by Laura Kenyon
Was it weird that she wasn’t literally dancing on the air? That the skies hadn’t magically opened to tell all of Braddax that her struggle was finally over? No more herbs promising miracle cures. No more iffy medical treatments. No more nights spent alone because Donner preferred the west tower guest room to the warmth of his wife. The moment was too monumental to truly take in, but Belle knew exactly how she wanted to let it out. The cook wasn’t going to like it.
“What do you mean you’ll take care of dinner tonight?” Sheridan repeated, her eyes wider than the ladle bouncing off her palm. “Your Majesty, I—”
“Belle, please.”
Sheridan’s groan blew her bangs into the air. “Your Majesty,” she repeated. “I’m sorry, but the kitchen is no place for a queen. I get enough grief for letting you bake down here once in a while, but cooking an entire meal? Absolutely not! Are you trying to put me out of a job? Now you just go back upstairs and I’ll make you a nice cup of tea to hold you over till dinner.” She eyed the Queen’s fidgeting feet and the hands Belle had no idea what to do with. “On second thought, let’s skip the caffeine. A glass of chardonnay, perhaps.”
Belle slapped her arms against her sides and took a calming breath. “Thank you, but no. Sheridan, you deserve a night off, and I can handle it. Don’t forget, I used to cook for a family of fourteen.”
Sheridan’s brows rose slightly, catching the little white exaggeration. Belle did have two parents and eleven siblings; that was true. But by the time she became unofficial caretaker at age eight, half of them had moved out. That was after the bankruptcy. After the disgrace. After her father left his dignity behind and her mother just plain left.
Sheridan hooked both hands around her waist—not an easy task for a woman her size—and narrowed her eyes. “So you just randomly decided to waltz down here and scrap my dinner plans after I’ve done all the prep? What’s the occasion?”
“Occasion?” Belle looked away. “There’s no occasion.”
“Really?” The hum of the meat freezer filled the silence. “If there’s no occasion, then you can wait till tomorrow. Tonight you’re having pork chops and—”
“I just want to make my husband a special dinner.”
The right side of Sheridan’s lip curled as she tapped her orthotics on the marble floor. “And you don’t think I can make a special dinner? I was feeding this family long before you came along.”
Belle’s fidgets had become squirms and her lashes were a moment away from fluttering off their lids. She didn’t want to be pushy—she barely knew how—but Donner deserved to hear her news first. “Sheridan,” she said, struggling to harden her voice. “The only way you might lose your job tonight is if you continue not listening to me.” Her gut clenched to protest this rudeness, but she kept going. “I want to cook a nice meal for my husband and I want to do it alone. I’m more than capable. It’s really not that hard.”
That last line was a bit much, and Belle’s regret was instantaneous. She felt a thousand imaginary ants crawling down her back, tunneling beneath her skin. “I’m sorry,” she blurted, reaching for Sheridan’s arm. “I just really need to do this.”
Sheridan’s eyes softened. Then they panned Belle from diamond tiara to shimmering patent leather heels, and flipped back in her head. With a slight snorting sound, she unlaced her apron and thrust it out in a ball. “I still don’t understand why you dress like a masquerade might break out any second, but I know not to waste my breath. At least take this. It’d be a shame to ruin such a pretty dress.” She scooped up her keys and headed for the door. “Call if you have any problems.”
Belle did a silent celebration and went over the menu in her head: baby carrots, stuffed salmon bites, shrimp, baby bok choy, miniature apple pies, and strawberry/blueberry truffles. Oh shoot.
“Sheridan?” she called, spinning so fast that her dress knocked a stack of baking trays to the floor. She jumped back and shielded herself from the clamor that seemed to bounce off every appliance in the room and shoot back from all directions. It wasn’t until the echo faded and she caught Sheridan’s eye that Belle realized her hands weren’t shielding her ears. They were cradling her stomach.
She let go instantly. “Umm, can you tell the rest of the staff I won’t need them either?” she asked, “And do we have any sparkling cider?”
