I grip the arms of the chair, needing it to keep me grounded when I’m ready to lash out at every single person in this room. “You got to marry for love,” I remind my father.
“He was never supposed to be king,” my grandmother points out. As if I need the reminder that my life was once normal. That I once had two parents who loved me and my sister. That I once had all the opportunity in the world.
Not anymore.
People are under the impression we lead a charmed life, because that’s what we want them to believe. What we’re taught to make them believe. In reality, we’re prisoners. Our cage may be gilded, but it’s still a cage.
“And look what happened. Your mother was too weak to handle the stress of this life. She very well could have destroyed everything we’ve built for centuries. Over the decades, there’s been increasing sentiment that the monarchy is an antiquated notion. All it will take is enough people to show up on election day who share those sentiments for this all to disappear. We cannot have that. We cannot have the king married to someone weak.”
I glance at my father, seeing his own jaw tighten as he seems to hold back what he wants to say in defense of his wife. But he won’t. And not because he doesn’t want to be disrespectful toward his mother, but because he’s been trained.
Thankfully, I haven’t been around this life long enough to have all my humanity erased.
“That woman was my mother. And if my wife ends up being half the queen she was, even in her short time at my father’s side before her untimely death, I’d consider myself blessed.”
“There are a number of respectful women you could marry, Gabriel,” she insists. “Especially Caroline DeVries. She’s a much better option, in my opinion. From a good family. A noble family. Most of the country assumed you’d eventually marry anyway.”
“We’ve already prepared a response,” Dalton interjects, extending a file folder toward me. “The king will offer his congratulations, but remain tight-lipped about any forthcoming approval of the marriage. After a few weeks have passed, we’ll announce your engagement to Ms. Tremblay has ended. That she wasn’t prepared to give up everything she’d have to in order to stay in this life, including her American citizenship. You’ll act heartbroken for a while, but we’ll stage some photographs of Ms. DeVries comforting you. You’ll rekindle your relationship.”
“We didn’t have a relationship,” I retort, my eyes flaming. I glance at my grandmother, giving her a smug grin. “It was more of a…dalliance.”
“After sufficient time has passed…,” Dalton continues, ignoring my previous comment, “His Majesty will announce your engagement to Ms. DeVries, preferably by November. Before the referendum goes to a vote. The publicity team feels that would have the greatest impact on swaying voters. After all, people love a wedding. Especially a royal wedding.”
I can’t believe what I’m looking at, but here it is in black and white. A plan for me to marry a woman I’m not in love with, all because these people think she’ll be a better fit.
“As you can see in the report, Ms. DeVries is in optimal health. And is fertile.”
I fight to swallow down the bile rising to my throat. “Fertile?”
Is this actually happening? Am I really listening to my father’s chief advisor detailing Caroline’s ability to conceive a child? How do they even know this information?
This is too similar to the discussions I’ve had with Esme about some of the horses she’s trained that she decided to put out to stud. Is this all we are, too? Something bred with another carefully selected specimen in the hopes of producing offspring that will be at the top of his or her game?
I know the answer to that.
I’ve always known the answer to that.
“She’ll be able to provide you with an heir without complications,” Dalton clarifies, as if this is a normal conversation. “We don’t know anything about this American.”
“Nora,” I hiss.
“Nora,” he corrects, but shows no hint of an apology. “We have no way of knowing whether she can produce an heir.”
“She can,” I argue.
“Right now,” he adds. “I’m well aware of her…history. How she lost her first pregnancy.”
“Ember.”
“Excuse me?” my grandmother asks.
I pin her with a glare, not caring about decorum or protocol. “Her daughter’s name was Ember. She didn’t just lose her first pregnancy. She went through labor and gave birth, all the while knowing that when her baby was born, she wouldn’t have a heartbeat.”
“Which is precisely why you should reconsider this course of action,” she responds flippantly, her pointed nose upturned. “You don’t know if she’s still able to conceive after that…trauma.” She says the word like it leaves a sour taste in her mouth. She’s one of the few people who knows precisely what trauma Nora endured that caused her to lose Ember.
And Hunter.
“She’s fine,” I insist once more.
“You don’t know that. What happens if, by some miracle, this wedding does happen and you find yourself saddled with a wife who can’t provide you the one thing she’s under an obligation to — an heir?”
The longer I sit here and listen to my grandmother speak about Nora as if her only value to me is as a womb, the more my temper rises. The more my hand twitches. The fewer fucks I give about the consequences of my actions.
“You’re already well past the age most royals marry. When I was your age, I’d already had five children. But you’re not even married. Your uncle was married at twenty-two. Had his first heir at twenty-three. You’re nearing forty, for crying out loud. All the more reason to give serious consideration to Caroline DeVries. She’s a respectable girl we know can produce an heir. There’s a real possibility Ms. Tremblay may never be able to give you an heir, as is required of your wife. She—”
“Nora’s already pregnant!” I bellow, fists clenching, chest heaving.
The room falls eerily silent.
Chapter Eight
Anderson
“What did you say?” my grandmother asks, still the picture of grace and refinement. No matter how angry she may be on the inside, her composure never wavers.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I shouldn’t have allowed my emotions to overpower my rationale. Shouldn’t have lost my cool. And I certainly shouldn’t have shared that piece of information.
I look away from her and toward the only person in this room who can remotely be considered an ally — my father.
“Nora’s pregnant. I’m going to be a father.”
“And you’re certain the baby is yours?” Dalton asks. “Have you had a paternity test conducted?”
I glower at him, my lip curling in the corner. “Why would I need that?”
“With all due respect, sir, we don’t know anything about this woman. She could simply be after your money. The pregnancy could be a trap. She may not even be pregnant.”
Placing my hands on the table, I lean across it, fire in my eyes. “I will not have you talking about my fiancée and your future queen that way,” I grind out. I almost want him to argue with me on this point. “Not to mention the mother of your future king or queen, as well.”