Page 91 of Fallen Crown

Somehow, my drunk self managed to half-ass pack last night, so I only need to stuff a few last things into my bags before Jag can start taking them out.

At Tucker’s door, I knock, and when there’s no answer, I knock again. It’s early. Maybe she’s still sleeping.

“Tucker?” I say, and I press my forehead to the door. “I need to talk to you.”

“She’s not there, mate.” One of the Australian team members stands in the doorway of his room, bare chested. “She woke Wren up to go for a run. Does she ever stop?”

I run my hands through my hair, and I sink down to sit beside her closed door. One of my favorite things about Tucker is that she never stops, never quits. I just hope she forgives.

If she returns in the next forty-five minutes, I’ll be waiting.

What feels like only a few minutes later, Jag appears in front of me. “Your Highness, if we don’t leave now, you’ll miss your flight.”

I stare up at him, and I release a deep sigh. Intentional or not, I won’t have a chance to explain or apologize to Maren today. Truthfully, I’m not sorry I asked, but I do regret my timing and delivery. Not sure if that apology would have made things better or worse. I guess I’ll find out when I get back to Bellerive.

I’m holed up in one of the guest suites in Denmark’s palace, regretting almost all my life choices, when Nick arrives with a smirk and a bottle of tequila. At least my headache is gone.

“Hair of the dog?” he suggests.

“I drunk dialed Rory,” I say from my position sprawled on the bed. While I’ve had my phone with me since I arrived a few hours ago, I haven’t heard anything from Tucker. Every time I check, my messages are still unread. I wouldn’t put it past her to read them all and then mark them all unread again just to teach me a lesson.

“I heard,” Nick says, sliding the bottle and shot glasses onto a side table. “Alex told me he was concerned about you this morning before I left. I told him he’d gone soft on me.” Nick scoffs and throws himself into one of the recliners across from the couch. “Though the shitstorm you and Maren Tucker have kicked off on social media is impressive.”

“What?” I say, sitting up and snatching my phone off the bed beside me. “Please tell me I didn’t post anything on my accounts.”

“Not you,” Nick says. “You weren’t that stupid. But to say you and Maren weren’t discrete at the end-of-race party is an understatement. Holding hands. Grinding on the dance floor. Pressed up against the door of her hotel room. Hell of an introduction for the Bellerivian elite to your relationship. Celia Tucker already called Desmond to suggest the families should get together soon.”

As he provides the running commentary, I see the stream of photos plastered all over social media. We’re both tagged, and I should feel bad. It’s a disaster. Sure to send Maren into a tailspin. Depending on how we handle it and how royal PR handles it, this has scandal written all over it. The problem is, I don’t have a clue how to respond to any of it. We agreed to a fling, a rebound, and then I asked her to have my baby.

“At least it seems to be public knowledge that Maren filed for a separation from her husband,” Nick says. “Whoever leaked that did you two a favor.” He gives me an exaggerated wink.

“You leaked that.”

“Gotta look out for my younger brother making poor decisions. You’re probably wishing I was with you last night to tape your mouth shut.”

“I told you,” I say in a flat voice.

“I think you told everyone.” Nick chuckles. “It’s a good day to be me today. Know why? Because I am not you.”

“Fuck off.” I toss my phone onto the bed beside me again, and I flop back. His smugness is not helping my mood. I cover my face with my hands, and I breathe out a deep sigh.

“I realize you’re new at this, but the traditional way to ask someone to be in a relationship with you is to ask her to be your girlfriend or go steady or whatever. Not suggest she bear your children.”

“I don’t want her to be my girlfriend,” I say. “I want to tie her to me forever. A baby does that.”

“That’s called marriage, then.”

My heart thuds at the mention of marriage. Seems ridiculous that I haven’t even considered that option, but I haven’t. “Bellerivian royals can’t get divorced.”

“Is that why you’ve always been against relationships? Had that weird opinion that the other person should love you more?”

Not weird—smart. Means I’ve never felt this dread spiral before over anyone. Tucker is all I can think about, and there’s an endless, gaping hole in the pit of my stomach.

“I need out of this Denmark deal,” I say.

“That’s up to Freja. You know that,” Nick says. “But Alex did tell me to tell you that he’s prepared for any fallout. He’s sensed this coming, I think. Sent me here for crisis management.”

“He sent you for crisis management?” I bark out a laugh. “How are you crisis management?”