Belle found the cider in a small section of the wine cellar and then got lost peeling, slicing, mixing, creaming, kneading, rolling, and crimping. The smells that swirled through the air were so thick, so sweet, she could practically feel them brushing over her neck, tickling her cheek. They took her back to another place—not a better place, exactly. She could never call her childhood a better place. But everything looked rosier in hindsight, especially over food.
Back when her family collapsed, food was the only thing that could stitch it back together—for a little while, anyway. Preparing the meals brought Belle an odd sense of release and satisfaction. When the bank repossessed the manor house and they moved to the secluded two-bedroom cottage, peach crisp managed to gather the remnants for a few moments of healing. When her father stopped trying to exist, oatmeal cookies brought out a shadow of his old smile. When her sisters were feeling particularly nasty, chocolate almond truffles gave Belle a head start and sometimes even convinced them to leave her alone for an afternoon. Back then, baking gave Belle the temporary illusion of control and seemed the only way she could please people without simultaneously pissing them off. So far, she’d never been called a martyr for giving out macaroons.
Living at Braddax Castle had made her a little rusty. She took longer than necessary with the salmon and had to read up on how to cook bok choy, but soon everything was on autopilot. By the time the pies hit the oven, Braddax Castle smelled like it stood upon bricks of sugar. As she rested in front of the window, sucking on a spatula and watching the sun set over the gardens, she thought about the only decent lessons her mother ever taught her: One, the cook always gets to lick the bowl, and two, not even the best recipes are written in stone. (Neither, by her mother’s example, were promises; but Belle left that lesson alone.)
“Thanks for the help,” she whispered to her belly, which suddenly felt flatter than ever. “When you’re born, we’ll do this all the time. Just like I did with—”
She bit her tongue.
“I’ve got big plans for you,” she said instead. “For you, me, and your daddy. We’ve been waiting for you for a long time, you know.” Belle wondered for a moment whether babies could hear at four weeks, but then decided she didn’t care. She was going to have a real relationship with her child even if it started out one-sided. She’d watched enough chick flicks to think she knew how. “You know, we were worried for a little while there. But all that matters now is that you’re coming. And we’re going to be a family—a real family, not just by blood. We’re going take you places, and play with you, and support you, and protect you, and give you lots and lots of siblings—nice siblings.” She cupped both hands across her belly as if willing it to grow in front of her. “I promise you’ll always have two parents who love you. Now, let’s go decorate for Daddy. He should be home soon.”
* * *
The evening turned out beautifully. The deep red roses looked exquisite scattered along the delicate lace tablecloth. The ivory tapers gave the cavernous dining room just the right romantic glow. The carrots and bok choy were soft but not mushy. The salmon bites were flakey and sweet. The champagne flutes they’d received as wedding gifts disguised the nonalcoholic cider perfectly. The only thing Belle had yet to try was her mini apple pies. It was only fair that she leave something for her husband—if he ever decided to show up.
Resting her head against the dining room window as the playlist looped for the fourth time, Belle felt like she’d already lied to her baby. It wasn’t unusual for Donner to keep her waiting, and she hadn’t summoned him home, but tonight was important. Somehow, the universe should have told him that.
A quick c
all to the gatehouse went unanswered. That’s right. She’d told Sheridan to send the entire staff home. If she ever did this again, she’d have to be slightly more discriminating with her instructions. Give everyone the night off except our security detail, she should have said.
A heavy feeling of déjà vu washed over her. She was suddenly eighteen again, terrified and alone again in a cold, dark place. She’d just traded her freedom to save her father. A spectacular spread of food had appeared out of nowhere. Her dining companion was somewhere in the shadows. And then, just like now, she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted him to appear.
Belle cringed at the memory. That time was over. Donner was human again, and she was his wife. She thought about calling him, but couldn’t stomach his voice right now. She debated taking a therapeutic stroll through the gardens, but it was thundering in the distance and she wouldn’t risk getting caught in a storm. The only thing Belle knew for sure was that she couldn’t listen to her wedding music any longer.
