The King's Surprise Bride_A Royal Wedding Novella

by Vivien Vale

  “As I hope you’ll recall, Mr. Abraham, I need to leave work early today. I have a medical appointment, you see. An ultrasound, to be specific, the first of my pregnancy. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go home and get ready.”

  Carter’s head is still down by the freaking desk drawer. It’s like he’s not even listening.

  Because he’s not.

  Is he?

  My immediate impulse is to stand silently and watch closely, trying to decode every dark, broody movement for any sign that he is listening and that he does care.

  That his feelings for me are still there, and that they didn’t just evaporate in the cloud or the fog or whatever metaphor my brain tries to throw out next to make sense of this craziness.

  Forget that impulse. It’s doing me no good.

  Is that a city gal impulse, or is that just ole Junebug?

  Neither, it’s nothing.

  And I’m neither. I’m just June, and it’s time for me to go to one of the most important appointments of my life.

  Striding out the door and away from Carter’s office, there’s another impulse I need to fight—the impulse to stamp my pumps against the hard Abraham Fertility floor with each step. If I did that, it would create a series of satisfying, angry clicks ricocheting throughout the entire floor of the building.

  But why would I do that? I’m just an expectant mother on her way to an ultrasound.

  What could I possibly have to be angry about?

  And of course, I realize none of this is any good for the growing baby inside of me. I have read babies are able to pick up on how their mothers feel. If that’s true, my poor little one must already be a nervous wreck.

  Time to bull up my boot straps.

  Time to stop this nonsense, I tell myself and focus on this tiny life growing inside of me.

  Thanks to my decision to walk calmly towards the exit, it’s quiet enough to hear a voice coming from somewhere far behind me.

  Just some voice, from some person, trying to project, or maybe yell, but lacking even the proper freaking commitment for that.

  “June, wait…do you need me to…”

  Or something like that. I’m long gone before I can hear anything else.

  Carter

  By the time June’s pretty little feet carry her through the doorway, I already have my coat and fucking keys in hand.

  I shouldn’t have snapped at her. It was a shitty thing to do. It must have hurt her—I know that, and I feel like less of a man for it.

  A real man doesn’t lash out at a woman. A real man holds his emotions together, stuffs them down, and does what needs to be done.

  That’s how I was raised.

  Repressed.

  Swallow that shit and never let anyone know that you’re hurting, that you’re struggling, and that you might need help.

  A real man would drive his wife—or whatever the fuck June wants me to call her—he would drive her to her ultrasound, hold her hand, watch with bated breath as the life he created with her appears on the screen.

  I might have hurt June—but I’m sure as fuck not letting the only consistently good thing in my life storm out the door and walk away.

  But just then, before I could chase her down, my phone rings.

  It was at this very moment that things start to unravel.

  I should have listened to the feeling of foreboding in the pit of my stomach, but heck, I didn’t.

  What was I thinking? What was I even fucking thinking?

  What could have been just a fat fucking hangover, with a little bit of my occasional IMO brooding thrown in, with the additional emotional baggage brought by June, is now turning into an actual fucking nightmare.

  You know, one of those nasty fucking dreams where there’s nothing obvious like a monster chasing you. And no, you’re not even back in school or some shit—a dream where you’re just trying to get somewhere and you can’t get there because you keep getting stopped.

  Either you just can’t move your fucking foot, or there’s some kind of invisible magnetic field in front of you, keeping you from moving even an inch forward…

  Or, and I think we can all agree that this is the best one, the fucking phone starts ringing, and for some reason, you have no choice but to answer that motherfucker. It’s not that you want to, but you just know that something even worse will happen if you just let it ring.

  I pick up the phone, because unfortunately, this isn’t some bad dream.

  It’s just me in my goddamn business, where I’m always dealing with some kind of shit.

  To be fair, the shit I’m dealing with really fucking sucks today, but that doesn’t stop me from answering the phone.

