Erik rubbed at his temples. He wished his mother were still alive. She'd always been his staunch supporter; she'd championed him when he'd chosen to pursue music, and hadn't insisted that he become a diplomat or push his "princely duties."

  "We need you to step up now, son," his father said, almost gently for his usual sternness.

  "I thought I was," he said. "Getting married. Providing the heir."

  "We'll get that ironed out after all this is behind us," his father said. "In the meantime, think extremely hard about how you want to handle Clara. Whether you want to protect her, or if you want to continue subjecting her to the maliciousness of the press. Think about what's best for her, and the baby."

  Erik gritted his teeth.

  Pelle looked at his father with a vague expression of disapproval. "You don't have to make any sudden decisions," Pelle said.

  "But you do need to come up with a decision fairly quickly," his father tacked on. "She's going to start showing soon. As long as she's involved with you, the scrutiny will be intense. Better, don't you think, if you're going to break up with her, to do so while she's not showing? So she can go back to relative anonymity?"

  "Father," Pelle chastised.

  "No. He's been protected long enough," his father said, and it was the roar of the Lion of Fervia. "I love you, son, but your mother spoiled you. You have responsibilities, to this country, and to other people. Think about that while you consider your next steps."

  "Yes, father." Erik stood up, spun on his heel, and left the study, ignoring Pelle's call after him. Knowing that Clara might well be in the apartments, he decided to head up to the turrets. Fall was coming, and the wind off the sea was bracing, just this side of frigid, but he appreciated how it made him feel. How it seemed to match the numbness that he felt in his bones.

  He loved Clara. He wanted to protect her. He wanted to offer her the best life possible. But was his father right? Was Clara going to wind up paying for being married to him? She wanted to go into politics, to make a difference. Would she feel satisfied by being behind the scenes, presenting a facade of harmlessness and political delicacy?

  He couldn’t help but smile, thinking of Clara's warrior-like ferocity when facing down that Aldland idiot. No, Clara was not the type to put on a polite face. She did not suffer fools. She might learn to smooth out some of her rough edges, but he thought that her most powerful weapons were her fearlessness, her belief in right versus wrong, in protecting the people she cared about—including the country she was going to become a part of. She wanted to change lives.

  And he was just going to put her in the crosshairs of tabloids and angry, threatened little men who wanted to destroy her, and weaken the Fervian throne in the process by casting aspersions on its youngest, most useless son.

  He turned his face into the wind. He needed to figure this out. He needed to talk to Clara.

  And, God help him... he might need to do the unthinkable. He might need to leave Clara for her own good. Because he didn't know how he could live with himself if he let her stay in a position where she was ridiculed and mocked and dragged over the coals, simply because she was married to him.

  16

  Erik waited in his royal apartments, pacing in the living room, all but wearing a hole in the rich Aubusson carpet. He knew what he had to do. He had to protect Clara and the baby. He had to make sure she was safe and healthy, not attacked by his political adversaries. It would ultimately be what was best for Fervia, but to be honest, he wasn’t doing it for his country. He was doing it for the woman he loved.

  Now, if only I could go through with it…

  She stepped in the room, looking beautiful if panicked. She was wearing one of the outfits the royal stylist had chosen for her, a cream-colored cashmere sweater over a pair of forest green wool slacks, her hair falling around her shoulders in loose waves. She rushed to him.

  “I swear,” she said without preamble, “I didn’t cheat with anybody or on anybody. The politician… the news story… it was all lies and innuendo. I promise!”

  He could no more have stopped himself from reaching out and hugging her than he could have jumped off the turrets and flown. “Shhh. I know, I know,” he murmured against her hair, brushing his hand over her back. “I knew that you didn’t. I never believed it. Don’t worry.”

  She pulled back enough to look at him, her jade eyes rimmed with tears. “I can’t believe that someone would be so… so underhanded as to pull this kind of attack on me,” she said, knuckling the tears away with one hand, before letting out a watery laugh. “I mean, I suppose I can understand that someone would do this. It’s politics, after all. And scandal sells, so I imagine the tabloids and the talk shows will eat this up with a spoon.”

  “It was Aldland,” he said slowly. “At least, that is what we’re assuming.”

  She pulled away a bit more, looking at him with questioning in her eyes. “We’re? So, the King and your brother have discussed this with you, then?”

  He nodded.

  Her full lips pulled into a tight line. “What did they think?”

  “They think that it’s only going to get worse from here,” Erik said somberly. “And I agree with them.”

  She took a deep breath, and he could see her steel herself. “I can handle it,” she said, lifting her chin up slightly and crossing her arms. “Whatever they throw at me, I can handle.”

  He grimaced. This was where it was going to get hard. He gestured to the couch. “Perhaps we ought to sit.”

  “Why would we need to sit?” she asked suspiciously. “Because that’s right up there with ‘we need to talk’ as phrases that do not instill confidence.”

  She was right, damn it. Still, he plunged forward. “You’re pregnant, and you need to be off your feet,” he tried, sitting on the couch and coaxing her next to him. She sat gingerly on the edge, as if she might leap up in a fight-or-flight response at any moment. She studied him warily.

