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“We should go shopping. Buy a crib and paint the nursery.”
“I don’t have a nursery.” I arch my brows, hiding my grin.
“Exactly. You need one. That room next to yours would do nicely.”
My heart squeezes. I haven’t told Rhea that I can’t sleep in my own bedroom, and the room next to it has been where I sleep most nights if I don’t end up on the couch. But she thinks I’m doing well, and I don’t want to worry her. So I smile and nod. “This weekend?”
“Done.”
“You don’t have a hot date or a crazy party to go to?”
“A hot date with a paintbrush and a crazy party in your new nursery.”
I laugh, warmth threading its way through my heart. I can do this. I have Rhea, I have savings, I have enough smarts to get another job. I don’t need Silas—his approval or rejection doesn’t concern me. I can stay in my own house and build a good life for my baby.
When I get home and strip my jacket off, I run a hand over my stomach and find myself sitting down at my computer. My fingers move of their own accord, typing out the Prince’s name. His face pops up in a fraction of a second as my heart stutters.
I have to let him go. I’ll tell him about our child once I know I’m able to stand on my own two feet. Once I’ve named the baby and held it in my arms. Once I know I won’t fall into Silas’s web with no regard for everything that can go wrong.
Right now, I need to take care of me and the baby. If that means locking up the part of my heart that once belonged to Silas, then I will.
27
Silas
My mouth is dry as I stand outside my sister’s office. It’s been four weeks since I was last in this castle, and twelve weeks since I left for the tour that changed my life. Twelve weeks, during which my future bloomed and died before my eyes, when I saw all the possibilities open to me.
I can be the prince Penelope wants me to be. I’m capable of doing the speeches and the reports, of being responsible. I see that now. I was only holding myself back before. Caving to my own insecurities. Taking the easy way out.
That person I thought I could never be? The one who stands in front of rooms of delegates and shows up on time, the one who handles tough questions and charms politicians with his quick wit? He was inside me all along. I let myself be consumed by my disabilities, but I’m sick of feeling small.
I could have everything I thought was out of reach for me. I could be respected, admired. I’ve read the articles about me over the past twelve weeks. None of them have called me the party prince, and apart from the gossip about Jazz and me, the articles have mostly praised me for my performance on the royal tour.
Praised. Me. In a professional capacity. I honestly can’t remember the last time that happened. When I was twelve and I threw myself into an art project about photography? The exhibition of my photos?
I can probably count on one hand all the times I’ve been congratulated for doing something well as a prince. But the tour—my supposed worst nightmare—wasn’t that bad. I didn’t fail.
Yet it feels…empty, because my eyes were opened to other possibilities during the tour, too. The possibility of a life full of happiness and laughter. The feeling of a full heart and easy smiles. The fulfillment that can only be achieved through love.
That little four-letter word that I thought was a joke. The feeling that I’d never experienced, that maybe I never thought I was worthy of. It was real, and I had it. I held it in the palm of my hand and felt it warm my heart every time I looked at those photos and heard her voice.
I haven’t stopped thinking of her. Jacinthe. Jazz. My love. She’s the only woman who’s seen through the disguise I’ve always worn. She tore through the illusion of the carefree, flirtatious prince. She saw right through my flippant attitude and made me feel whole.
How could I possibly forget that? How could I let it drift away from me?
I’ve done a lot of thinking over the past few weeks. Had a lot of sleepless nights. Saw Jazz etched on the back of my eyelids, felt her name branded on my heart. I’ve felt her presence in everything I’ve done. Every bit of praise I’ve received for a speech, or a delicately handled political situation, or even generic small talk—I’ve dedicated it to her. She’s the one who’s spurred me on. She’s the one who’s made me realize what I can do. She’s the one who’s broken the chains that held me back.
She’s the one who made me worthy of my title of Prince of Nord, and at the same time, made me wish it didn’t belong to me.
She changed my life. She changed me.
But she doesn’t know it, and the last time I spoke to her she wanted nothing to do with me. I doubt she’ll ever forgive me for what happened. I doubt she’ll want me in her life, but I know one thing for certain. I can’t go on like this. I can’t live this life, even if I know I’m capable of it. I can’t be the Prince of Nord and float through elite circles, living the life that was written for me.
I can’t accept all this praise for finally stepping up to my responsibilities when she’s the one who should get the credit. She showed me what I can be, and I want to be better. For her.
So, I wait for my sister to call out from her office and watch the door swing open. A royal page bows to me and steps outside to leave us alone together, and I pad on the thick carpet to one of the chairs across from her desk.
Leaning an ankle on my knee, I steeple my fingers and stare at my sister. “You wanted to see me.”