  “Fuck,” I grumble to myself as I hit the button to receive the call, “she was happy—all I had to do was be happy, despite all the fucking shit.”

  “This is Carter,” I mutter, only slightly louder this time, into the phone as I hover by the exit.

  “Is that how you answer your phone these days?”

  Yes, it’s a fucking nightmare all right—except this one is of the waking variety.

  “Only when I’m hoping it’s a bad dream, Chantal.”

  “How’d you know it was me?” She has her usual sarcastic yet slightly short tone to her voice, but she’s whispering for some reason.

  I’m already starting to wobble, not even watching where I’m going.

  Fuck it.

  This might feel like a nightmare, but it’s not really. I could just hang up the phone.

  I start taking the phone down away from my ear, but I hear her hissy voice whispering.

  “Carter, Carter...come on.”

  It’s like she can tell that I’m taking the phone away from my ear. Fuck if it doesn’t startle the life out of me for some ungodly reason.

  I bring the phone right back up to my fucking ear. Maybe I’m just on edge today. Maybe Chantal is just fucking lying.

  When it comes to Chantal, it usually pays to bet on the lie.

  Usually.

  But I notice myself that I’m not taking my phone away from my ear anymore.

  And, to be honest, that shit scares me more than any fucking else today or yesterday.

  “Carter...Carter, please, I need you to help me. This is serious.”

  How serious could it be? For fuck’s sake, she was just whispering one of her classic fucking jokes.

  “Carter,” she sniffles.

  Fuck, that sniffle…she’s crying, and her voice is laced with fear.

  This doesn’t sound good.

  “Carter...” she sniffles again. The phone translates the sound to a horrible electronic squall.

  Yeah, this does not sound fucking good at all.

  Now, I think you might be able to bet on Chantal lying. Yet I couldn’t deny the intense, nagging dread audible in her whimpered pleas.

  If Chantal is telling the truth, it’s not just my ex-girlfriend who’s in peril.

  I’m still not ready to go all in on this quite yet.

  “Chantal, just tell me what’s going on.”

  I’m doing my best—I sound about as earnest as fucking possible given the circumstances.

  “Carter...just, Carter, oh god, Carter, please...”

  Holy shit. Her voice is getting lower, transforming into a soft, terrified ghost of a whisper.

  I’m still not completely sold.

  “Seems like you were making fun of me just a minute ago.”

  “I…I don’t…please…first I ran in here, and now it sounds like he has…I’m afraid to…he could come in here at any moment!”

  Yeah, I’m starting to believe it. She’s not that good of a fucking actress, and the terror and unsettling weirdness sound much too real.

  And I just realize that I’m standing in almost the same fucking spot that I was on when the phone first rang.

  Unconsciously, I think I could already tell some shit was going down before I answered the phone. And consciously, I’m really fucking starting t
o believe it now.

  If things were just a little bit different, I wouldn’t necessarily give a shit how real this is.

  I mean, I’m not saying I would leave her in danger—whatever fucking danger this is—but I probably wouldn’t be thinking about how I’m going to get myself to wherever the fuck she is as fast as fucking possible.

  Because this is not just Chantal my ex-girlfriend.

  This is Chantal, the mother of my brother’s child.

  And, if this somehow isn’t for real, it would be pretty fucking strange.

  Honesty, in my experience, can be an issue with Chantal.

  But on the other hand, calling me years after our relationship ended to do some weird-ass prank shit or whatever this could be is also not an issue with Chantal as far as I know.

  “Carter, Carter...” Chantal’s talking slightly louder now and growing breathless with fear.

  And I just realize that I’m starting to fucking run with my coat clasped in my hand.

  And I don’t even know what fucking direction I’m supposed to be going…

  Towards my fucking car would be a start.

  “Where are you?” I ask. “And what exactly is going on?”