  He sighed. “I know that you…” he began, then rubbed at his face. “You’re one of the smartest, strongest women I’ve ever met, did you know that?”

  She softened slightly. “Thank you.” She smirked. “Of course, you haven’t known me all that long, I suppose.”

  He knew that she was trying to be self-deprecating, but what she was saying was also a thorn in his side. They hadn’t been together very long. And frankly, while he was sure what he was feeling was love… they’d never exchanged the words. He could ask her how she felt, but if she loved him, wouldn’t she have said so by now? And if she did love him, and he admitted he loved her… how could he send her away, even to protect her?

  “The thing is, you shouldn’t have to ‘handle’ any of this,” he said. “I want to protect you from this. I have to protect you from this.”

  “It’s not your fault,” she said quickly.

  “Isn’t it, though?” He heard the bitterness in his voice. “Since the moment you decided to come to my hotel room with me, that first night, I’ve done nothing but bring trouble to your doorstep. You didn’t mean to get pregnant. You certainly didn’t want to jump through all the hoops and lessons my father insisted on. And even if you’re going to be a part of the politics of the Fervian royal family, it’s going to come with this terrible price of public judgment, paparazzi, and diplomatic backstabbing. Is this really what you want?”

  She bit her full lower lip. “Going into politics is always challenging,” she said, albeit with less confidence than he was used to. “I knew that, just from working at the party headquarters. It’s not for the faint of heart.”

  “Which brings up another point,” he said, feeling momentum growing. “You say that you’re strong enough to deal with this, but one day at the café, one afternoon surrounded by pushy reporters and flashing cameras, and you passed out cold in the back of our car.”

  “I was still dealing with morning sickness,” she protested.

  “You’re still pregnant,” he countered. “And still have several months left to go! It’s not healthy for you, or for the baby, to be under this kind of pressure!”

  “Are you honestly playing the pregnancy card right now?” she asked, outrage written all over her face. “Are you saying that because I’m pregnant, I shouldn’t be involved in things that are going to affect you and the Fervian royal family?”

  “We’re not even married yet!” He found his voice rising. “Maybe you shouldn’t be!”

  He could see her withdraw, as if she’d been slapped, and he felt like an absolute beast. “What are you saying, Erik?”

  “That as long as you’re supposed to be my wife, this is going to get worse. A lot worse.” He felt miserable, but it was the truth. “Pelle warned me about this. That’s why no one knows about Aliana’s political prowess—they think she just hosts teas for charities, things like that. And honestly, even if that were all she did, that’d be fine. But she does that because she’s somewhat shy—and he encourages it because he’s trying to protect her.”

  “This is what this is about? You protecting me… by telling me that I’m not strong enough? By telling me to take a step back, maybe?” Clara’s lip quivered, but she squared her shoulders. “And is this you talking… or your father?”

  Now it was his turn to feel anger, sharp and hot. “I may not always get along with my father, but I agree in this: being married to me slaps a big bullseye on your back, especially if you’re going to…”

  He paused, trying to figure out how to word it.

  Clara stilled, her expression saddened. “If I’m going to what? Be vocal? Be visible?”

  “If you’re going to try to overshadow my role as prince,” he said.

  It was patently untrue. He hadn’t given a toss about being a prince since he was a teen—and even now, with his newfound dedication to the royal family after his mother’s death, he did not have an ego around his political role. He wasn’t threatened by Clara. On the contrary, he was proud of her. But if convincing her that he felt wounded and upstaged by his fiancée made her back down and convinced her to go, then he’d bite the bullet.

  She swallowed visibly. “I didn’t realize… oh, God,” she said softly. “I know the papers have been saying wretched things, but I didn’t think that you…”

  He wanted so badly to reassure her. It took everything he had not to reach out and hug her again, kiss her softly, take her to bed and show her that he valued her more than stupid gossip and petty, vindictive political machinations. But it would be selfish.

  “I think we should break this off,” he said, amazed that his voice stayed even.

  Her eyes went wide as saucers. “What?”

  “The engagement. We should break off the engagement,” he clarified. “You’ll go back to London, and we’ll… be done here.”

  She gawked at him. “You can’t be serious!”

  “If you’re worried about the child—don’t be. She’ll still be in the line of succession,” he said, as calmly as he could manage. “And I will make sure that you have not only child support, but enough money to live comfortably.”

  “Comfortably?” she repeated. Her expression was a combination of shock and numbness. “In London?”

  “This was what you wanted when you contacted me,” he reminded her. “You didn’t want to be married. This was always an arrangement of convenience.”

  The look of hurt that crossed her face was unbearable. “It wasn’t just convenience to me,” she said with unspeakable sadness. “I don’t sleep with anyone out of mere convenience.”

  He clenched his teeth so hard his jaw hurt. But he forced himself to move forward. “I have,” he said, as ruthlessly as possible. “I’ve been with plenty of women, and I imagine I’ll be with plenty more. Although I will think of you fondly.”

  That may have been just a hair too far, been too unbelievable. Think of her fondly? God, she was burned into his soul. He couldn’t forget her, not with electroshock therapy. The idea was ludicrous. And the last thing he wanted was to even consider replacing her. He loved her too much.

