“Do you want to contact him?”
It’s a good question. If he was a normal guy, my answer would be yes. Of course he should know. It’s his child, after all. A person deserves to know if they have an offspring running around in the world. But Christian isn’t a normal guy. He is a prince. One day, he’ll be a king. Would he want to know about an illegitimate child? Or would he be upset?
“From what little I know about him, it doesn’t seem like he has any other children yet. So, would this child have any claims to the throne?”
The words feel ridiculous coming out of my mouth. Never in a million years would I have guessed my child could be an heir to…what was it called? Sigmaran? I make a note to officially learn the name of Christian’s country.
Blakely’s eyes widen at the realization. “You could be the mother to a king…or queen!”
“Or,” I say, holding up a finger to temper her excitement. “I could be the mother to a child who is considered a threat to the future of the country. What if they send trained assassins to take me out before I can give birth?”
“First, that seems unlikely,” Blakely says, twisting her lips to the corner of her mouth. “I think stuff like that only happens in action movies. If Christian did anything, he would pay you off to keep quiet.”
That doesn’t sound horrible. “How much do you think he’d pay?”
“Probably a lot, but it would be pretty not classy of you to take the money, so let’s reserve that conversation for if and when things get desperate.” Blakely sweeps her hands as if sweeping the topic under a rug and continues. “Second…are you saying you are definitely going to have this baby?”
The question reminds me I have a choice. Growing up in a religious household, the only thing worse than having a baby out of wedlock was suddenly not having a baby anymore.
“Your parents wouldn’t ever have to know,” Blakely says, reading my mind, as usual.
“I know,” I say, still thinking.
I would never have to tell them about Christian, about our one wild night. About the baby. They would never have to know any of it, and in some ways, it would be better for them. Easier for them to think of me as the little girl in her Sunday best who promised to wait until marriage—though that had gone out the window at senior prom. But I don’t think it would be better for me.
Keeping this kind of secret from my parents would be a defining moment in our relationship that they would never be aware of. No matter what decision I made, I knew this pregnancy would change me, and I didn’t want to go through that change alone. I didn’t want to do it without Ma and Pa Callister standing behind me, rooting me on. Because they would root for me. And the baby. My baby.
“I don’t want to interrupt, but…” Blakely’s eyes are wide, expectant.
“I’m keeping the baby,” I say with a firm nod of my head.
“Are you sure?” She slides across the couch, another piece of licorice extended as a kind of offering. “Because you know I’ll be here for you no matter what, right?”
I take the licorice and tap her on the end of the nose with it. “I know. And I’m sure. I’ve always said all things happen for a reason, so that’s what I have to believe here. This baby is happening for a reason.”
“That is so positive, and the reason why you are amazing, J-A,” Blakely says, raising a licorice rope as a toast. We flick them together before each taking a bite. “You’re going to be an incredible mom, and I cannot wait to be a super fun auntie.”
Mom.
“Holy shit.” It feels like all the blood in my body has pooled in my feet.
Blakely launches to standing, pivoting back and forth in search of something. “Are you going to be sick again?”
“No, no.” I wave her away. “It’s just…I’m going to be a mom. Someone’s mom.”
Blakely lets out a sigh of relief and falls on the couch. “That is kind of how the whole pregnancy thing works.”
“I hadn’t thought of that yet.” I repeat the word to myself. Mom. Mama. Mother. Then I turn to Blakely, panic beginning to creep into the edges. “I’m going to be a single mom.”
She pours me another glass of sparkling grape juice, and I wish it was wine. Lord knows I need something to take the edge off. But I can’t have it. Not for eight more months. And maybe several months after that if I decide to breastfeed.
Breastfeeding. I sag lower on the couch. I can almost feel the weight of all my future responsibilities crushing me.
Blakely grabs my arm and pulls me up until I’m sitting on the edge of the couch, sipping on the carbonated juice. “Okay. No more freaking out and wallowing. Quick-decision time. Are you going to tell Christian about the baby?”
I see his pale blond hair and sea-glass blue eyes, his wide mouth, smiling and kissing me. And then, I see him leaving. Slipping into his clothes while the bed was still warm from him lying next to me. He told me his family wouldn’t like me. That they would find me unsuitable, which is why nothing serious could ever happen with us. And what was more serious than a baby? More permanent than a relationship or a wedding ring. More complicated, too.
If Christian knew about the baby, he would be tethered to me in some form for life. And considering he hadn’t even wanted to be tethered to me for an evening, it seems like the news of a pregnancy might be unwelcome. So, to answer Blakely’s question, I respond with my initial gut instinct.
“No, I’m not going to tell him.”
Blakely’s face falls, not in disappointment, but in pity. And it opens something I’d been trying to keep twisted tight and locked away.
Suddenly, I’m crying. No, sobbing. Snot and tears are pouring down my face, and I can’t see through the deluge, and I feel like my entire person is going to turn into a puddle and slip between the cushions of the couch. But then Blakely is there. She smells like candy and vanilla, and she wraps her arms around me and pats my back.