  “Carter...” The sound of a swallowed sob jars the shit out of me. “I…you know I don’t use anymore. It was…just a moment of weakness.”

  “What have you done?” The world abruptly starts dimming around me. I couldn’t even begin to comprehend the implications of what Chantal just said.

  “I didn’t. I…” Chantal lowers her voice dramatically. “I just came here to…I don’t know. But then I couldn’t do it. I told them I didn’t want any. I didn’t want to buy.”

  Fuck, I’m believing it now. It’s all becoming clear.

  “Let me guess: they didn’t care for your change of heart.”

  Chantal’s sobs, especially as she tries to stifle them, radiate with the sound of pure terror through my phone.

  My body feels almost weightless as I tear like an actual fucking bat out of hell to my car.

  These motherfuckers don’t realize who’s fucking family they’re fucking with now.

  “Carter, I’m in the bathroom…p-please.”

  “Where are you?” My voice is coming out raspy and low. I’d never even fucking heard it that way—I’m almost scared for these fucking pricks now.

  “I s-said I’m in the b…”

  “Where are you?”

  “Colton T-Towers Penthou…”

  Now that I have the information I need, I hang up the phone and nearly fly the last few feet to my car.

  This isn’t about Chantal my ex-girlfriend or trying to revisit the past in any way.

  There’s no way I would go down that path again, because it would lead to the same painful place every time.

  This is about Chantal, the mother of my brother’s child.

  I throw my driver’s side door open with enough force to nearly tear it off its fucking hinges. It stays on, though, even after I dive in and slam it shut twice as hard.

  Tearing through the streets of Midtown at near-supersonic speed, there’s one phone call I need to make on my way to going fucking ballistic.

  After dialing June’s number on my dashboard display, I hook a hard, tire-squealing left turn towards where these sorry fucking bastards are about to have the worst day of their fucking lives.

  The car stereo system, automatically synced to my phone, carries an angelic ding through the speakers.

  “Okay, Carter. What is it?”

  “June, your voice is the best goddamn thing to ever come through my car’s speakers.”

  “So now you’re driving here?”

  “Soon, June. I’m picking you up after the ultrasound—right now I have to make a quick stop.”

  “Yeah, whatever you…you, asshole.”

  The line goes dead.

  Did June really just say that?

  That couldn’t have been her. I’ll have to ask when I see her in a bit.

  But like I said to June, I just have a quick stop to make first.

  June

  I’ve changed into what I’ve come to think of as mommy clothes: a comfortable pair of yoga pants, an oversized sweater, and a pair of trendy boots that are forgiving about the way my feet swell now.

  The good thing about my job with Carter’s company is that it bankrolls designer maternity wear.

  Maybe the only good thing, considering the day I’ve had.

  “June Johnson, here to see Dr. Lucas.” I try to force a smile at the receptionist, but she doesn’t even attempt to force one back.

  City slickers.

  “You’re not on the schedule,” the receptionist says instead. Now the forced smile comes—Botox-tight and completely unnerving. “If you don’t have an appointment, I’m afraid you’ll have to leave.”

  Honestly? I preferred her grimacing.

  “Ugh,” I sigh, realizing my mistake. “Is it under Abraham? June Abraham or maybe Carter Abraham?”

  He booked the appointment for me, after all. Insisted that there was nowhere else in the city worth going. It would only make sense that he’d put it under his own name.

  Typical male.

  At the sound of that name, the receptionist’s eerie smile fades again. It’s replaced with a look of awe.

  “You’re here for an…ultrasound.” She raises her colored-in eyebrows in surprise as she checks her screen. “Wow. I didn’t think Carter Abraham was the type.”

  Here’s where I have to bite my tongue to keep myself from lashing back with an impolite retort.

  Internally though, I’m thinking, what the hell does she mean by that? I take offense at her comment, but then realize it’s aimed more at Carter than at myself.

  Instead, I plant another fake smile on my lips that makes my cheeks hurt and tell her that, yes, I am indeed here for an ultrasound.

