“I think I’ve been worth your time, Deb,” I say, a little more sharply than intended. “We’ve made plenty of money from my work on Royal Blue. I’d say it’s been a solid return on your investment. And I really don’t appreciate being called up and chastened by you like all I ever do is sit around. I work hard on that show, and I know I’m one of your highest earning clients.”
“You’ve been successful so far,” she admits. “But that comes of listening to me. Following my guidance. If you’re not prepared to keep doing that, maybe you should consider finding new representation.”
I’m shocked. “You don’t mean that,” I protest. “Deb, I’ve been with you since the beginning.”
“I’m thinking of your career,” she says. “I want you to keep growing as an actress. But if that’s not what you want for yourself…” She trails off.
I say goodbye, barely able to hold back tears. I’ve been extra emotional since becoming pregnant, so I’m not surprised to find myself dissolving like this, but my stunned sadness is real. I hope she’s bluffing as a ploy to get me to take another role. I love working with Deb. She’s gotten me every break I’ve had since coming to Hollywood. If only I could tell her the truth, I know she would understand.
If I lose her because of the way Alex made us handle this, I don’t know what I’ll do. But I do know that I’m becoming more frustrated with him by the minute.
At some point, I sleep. My sleep has been heavy and dreamless these past few weeks, and I don’t wake easily, so when a heavy pounding works its way into my dream, it’s several minutes before I realize it’s actually happening in the waking world.
“Hang on,” I call, still half asleep, fumbling around for my bathrobe and slippers.
I squint at my bedside clock. It’s seven thirty in the morning. Who would be here at this time?
It must be Debra, come to fight me on her audition proposals. How will she react when I turn her down in person? Will she be able to tell I’m pregnant?
I stumble to the door and pull it open.
And gasp.
Alex, my Alex, is standing at my door.
And the moment I see him, I know I’ve been wrong, wrong about everything. All my doubts and worries fly away. Of course, he cares about me. He always has. Whatever the explanation for his distance over the past three weeks, I will hear it and accept it, but it doesn’t matter. What matters is that he’s here. The two of us are together at last.
His eyes drink me in for a long moment that seems to go on for an eternity, and during all that time I’m held paralyzed in his gaze. Then, suddenly, he crosses the threshold, catching me up in his embrace, crushing the air from my lungs and squeezing a few unexpected tears from my eyes. They trickle down my cheeks, and as he holds me away from him, he sees.
“Oh, Erica,” he whispers, brushing the tears away with his thumbs. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Can you forgive me?”
I shake my head, swallowing hard. “There’s nothing to forgive.”
“Of course there is.” He pulls me to him again, resting me against his broad chest. “I’m sure you must have been confused all this time. Maybe even angry. I anticipated it. I knew that with every day that went by, you’d be feeling more and more alone. I knew, and yet I was distant with you. And then, when my flight landed and I saw your most recent message…”
“So that’s why you never answered?” I interrupt. “You were on a plane?”
“That’s why. And when I landed, I rushed straight here so that we could talk face to face rather than by text. Erica, please, please tell me I haven’t ruined everything. Tell me you’re not planning to cut me out of your life, and our child’s life.”
“What?” I pull my head back to stare at him. “Of course I’m not. I would never do that.”
He sighs, closing his eyes. “I was afraid I’d lost you.”
“I was afraid we’d lost you.”
&
nbsp; “No,” he says. “Never.”
“Come inside,” I suggest, taking his hand. “I’ll make some tea. You must have had a long journey. You can lie down in the bedroom if you want to.”
He shakes his head vigorously. “I’m not going to sleep until we’ve had a chance to talk.”
He follows me into the kitchen and leans up against the counter as I start preparing the tea.
“I should have expected it, Erica,” he says. “They’ve been watching me, and closely.”
“Who has?”
“Parliament. And they’ve set members of my own household guard to keep an eye on me, too. Those men and women are supposed to report to me, to follow my orders, but I know some of them feel more loyalty to Parliament, and their eyes are open. If I spend too much time on my phone, someone appears over my shoulder to see what I’m doing. The last thing I wanted in the world was for them to find out your name.”
“Did they?” I ask. I set the kettle on to boil.
“No. They know I’m having an ‘affair’”—he puts the word in air quotes, as if it’s rotten and distasteful to him—“with an American woman, but that’s all they know. And that you’re pregnant, of course. But they don’t know it’s you.”
“So you told them about the pregnancy?”
“I did. That’s why they’ve been monitoring me so closely. When I refused to give up a name, there was a bit of an uproar.”
“You’ll have to give my name eventually,” I point out, wondering at his long-term strategy.
“I want to secure royal protection for you first,” he says. “If you’re under the protection of my name, there are limits to what the press can write about you. You’ll also be able to come and stay at the palace. I’m not going to let them rake you over in the tabloids. I have to know they’re willing to work with us.”
I frown. “I thought you said getting Parliament’s support wouldn’t be a problem. You said the people who had a problem with situations like ours were all old and out of power now.”
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