“You aren’t going to be all by yourself, girl,” she says into my hair, holding my face to her shoulder like I’m a child.
I don’t have enough energy to be embarrassed about it.
She continues, “I’ll be here for you every step of the way. And so will your parents. You have a team around you. Who needs a prince?”
I chuckle through the sobs, but it’s a quick burst of light in the midst of the darkness.
Chapter 11
Christian
Freyja leans across the back seat and places her hand on mine. Her fingers are cold and dry, and I resist the urge to pull away.
“Christian, that dinner was lovely.”
I’m not sure how she would know considering she didn’t eat more than three bites of it. Much to my annoyance, Lady Freyja is the kind of woman who seems to publicly subsist on scraps of lettuce and dainty sips of water. Privately, I’m sure she tears into a meal the way any normal human being does, but even after two months of “courting,” she has yet to allow me to see the human side of her. I only get the public face.
“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” I say, the words as hollow as my smile.
She doesn’t notice and clutches my fingers, going on about who we saw at the restaurant, the dignitaries and heads of state we should take there for future visits. Every second of the day, she’s either doing something to advance her position in society or plotting how to go about it. It’s no wonder my father selected her as my potential spouse.
I watch her talk without hearing her, and I study her face. I have no trouble at all admitting Freyja is pretty. Beautiful, perhaps, by some measures. Her strawberry-blond hair is fine and shiny, bolstered by a few layers of extensions I only know about because she told me. Her face is thin, features soft and pleasant, and her clothes are well-fitted to her frame to make the most of the little curves she does have. Everything about Freyja is inoffensive, which stands in stark contrast to her personality.
“Next time we go, maybe we could request a private room,” she says.
She lets go of my hand and bru
shes her hair behind her shoulder. The movement echoes a memory of Jane-Ann pushing her long blond braid over her shoulder before whisking me out to the dance floor. It’s the only way the two women are similar.
“For such a nice restaurant, I can’t believe they don’t insist on a stricter dress code.”
I hum noncommittally. She spent most of our meal glaring at the couple sitting two tables away, enraged that the man was wearing dark wash jeans instead of trousers and the woman’s hair was dyed maroon. Through some great feat of self-restraint, I managed to bite my tongue and listen to her complaints, but if she didn’t get out of the car soon, I was going to lose it.
“We have arrived, Lady Freyja,” Gunner says, meeting my eyes in the rearview mirror, a knowing look on his face.
She sticks her lower lip out in a pout and places a hand on my shoulder. “When will I see you again? Are you going to come to the opening night of the opera?”
“When did you say that was?” I ask, wrinkling my forehead like I’m trying to think through my schedule.
“Thursday night. You have to come,” she whines, running her hand down the length of my arm and pulling on my hand. “I don’t want to go unescorted.”
Like she’s a Victorian woman incapable of going anywhere without a male chaperone. I promise myself a good long eye roll later to make up for not doing one now.
“I may be occupied that night,” I say, squeezing her fingers before pulling my hand back. “But I will check my schedule and let you know as soon as possible.”
Her lips purse in displeasure, but then the megawatt smile is back, stronger than ever. The relentlessly positive face she shows to the world, to me.
I think I would like Freyja better if she had the gall to tell me to screw my schedule and go with her to the opera. If she had the courage to ask for what she wanted rather than passive-aggressively punish anyone who upset her. Because I most certainly will be punished if I do not attend with her.
There will be snide remarks about how beautiful it all was and what a shame it was that I missed it. If that doesn’t do the trick, she will mention my absence during a conversation with my father, prompting him to chide me for not taking her. It will become a reference point for future events in which I do not wish to accompany her. You missed the opera, so I thought this would be a nice way to make it up to me.
Freyja is unoriginal.
She leans across the seat and pecks my cheek. I let her, making no move to turn my face toward her. So, she does it for me, grabbing my chin and pressing her lipstick-coated lips to me. She taps my nose with the end of her finger, a knowing smile on her face. She thinks I’m playing hard to get—unable to believe I might actually be hard to get. Because the thought that any man could turn away from her is unfathomable to Freyja. She has always had anyone she wants, and now, thanks to my parents, she has me.
As she saunters up the stairs toward the hotel where my parents have paid to house her for the foreseeable future, I think that it is time to find my way out of this arrangement.
I see the additional guards parked outside my gate and want to tell Gunner to keep driving. But he is no doubt ready for the evening to be over, and I will have to come home eventually. I can’t avoid it forever. And even if I did, I feel confident my father would still be waiting for me.
So, I walk inside with my shoulders back, relaxed. He’s here because he wants to surprise me, to unsettle me. But I won’t allow it. He is in my house now. King or not, I get to decide how I’m treated inside it.
My father is in my office, sitting behind the desk with a pile of papers in front of him as if it is his own. It is just a list of potential charities I could select as the beneficiary of an upcoming fundraiser, but it still feels like an invasion of privacy.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” I ask, leaning against the door.
