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Wolfe
Every nightthat Rowan isn’t in bed beside me is torture. Since we’ve been in the capital, we’ve stolen secret moments together in her office, or sneaked up to my chambers, or gone for walks on the palace grounds—but it’s not the same as being together. Really together.
A knock sounds on my bedroom door. I open it up to see Frederick, my sister’s little lapdog. His mustache is particularly thick and luscious today. “Good morning, Your Highness,” he says with a small bow that’s hardly more than a nod. “Her Majesty requests your presence.”
I let out a sigh. It’s too early for this, but Frederick just stands there and stares at me. I pull a sweater on over my head, then motion for him to lead the way. We walk across the castle to my sister’s private chambers, where I find her sitting at a vanity, putting on her jewelry like she’s readying for battle. She glances at me through the mirror.
“Brother,” she says, her voice cold as ice.
“Your Majesty,” I reply with an insolent bow. I’m not in the mood for this. I don’t want her to chastise me for something or tell me I’m not doing a good enough job with the Summer Palace design. Ever since her husband died, Penelope changed. She’s not the bright, happy sister I once knew.
I can’t judge her for that—didn’t my personality change when Abby died? Didn’t I become dark and lonely?
But now…things are different. There’s light in my life again.
The Queen turns around, delicately picking up a cell phone from the edge of her vanity. Tapping on the screen a few times, she turns it toward me with an arch of her brow. “Explain.”
I glance at the screen and frown. It’s a photo of Eyvar and Rowan outside the doctor’s office with headlines screaming about my affair with her and proclaiming that she’s carrying my child. Skimming through the article, my stomach drops.
The journalists—if you can call them that—have written a brief history of Rowan’s life. They point to the photo of us disembarking the royal jet together, coupled with my arrival in Stirling during the month of October when I’m usually away. Apparently, that’s evidence of our romance.
Which, I mean, fair point.
Worse, still, they point to ‘sources inside the palace’—which is bullshit speak for we made this up—saying that her visit to the doctor is as a result of our sexual affair. A secret pregnancy, they say, with a zoomed-in photo of a pamphlet as irrefutable proof.
Right.
And, I mean, we have been sleeping together. That’s true. But how fucking dare they?
“Well?” My sister’s still staring at me, waiting for an explanation.
I sigh, shaking my head. “How could they possibly know any of this?”
“So it’s true.”
“Is it true that Rowan and I are involved? Yes. Is it true it started at the Summer Palace? Yes. Is it true that she went to the gynecologist because she’s pregnant? Absolutely fucking not.” My breath shortens as anger clouds my vision. I click through to another article, which is an exposé of my relationship with Abby, and a brilliant think piece about whether or not I might have moved on to a new woman.
Fucking wonderful.
“This is exactly what happened with Abby,” I say. “The media made up a bunch of stories and crafted this narrative about our relationship. They became obsessed with her. Why do they care about who I date? Why is this newsworthy?”
“Well, dear brother,” Penelope replies with a tilt of her head. “You are royalty. Or have you forgotten?”
“It’s bullshit.”
“It’s not,” she shoots back. “You just said yourself that you’re having an affair with this woman. How are we supposed to let her redesign the palace now?”
“Because she won the contract, Pen. This has nothing to do with me. She’s a talented architect. And it’s not an…affair.”
“What is it, then?”
I stand there trembling, but I say nothing. The words don’t come. What is going on between Rowan and me, really?
The Queen folds her hands in her lap, but I don’t miss the tension in her jaw. “It doesn’t look good. It looks like we gave her the job because you’re sleeping with her.”
“That’s not what happened,” I snap.
Penelope arches an eyebrow.
