Christian takes the lead here, diving into the intricate story he concocted of how we met one another through friends of friends during a summer I spent abroad. We became quick friends and decided to keep in touch. We emailed and wrote each other letters over the years until I was his confidante and he was mine. The story is so romantic I almost wish it could be true.
Just as I’m beginning to fall for the fiction, Christian weaves in the truth.
“And then I flew to America last year,” he says, turning to me, though he is having a hard time looking me in the eyes. “We met up, and as soon as I saw her, I knew my feelings had changed into something new. Something I’d never felt before.”
Niles scrunches up his nose and sticks out his tongue, and Christian throws a napkin at him.
“But there were so many obstacles in the way,” he continues. “She lived in America, and I was bound to Sigmaran. She had a life she loved that I couldn’t pull her away from, so I ignored my feelings for as long as I could. I pushed them down to try and do what was right for her, what was fair. But then…”
Tyler. He can’t say it, but I see our son in his eyes.
“You almost married Lady Freyja?” Jory offers.
The table tenses at the mention of Christian’s ex-girlfriend, but Christian just nods.
“Yes. I realized I needed more in my life. I realized I deserved happiness, so I flew back to win her heart, and now, here we are.”
Emotion tightens my throat, so I do the only thing I can do. The thing that, thankfully, seems the most realistic. I smile up at Christian just as a tear rolls down my cheek.
His eyebrows raise in concern before he reaches out and brushes the tear away. His fingers hold vigil against my skin for a moment, whispering across my skin. I feel the urge to lean into his hand, to let him hold me up, but this has gone on too long already. I pull away from him and sniffle, turning back to the table with an embarrassed smile.
“And clearly,” I begin, “it didn’t take much for Christian to win me over. I’m a softy.”
The table laughs and then dinner is served.
The food is incredible, and I’m distracted enough by the tender meat, salty gravies, and freshly baked bread, that I don’t overly concern myself with my table manners. Christian seems relaxed through the entire meal, so I assume I must not be committing any sins too atrocious.
The longer we spend at the table, the more Erikson begins to open up. He still won’t look at me for more than a glance, but he gets into a passionate debate with Christian about the merits of his favorite football team over his older brother’s.
I don’t follow the conversation at all, and Christian only takes a break from making the point that his favorite team doesn’t need to overpay for celebrity players because “they have raw talent that, when developed, will rival any team of celebrity all-stars” to tell me that the football they are talking about is actually soccer.
“No, it’s actually football. What even is ‘soccer’?” Jory asks. “What kind of word is that?”
“Don’t be rude,” the Queen says, breaking a rather long silence.
“He won’t offend me,” I assure her with a smile. “I don’t know a thing about soccer. Or football. My family preferred going to the race track.”
“Oh, horses?” Niles asks excitedly.
“No, cars. My father raced Formula One before I was born, so it’s in my blood. I practically lived at the race track as a kid. I even got to help out on a pit crew once. I just held a wrench, wore a greasy jumpsuit, and tried not to get in the way, but it was fun.”
Everyone at the table collectively furrows their brows in a moment of confusion, and Christian looks over at me, his expression uncommonly clenched.
Suddenly, I remember where I am. Who I am. Lady Ann Callister wouldn’t spend her time in greasy jumpsuits with racers. She would have devoted her time to more noble pursuits. To hobbies worthy of a character from a Jane Austen novel.
“That certainly seems like an…interesting family outing,” the Queen says, clearly confused by my admission.
I don’t know how much she knows about American culture, but I hope it isn’t much. If she’s ever seen a race on television—or the rowdy beer commercials in between—I may have just tarnished her opinion of me beyond repair.
Christian lays a hand on my shoulder and leans forward as if telling me a secret, though he is talking loud enough for the table to hear. “Mother was afraid to let me go to any sporting events. She was afraid the passion and enthusiasm of the crowd would turn me wild.”
“You were very susceptible back then,” she says seriously, though there is fondness in her smile. “I couldn’t allow you to be one of those men who take off their shirt and paint their chest.”
“Yes, I know, Mother,” Christian teases. “You were only keeping me out of trouble. I’m sure you are right, and I would have made a clear fool out of myself.”
“If only she could have kept you away from the bars,” the King interjects. Once again, his tone is jovial, but the words are targeted, and they find their mark.
The Queen’s smile fades, and I see the three younger princes lower their heads, as though ducking to protect themselves from an imminent explosion.
Christian adjusts in his seat, and I can tell he’s itching to respond. To defend himself. But he won’t. As he told me in the hallway, his father prefers people who know how to stay quiet, and now I understand why. It is so he can walk all over them without being challenged. The people of Sigmaran may allow such behavior, but I’m an American, and he isn’t my king.
“If only the people were led to understand that even a prince deserves a well-lived life,” I say as innocently as I can.
Christian turns to me, a warning in his eyes. He wants me to stand down, but I won’t.
“Well-lived?” the King asks.