With a huff, she grabbed the remote and fumbled for the right series of commands. Power? No. Input, then power? No. Current activity, input, music, power? Voilà.
Instantly, all the sounds swishing through the dining room got sucked into oblivion—all except for a piercing, maniacal laugh. A woman’s laugh. Belle froze. Every hair on her arms spiked. She listened again, but the noise had broken off suddenly, as if gagged by the night itself. With her heart throbbing in her ears, she blew out the closest taper, clutched the candlestick to her chest, and tiptoed into the hallway.
She crept up the stairs shoeless and two-by-two. If she’d learned anything from her sisters, it was that fewer footfalls meant fewer creaks—the kiss of death for prey. She’d become quite the master at sneaking around. But she didn’t have puffy dresses back then—puffy dresses that made horrid swiping sounds every time she moved.
The second floor was entirely dark save for the picture sconces lining the hallway, which gave it an eerie glow. Rarely did she feel comfortable in Braddax Castle—with its musty smell and long, windowless corridors—but now she felt thoroughly unwanted, as if gargoyles might peel themselves from the walls any moment to hunt her. A shiver ran up her spine.
She checked the master bedroom first, kicking in the door and throwing herself at the chandelier switch. But the light only fell on overstuffed leather chairs and the dramatic four-poster bed. She threw open the closets, the bathroom, even the glass shower door. All empty. Room by room, Belle continued her inspection. She tried the library, the guest rooms, the powder rooms, Donner’s office (just a quick peek), and the loggia, all to no avail. The only place remaining was the only place she didn’t want to go—the guest tower at the far end of the hall, which somewhere along the line had become Donner’s private clubhouse.
This part of the hallway was flanked by stoic portraits of the former kings of Braddax. It was the most gloomy and desolate section of the most gloomy and desolate royal residence in all of Marestam. Just ten miles away, Carpale Castle—with Parliament in its basement, Cinderella’s family on the top floor, and countless administrative offices in the middle—was busier than a shopping mall. Riverfell Palace, set amidst the idyllic brownstones of Prospect Slope, looked like a dollhouse stretched across five city blocks. Regian Castle’s glass and steel framework was a bit too modern for Belle’s tastes, but at least it had no shortage of sunlight. Even a hillside cottage had its merits over this fortress of darkness.
Belle paused at the portrait of Donner’s father, who died years ago but whose scandalous antics lived on. The physical resemblance between father and son was uncanny—huge shoulders; strong, square jaw; deep, brooding eyes; beautifully bronzed skin that Belle couldn’t achieve if she spent three months in a tanning bed; and a shadowy aura that could startle a woman in the most titillating and enticing sort of way. The only difference between the generations, as far as Belle could tell, came in how they wore their hair: trim and simple for the father, designer chaos for the son.
Kneading the candlestick with her thumb, Belle wound her way up the staircase until it stopped at a thick black curtain. She tilted her head to examine it. Velvet. Weighted to the floor. The last time she stood here, there were two translucent organza panels tied open with blue ribbon. She wasn’t aware Donner had redecorated.
Bracing for a crazed intruder or a royal stalker, Belle shoved the curtain aside and nudged her way in. Blue light streamed through a floor-to-ceiling window, skipped over a mound of dirty clothes, and landed on the unmade bed. She crept across the floor, feeling for a light switch and trying to ignore the smell. The floor creaked behind her.
“Why are you here?”
Belle’s heart shot into her throat. She twirled around, candlestick in hand. Something crashed into the floor. A light seared her eyes, then slowly softened. A massive figure stood in the doorway, hoisting the curtain with his fist. Donner.
“What are you doing here?” he repeated while Belle searched for her voice. He stepped inside and unbuttoned his sports coat. It had a powdery stain on the front and was in dire need of an iron.
Belle edged back and lowered the candlestick. “I thought—” She swallowed. “I mean I—I heard a noise when I was downstairs. A laugh. I came to investigate but … I checked all the other rooms first.”
Donner looked her over. His eyes focused on the makeshift weapon in her hands. He bit the inside of his lip and Belle braced for a tirade. But instead, the wannabe bachelor pad erupted with laughter—deep, hearty laughter that reeked of vodka and beer.