  Everyone around here knows Carter’s name, and he’s somewhat of a legend, to be honest.

  I’m not surprised by the way the nurse’s expression changes from smug to profoundly impressed.

  She glances around and beyond me towards the waiting room filled with other fat, uncomfortable moms-to-be.

  “Will Mr. Abraham be joining you today?” Now, her eyes fixate back to me for a response to her question.

  “No.” I shake my head regretfully, wondering why I’m allowing this stranger to shame me. “He’s unable to make it.”

  Okay, so maybe the extra explanation isn’t actually necessary, but at any rate, I can spot that judgmental flicker in her eyes from a mile away.

  She gives me a look of pity, like I’m a poor single mother who’s been knocked up and going through the trials of life all alone with no support.

  “Let me just check the computer to get you booked in the schedule, then, dear.” The woman moves her gaze back to her screen and narrows her eyes in on the contents, which I can’t see.

  “Okay,” I whisper meekly and shift my weight uncomfortably.

  I’m feeling quite indignant, but I can’t very well have it out with this sardonic lady, and running out of here would be childish and not in the best interest of my growing baby, either.

  I’m sure a shouting brawl would capture unwanted attention, not to mention cast a limelight on Carter that I’m willing to bet he wouldn’t appreciate.

  The nurse glances back up at me with a sour smile. “If you will just take a seat in one of the waiting room chairs over there, you will be called back momentarily.”

  She gestures to the open area behind me, and I nod in response to her instructions. “Thanks,” I tell her and spin around.

  I park my ever-growing rear end in one of the seats and pick up a magazine called ‘Parents.’ It has a picture of a bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked infant on the cover who’s smiling with a pair of pearly white teeth at the bottom of their mouth.

  “Lose the baby weight with these five tricks!” One of the enticing story teasers says in huge black letters, sprawled out allu
ringly on the cover.

  Now, these are tips I’ll need to take into account for the future, but for now, I need to focus my attention on getting this baby out of my body as safely as possible.

  “June Johnson?”

  Instinctively, I glance up at the sound of my name being called out. “That’s me.” I wave my hand timidly.

  “Come this way, dear,” another nurse in scrubs is holding a clipboard and beckoning me to follow her.

  Every step I take slices me with stings of nervous trepidation, but I try to counteract the jitters by swallowing massive breaths that help me calm down and not surrender to the anxious torture reeling in my brain.

  The nurse has auburn-colored hair and seems a little friendlier than the one who checked me in at the receptionist’s desk.

  “Please step on the scale,” she instructs and points to the corner.

  “Okay,” I gulp hard and lick my lips, anticipating how much I’ve gained so far.

  “You look good,” she smiles. “You’re gaining weight at a very healthy pace.”

  “Phew,” I chuckle and pretend to wipe sweat off my brow in relief at her testament.

  She takes my blood pressure and makes me pee into a cup, and then finally I’m able to go to the examination room, where I put on a gown and wait for the doctor to arrive.

  I stare blankly at the stark white wall in front of me, then glance around nervously at all the tools and gadgets around the room.

  The stirrups on the examination table are mocking me, and I’m not used to feeling this kind of intense pressure about any situation.

  A few minutes later, all I can hear is the swooshing sound of my heartbeat as it pounds like a high school marching band’s drum line through my ears.

  I hear a knock on the door, a rapping sound that makes every muscle in my body freeze in response.

  A few seconds later, a man with salt and pepper hair swings the door open with a smile.

  “Hello,” he says and introduces himself by giving me a handshake.

  Horror fills me with dread at the realization that my doctor will be a man. “Will you please place your feet in the stirrups?”

  He asks the question as if it’s no big deal, but to me, I’m swallowing fear by the gallon.

  “Sure,” I say meekly and do as he asks, placing two pink-socked feet in each holster at the end of the examination bed.