I swallow back my nerves and nod. “An animal kept in captivity will always yearn for what is beyond the bars of its cage, though it will not have the means to survive in the wild. Isn’t it better for a royal, whose insulation from the world is a certain kind of captivity, to know what it means to walk among the people? To know what it means to be a normal young man without the pressures of the crown on his head? Then, he can choose to rule from the safety of his cage, and rule all the better because of his knowledge of the world.”
The table is quiet enough that I’m certain every member of Christian’s family can hear the thrum of my heart in my chest. Still, I lift my chin and look at the King.
He is studying me, his finger running along the rim of his glass while he thinks. I imagine him ordering me to be thrown from the room or worse, sending everyone else away so he can talk to me alone. Finally, he brings his hand to the side of his face and leans into his palm, a smile spreading slowly across his face. He looks at Christian.
“You found yourself a politician, Christian.”
I do not know whether it is a compliment, and I look from the King to Christian and back again.
“She was able to turn your gallivanting into an asset better than I ever could.” The King turns to me, a bushy eyebrow raised. “I think Christian will rule all the better not because of his years of debauchery, but because he will have a woman like you by his side.”
I don’t know what to say, so I simply tip my head forward.
My intention in speaking had been to defend Christian, to force the King to see that his son is a kind man who had remained loyal to his country in everything—the current lie not counting against his track record—and would make a fine king someday. I certainly never imagined it would earn me the King’s favor. But based on the way Christian’s hand is patting my knee beneath the table and his lips are turned down at the corners, fighting a smile, I know he counts this as a win. So I will, too.
When we get back to his house, Christian offers me his arm as I’m getting out of the car, and I accept it, letting him lead me down the main hallway to my room.
“You were incr
edible tonight,” he says softly, though it still feels too loud in the cavernous hallway. Unlike the bustle of the main palace, servants and maids flitting from room to room like birds, Christian’s house is quiet. I know there are guards maintaining the perimeter, but otherwise, we are alone. I can’t decide whether I’d like there to be more witnesses or not.
“I didn’t hold my tongue,” I say, walking on my toes to keep my heels from tapping so aggressively against the marble floors.
“Thank God for that.” Christian pauses for a second and then laughs at the memory. “My father refused to concede that you made a good point, because doing so would mean conceding that he has been wrong about me for the last ten years. But he did compliment your ability to spin a narrative, which is not nothing.”
“I like your family.”
Christian snaps his head to look at me, an eyebrow raised. “Not even you can spin that narrative, Jane-Ann.”
“I’m serious.” I disentangle my arm from his and look over at him. The hallway is dark, so his face is half in shadow. I’m glad. It makes it harder to focus on the fine details of him. “Your brothers look so much like you. Your mother is kind. Your father is…”
“A tyrant?” he offers. “A sadist?”
“Intense,” I say, thinking carefully about how to phrase this. “But I see some of him in you.”
Christian jolts and places a hand to his chest. “If you seek to wound me, your words have found their mark.”
“It isn’t an insult.” I laugh despite myself.
Christian’s other hand moves to rest on top of mine. The gentle touch makes me silent and still.
“It’s good to hear you laugh,” he says, his walk slowing. He is trying to make the most of the little bit of hallway we have left before I reach my room. “I wasn’t sure I’d hear it again. Not when it was real, anyway.”
I don’t know what to say. I’d planned to maintain the silent treatment when we were alone once again. Not to punish Christian, but because it was easier than letting him in. Easier than remembering how easily we can talk and laugh. But one family dinner later, and I’ve lowered my guard again.
As much as my heart wants me to raise the bridge and draw inward, I don’t think I can. If I close Christian out, I’ll be completely alone in Sigmaran. The country and his family believe me to be Lady Ann Callister, and he is the only person who can remind me of who I really am. The only person who can make me feel a little less crazy for lying to everyone.
“I can’t reasonably ask any more of you than I already have,” he says, grabbing my hand and moving until he is standing in front of me, blocking the path to my bedroom door. “But I’d like to request that you…talk to me. At least about Tyler. You are the only person I can talk to about him.”
I stiffen. I hadn’t even thought of that. Of how lonely it must be for Christian to not be able to tell anyone about his son. My mom has taken to showing Tyler’s picture to every cashier at every store she visits, yet Christian can’t tell his own family about his child. How lonely.
“He looks like you,” I say quietly, looking up at him from beneath my lashes.
Christian’s eyebrows raise, eagerness written all over his face.
I continue, “He has your mouth, and his eyes are still settling into their final color, but Blakely thinks they’ll be the color of yours.”
Christian seems to sag with relief, like a puppet held up by strings that someone has finally cut loose. “I miss him. So much. I want to see him all the time.”
“I should have sent more pictures,” I say, guilt rising inside of me like bile. “I was angry with you, but that shouldn’t affect how I let you be involved—”
Christian leans down so his face is directly in front of mine, chiseled and square and perfect. He shakes his head. “You did nothing wrong, Jane-Ann. I made this mess, and you were just trying to wade through it.”
His words do little to assuage my guilt, but I nod. “Are we going to fix it?”
“That’s why you’re here,” he says, head tilted to the side. “If I can get my family to ease back on marrying me off, I’ll find someone who will let me be there for Tyler. And for you.”