  Somehow, she believed him.

  “Fondly?” she repeated. Given everything he knew of her, he expected her to rage, to scream… maybe throw something at him. At the very least tear strips off of him verbally, like she had that Finance Minister from Aldland. But instead, it was as if she folded in on herself somehow. Like some part of her had been destroyed on the inside, and she could no longer hold herself up.

  “It would have been different, easier, if we’d never met,” he said, ensuring that the last nail in the coffin was hammered into place. “Still, it’s not like things have to change too drastically. You’ve got your life and your family, and you’ll have some financial freedom to do what you like in London without all the problems this life brings.”

  “And you’ll have the freedom to pursue whatever and whoever you like,” she said, her voice a pale echo of its usual vibrance.

  He cleared his throat, trying to get rid of the lump that had formed. “Yes,” he said. “I will.”

  She looked so betrayed. He wasn’t going to make it. He wasn’t going to manage. If she stayed, he’d fold, and that wouldn’t be what was best for her, or the country. He needed to follow through.

  “I think it’s best if you left immediately,” he said. “Perhaps you could wait in the guest room that you originally stayed in, here in the apartments? Until I can line up the private jet to take you back.”

  “I’m leaving today?”

  “Yes.” As quickly as possible. Before I lose all semblance of control and break down in front of you, showing what a sham I am.

  “But… but the gala…”

  “I will give your regrets,” he said. “And then we’ll send out an announcement, perhaps next week… just a politely worded letter saying that our relationship has dissolved, please respect our privacy, that sort of thing.”

  “Of course.” She blinked heavily.

  He stood up, stuffing his hands in his pockets so he wouldn’t reach for her. “You should go, Clara,” he said firmly. “Now.”

  She stood, looking dazed, then sent him a pained look, working the giant ring off her finger and handing it over to him. The heavy ring hit his palm with more weight than he expected, and his fingers curled around it. It felt wrong to have it in his hand. Everything felt wrong.

  To his surprise, she then reached into her pocket. Watching him, she placed the small plastic ring, the one with a crown on it, onto a nearby table. Then, slowly, she went to the door, shutting it behind her quietly.

  He abandoned the wildly expensive ring next to the small plastic one, turned, and headed to the music conservatory he had in his private apartments, a sound-proofed room that held his grand piano, several guitars, and a violin. He felt his heart pounding in something close to a panic attack. He leaned against the door, gulping for breath.

  He knew, ultimately, that he’d done the right thing. He was sure of it. He had promised his family that he’d be dedicated to Fervia, and he was. He’d provided an heir. He was stepping up as a prince. And he loved Clara—loved her enough to let her go, if that was what was best for her and the baby. Her pale face as she fainted in the car still haunted him.

  He walked to the piano. Music was his balm, the thing that helped him process the world, that helped him make sense of whatever he was going through. When his mother died, he played for hours, long, slow sonatas. Her favorites, like Chopin. Some bluesy ballads.

  Now, he sat at the keys, and felt only a horrible, yowling emptiness. No music came. There was only pain.

  17

  Clara was sitting in Holly's charming little house, not far from the heart of Fervia's capital city. It was a small house—well, compared to the castle, anyway. Compared to her flat or her parents' home, it was a spacious three bedroom, full of windows and cute furniture and cheerful photos of Holly and her husband. It was obvious that a happy family lived here. Clara was so envious, she was almost sick to her stomach with it.

  Holly poured her a cup of tea, a lemon ginger blend, nothing caffeinated. Clara had sobbed out the details of her engagement with Erik, including the pregnancy. With the grace of a truly good friend, a surprised Holly had quickly offered herbal tea and even some biscuits. Clara couldn't stand the thought of eating. She could barely take the thought of drinking, but she wrapped her hands around the ceramic mug, trying to get the warmth from the hot liquid to somehow seep through and warm her up. She was numb—there was no other word for it.

  He just sent me away.

  She felt the same way she had when she'd finally figured out that Oxford was not going to happen when she was nineteen. There had been that brief time of euphoria, the delicious sense of possibility... before the rug had been harshly yanked out from under her as she realized there was no way she could leave her parents when they needed her help so desperately.

  I got my hopes up.

  When will I learn?

  She should have known better. She should have bloody known.

  "When you're ready to talk about it," Holly murmured, sitting across from her with her own cup of tea, "I'm right here."

  Clara took a tentative sip of the tea, probably burning her tongue, but at this point not even caring. "I have to go back to London," she said, her voice seeming to come from somewhere far away.

  Holly startled. "What? Why?"

  "Erik called it off."

  "What, the gala?" Holly whipped out her mobile, scrolling through messages. "I hadn't heard. Has it been canceled?"

  "Not the gala. Us." Clara's throat felt like sandpaper. She stared at the mug, a pale blue. Almost like Erik's eyes. She felt a slash of pain, then... nothing.

  "You mean... Erik broke up with you?" Holly asked, sounding shocked.

  All Clara could do was nod in response.

  "Are you all right talking about it?"