He doesn’t look up, but I notice the lift in his brow. “Let’s begin the conversation with honesty, Christian. We both know you do not find my company to be a pleasure.”
I make no move to correct him. “How long have you been waiting? Had I known you were planning to visit, I would have come home sooner.”
He shuffles the papers together and pushes them to the side of my desk. His hair is longer than I’ve ever seen it. Still dignified enough for a royal, cropped above his ears and an inch from his collar, but still shaggy.
He and I have the same pale blond hair. One of the few similarities we share. In most regards, I take after my mother’s side of the family. My shoulders are more narrow, my waist tapers in, my arms and legs are long. Father is more compact, sturdy. I stand a couple inches taller than him, but his width has always been intimidating. On more than one occasion, I felt certain he would wrap his meaty hand around my neck and squeeze.
“I would never interrupt your evening with the lovely Freyja.”
Lovely Freyja. The only nice words I’ve ever heard my father say about anyone, and they are about Freyja. It is so typical of him I could almost laugh. Almost.
“How is she, by the way?” he asks. “I haven’t seen her since last weekend when you invited her to brunch.”
“Mother invited her to brunch,” I clarify, though I regret it immediately. Father’s mouth tightens, and though little else about his face changes, I can see the disdain dripping from him. “But Lady Freyja is doing fine. I just dropped her at home. We went to dinner.”
He nods slowly, his eyes moving around the room, inspecting my furnishings, no doubt, before landing on me. “You are expected to propose to her,” he says casually, as though announcing the weather. “You understand that, don’t you?”
My instincts recognize his words as the attack they are, and my body stiffens, pulls inwards. I tighten my arms across my chest, rise from my relaxed position against the door to a standing position, and square my feet to my father. I can’t believe I took up such a comfortable pose in the first place. It had been wishful thinking that for once, my father’s appearance in my life would bring good news. Or, if not good, at least neutral. But that had been naïve. Nearly thirty years with him should have taught me that he does not show me any attention unless it is to remind me of my duties and the many ways I am failing in them.
“No, I did not understand that,” I say as calmly as I can muster. “I was under the impression that my life was my own, and I would choose my own bride. How silly of me.”
He lets out a sigh and steeples his fingers beneath his chin. “There is no need for the dramatics, son. Lady Freyja is a fine woman.”
“She is a woman. The qualifier of ‘fine’ would be dependent upon the audience, I suppose.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Red is rising in his cheeks from my audacity to question his judgment. “She is beautiful, comes from a respected family, and maintains a good standing in the public eye. The people love her.”
“Then have them marry her,” I shout, momentarily losing control of my temper. I reign it back in as quickly as I can and take a breath. “I am not going to assess my future wife like I would an employee. There are other factors to consider, and I simply do not see myself spending a life with Freyja. Regardless of her physical attributes.”
Father leans back in the chair, the springs squeaking as his heft shifts. His blue eyes are icy, and I feel them burning through me as I stand before him.
“Would you rather I allow you to select from one of the many women you’ve no doubt desecrated this home with?”
I feel my lip pull up in a snarl but manage to keep a tight leash on the words threatening to pour out of me.
Father continues, either unaware of the rage boiling below my surface or encouraged by it. “If Lady Freyja came to you wearing more revealing clothing and half-drunk, would you be more able to see a life with her? Honestly, Christian, you cannot waste any more of your time with the trash you are accustomed to. It is time to grow up and live up to your potential.”
I raise an eyebrow at that. “You believe I have potential? That
’s news to me.”
Father stands up, his face unaffected and distant. “You have always been the victim, haven’t you? Everyone is out to get you. Me, your mother, the people of Sigmaran. Everyone’s expectations of you to behave with some level of restraint are a noose around your neck that you will never be free of.”
“Choosing my wife for me goes beyond expecting me to behave,” I snap.
“And it would be unnecessary if you showed any sign of acting your age or your rank,” he barks back.
The apathetic expression is gone, replaced with wide eyes and flared nostrils. He takes a step closer to me, and I resist the urge to step back. To put more distance between us.
“You believe you are the only future king to be treated this way,” he says, “but there have been many before you. Many men who were born to greatness who refused to accept the mantle. Well, your mother and I aren’t going to allow you to shirk your responsibility to your people, your country, or this family. If that means selecting a wife for you and leading you by the hand like a toddler to the dinner table, then fine. We will do that. But it would be better for everyone if you would stop pretending we were doing this for our own benefit.”
I lean forward, my eyes never leaving his, and laugh. It is a short, violent noise. “And it would be better for everyone if you would stop pretending you were doing any of this for my benefit, Father.”
He stares at me, unwavering, unblinking. I’m half-tempted to wave my hand in front of his face to be certain he has heard me. Instead, I continue talking.
“You monitor me to protect your own reputation. To avoid any negative press that my being a free person would bring down upon you. To pretend otherwise is to insult both of our intelligence.”
Father takes slow steps across the room, and I again have one of those moments when I think he might throttle me. But instead, he walks to the door, pauses, and turns around.
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