Someone else. Someone who isn’t me. I repeat these words to myself over and over again until they stick. Until my traitorous heart stops fluttering at the sight of him. He isn’t mine. He is never going to be mine.
I take a deep breath and smile. “Well, it seems like we’re off to a good start. I don’t want to brag, but I think your family likes me.”
Christian smiles slowly, and the intensity of the moment slips away like a morning fog. He shifts back to my side and continues leading me down the hallway. “They love you. At this rate, they’ll be just as heartbroken as I’ll be when you leave.”
Pretend heartbroken, I remind myself.
I untwine my arm from Christian’s when we reach my room and walk to the door, leaning back against the wood, my hand on the doorknob.
“What deception do we have on the schedule for tomorrow?” I ask.
“Actually,” he says, rocking onto his toes nervously before setting his heels on the ground and folding his hands behind his back. “I wondered whether you wouldn’t like to see more of Sigmaran?”
“Like, a tour?” I ask.
Like, a date? I wonder.
“It is a beautiful island, and I’d like to show it to you.” He glances down at his feet as he rocks up on his toes again. “But it is also important for us to be seen out together. I will do my best to avoid most of the high-publicity areas, but there are cameras everywhere I go, so avoiding them all is impossible. I just want my people to see us together so that things seem…real.”
The word seems to snag in his throat, and when it does finally come out, it falls to the floor between us like a concrete block.
Spending an entire day with Christian, sightseeing and touring a foreign country, sounds like a trap. Like an easy way to end up with my own heart broken. Spending the entire day with the King sounds less treacherous. Yet, I find myself nodding in agreement.
“Yes?” Christian asks, surprised by my answer, as well.
“Sounds fun,” I say, opening my door and stepping backward.
Christian’s eyes roam down my body once more as I slip behind the door. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
I smile and softly press the door closed. I hold my breath for one, two, three seconds until I finally hear Christian turn and pad down the hallway. When he is gone, I slide down the door until I’m just an elegantly dressed heap on the floor.
What have I gotten myself into?
Chapter 25
Jane-Ann
Sigmaran is beautiful. Beyond beautiful. It’s like walking in a dream.
Growing up in Texas, my family took regular vacations south to the water. We visited Galveston and New Orleans. I splashed in the warm muddy waters of the Gulf of Mexico and tanned on the sandy beaches. But nothing prepared me for the icy blue ocean lapping against Sigmaran’s rocky shores or looking down the sheer face of a cliff into the turquoise water of the fjord. Beech forests line the coast, making for a dramatic reveal of the North Sea when the tree line finally breaks.
I dip my toes in the cold water and tip my head back to soak in the distant sun. Sigmaran is a far cry from Texas, but that doesn’t have to be a bad thing. I’d expected the scenery to make me homesick, but instead, it makes me realize how large the world it, and how little of it I’ve seen.
We are on the beach throwing rocks into the water—Christian skipping them three or four times across the surface. I have never managed to master the skill, so mine just plunk to the bottom—when the press show up. Just like in every movie I’ve ever seen with paparazzi, a mechanical click carries down to us on the wind, and when we search, we spot a photographer hiding behind a thin tree, his camera trained on us.
Immediately, Christian’s security closes ranks, pulling in tightly so I could stretch out a hand and touch them. Christian wraps a pr
otective arm around my back, and I let him. Not only because there is a camera there, but because I feel out of my depth. I’ve never been photographed against my will or surrounded by security. While the geography of Sigmaran has almost instantly welcomed me in, Christian’s lifestyle would take more adjustment.
“I’m hungry anyway,” Christian says, pulling me against his side so I can feel his hip against my waist. “Are you?”
I’ve been so distracted by the view—by the ocean tumbling out in endless ripples, the sky stretching down, thick and cottony to kiss the horizon—that I’ve barely noticed. But suddenly, I feel ravenous. Plus, I need to pump.
“I could eat,” I say.
Christian drinks in the sight of me slowly. Knowing we’d be walking most of the day, I’ve opted for a cropped skinny jean with a pale pink slip-on sneaker and a knit V-neck sweater that clings to my curves. Coincidently, Christian’s eyes have clung to me most of the day, too. At the moment, he is stuck on my chest. When he looks up, his eyes are unreadable. “Should we go back to the house first so you can change?”
My brow furrows. Is that why he’s been staring all day? Because I don’t look nice enough? He is wearing a pair of dark green chinos, a gray button-down with sleeves rolled up once the temperature reached the mid-sixties, and a clean pair of white sneakers. I think we both look fashionably casual, but apparently—
His eyes dart down to my breasts, and he tilts his head to the side in a knowing way.
He knows I need to pump. He can tell.
“Oh,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. “Yes. That would be great.”
I fill two milk storage bags as soon as I get back to my room, and my body instantly feels more like my own. I wash my feet in the tub, getting rid of the sand and sea water, and then rinse my face in the sink. Christian didn’t say where we are going, only that I would want to change into something more formal.
“More formal than dinner with your family?” I asked.
“You could wear that dress again if you want,” Christian said, a devilish smile on his lips.
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