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My grandmother calls out from her bedroom, “Who’s that?”
“I’ll get it,” I shout, shuffling down the creaking wooden floors to the front door.
I open it to an army of reporters shouting my name, cameras and microphones shoved in my face. They assault me, snarling and snapping their teeth at me like bloodthirsty beasts.
Screaming, I slam the door. My hands tremble as I lock it, fumbling with the latch until it finally snicks. I lean against the door, sucking in a deep breath.
What in the…?
Do they know about me and the Prince?
Scrambling for my phone, I type in a random string of keywords that might bring up what I’m looking for. Nord news Prince Wolfe.
My face pops up on the screen, and my stomach falls out of my ass.
Oh, shit. Oh, shit. Oh, no, no, no.
My hands tremble. My grandmother calls out from her room. My ears ring, this high-pitched whine that drowns out everything else. What the hell is going on?
Horror ices my veins as I read article after article about myself. Exposés about my life, my history, my business. A timeline of my trip to Nord, and frighteningly accurate theories about how my romance with the Prince began.
And, most damning of all, a picture of me outside the doctor’s office, with a zoomed-in insert of the pamphlet in my hand, the word pregnancy emblazoned on it in bold, black letters.
They know. Everyone knows. The whole world knows that I’m pregnant with the Prince’s baby—and I didn’t even get a chance to tell the Prince myself.
The doorbell rings again, followed by a knock on the door. Grandma shuffles to her bedroom door, poking her head out. She has a silk scarf over her head and sleep still clouding her eyes. “What’s all that about?”
My eyes are wide with terror. I open and close my mouth. “I… I…” I stammer, shuffling toward her. “Reporters.”
“What do they want?”
I glance at the entrance, watching as someone’s shadow tries to peer through the skinny window beside the door. “They want me.”
Grandma stares at me, confused. Sighing, she hobbles past me and heads for the kitchen, mumbling something about needing a cup of coffee. I follow her blindly, accepting a mug when she hands it to me. Am I even supposed to be drinking this? I feel so incredibly unprepared for pregnancy. For motherhood.
Oh, God. Panic might win this fight, after all.
When Grandma sits down across from me, she stares at me until I meet her gaze. Leaning back, she dips her chin. “Now, Rowan. Are you going to tell me what this is about?”
My dear, sweet, no-nonsense grandmother. She must have had this exact conversation with my mother, except the man who impregnated her wasn’t literal royalty.
I gulp a mouthful of coffee past a lump in my throat, burning the roof of my mouth in the process. It’s bitter and hot and disgusting, but I swallow another sip down anyway. When I finally put my mug down, I glance at my grandmother and let out a sigh. “I’m pregnant with the Prince’s baby, and dozens of reporters are outside trying to ask me about it.” There. That was easy. Sort of.
Grandma’s eyebrows twitch upward ever so slightly, but otherwise, her face doesn’t move. That tiny movement of her brow nudges me toward a full-on breakdown, but I resist.
My hands grip the edge of the kitchen counter and I don’t trust myself to pick up the coffee cup. Taking a deep breath, I try to sort through the mess in my mind. “I… I want to keep it, but I can’t subject the baby to all that.” I wave a hand toward the door. “And the Prince… He hasn’t talked about making our relationship public. It’s always been secret. I’m not sure he wants…” I squeeze my eyes shut, cheeks burning. I’m embarrassed. Ashamed, even. Why would I allow myself to be in this position?
Everything is confusing. Shame tastes bitter at the back of my throat, and there’s an oily coating over my skin. I don’t even know what I’m ashamed of. Not the baby. Not Wolfe. So…what?
“Have you told him?”
I shake my head. “I only found out last night.”
“Will you tell him?”
I nod. “Today.”
“Good. Will you keep it?”