“Well if there was anyone here, you must have scared them away.” He moved closer and looped his arm around her waist. “I know I’d be terrified of a shoeless woman with a giant dress and a candlestick.”
“When did you get home?” she asked as he wrapped a piece of hair behind her ear with far too much concentration.
“Just now.” His finger brushed her neckline and she shivered. He pulled her closer.
“You were golfing for a long time,” she said. “I’ve been waiting. I made you a nice dinner.” She felt herself go rigid as he nudged her chin up with his lips. She didn’t usually mind the smell of debauchery on him, but things were different now. They—well, he—would need to be more responsible. “Donner, there’s something I have to tell you.”
“Mmmhmm,” he murmured, his fingers running up the back of her neck and sliding through her hair. “That’s nice.”
“Donner,” she tried again, but she was losing her posture now. Her legs were getting weak. Something quivered in the pit of her stomach. He didn’t often need her like this, when her ovulation calendar didn’t demand it. She could just tell him later, when they were cuddling. After all, they’d never made love in this room. It would make it all the more memorable when she gave him the big news.
“Get on the bed,” he ordered. His hot, sour breath rushed over her skin. Belle felt a surge of excitement. The fabric around her body loosened. She threw her arms up and watched the room whirl by—the remote control fireplace, the oversize mirror, the silk dangling from the ceiling, the bright red panties poking out from beneath his nightstand.
Belle was on her feet before she even thought about it. Donner, slowed down by the alcohol, tumbled off the mattress and then staggered up.
“Playing hard to get, huh?” His voice was playful and his eyes greedy.
Belle ducked out of the way as soon as he lunged forward, sending him slamming into the wall. He laughed.
“Nice try,” he said, edging closer, shoulders down. Belle was bobbing and weaving, preparing to deflect the next pounce. “I have an idea. How about you pretend to be my prisoner again, but I’ll actually tie you up this time. You’ll love it.”
Belle grabbed the candlestick and lunged for the lingerie just as Donner lunged for her. The metal thwacked sharp against his eye, sending him howling backwards. Then it hooked the panties. She peered at them with her jaw wide.
Donner, cursing and clutching his eye, took a while to notice.
“What the holy hell are these?” Her voice, ordinarily so soft and obliging, could have shattered glass.
Donner shook his head, made an incomprehensible noise, and shrugged. “Well they’re not mine. Obviously. They must be yours.”
Belle clamped down on the inside of her cheek and marched toward him, waving the offending object in his face. “Do these look like something I would wear? Red lace with sequins and—these aren’t even panties, for goodness sake. They’re floss!” She unclasped her fingers and let the candlestick fall to the floor, barely missing Donner’s feet. The next words flew out of her mouth before she could even think about them. “Whose are they? Is she still here? Where did you stash her?”
She’d heard the rumors about Donner’s dalliances, but refused to believe them. They were just an outsider’s misperception of their rough patch, or the media trying to sell papers. The father was a philanderer, so why not the son? She figured it was just part of the job. She’d been okay thinking that.
Now, she stomped away and swung around to glare at her husband in a whole new light. His wrinkled clothes and boozy breath and late golf outing meant something different now. They meant that while she was waiting by a table full of food, pumped full of butterflies about announcing her pregnancy, he was sneaking upstairs with some floozy.
“Well?” she demanded, her throat on fire from holding back the tears. He was leaning into the wall with one arm crossed and the other clutching his wound. The undamaged eye stared into the rug. This was not how tonight was supposed to go. “Aren’t you going to say something?”
Slowly, Donner raised his head. He swallowed and pressed his mouth into a tight line. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
Belle’s lips parted but no sound came out. She’d expected a lie. A series of lies. An elaborate but ridiculous tale that she could rail against but ultimately accept. Instead, a million fears and accusations and apologies flew through her mind, crisscrossing and colliding until she could contain them no longer. Her family had let her go. Her husband didn’t want her anymore. Her trepidation crystallized into fury.
