Clara shrugged. "I don't know what there is to say," she said, her voice steady, if soft. "It's over."

  "Did you fight? Did something happen?"

  "You mean other than causing a scandal with Aldland that made them target me in the tabloids?" Clara let out a rough laugh. "Well, there's the little problem of me being a commoner and a political liability. And the fact that he basically had a buffet of eligible women that he slept with prior to me, and he's looking forward to getting back to sampling. So yes. I suppose something did happen."

  "Oh, Clara," Holly said, her eyes swimming with sympathy and pity, and Clara had to look away before she started crying. The numbness was jarring, but at the moment, it was protecting her from pain and from completely losing it. She clutched onto it like a life preserver. "Did he say all that?"

  "Some of it. I put together the rest myself."

  "He couldn't have meant it," Holly said staunchly. "I've seen him with you. The guy's head over heels."

  "If he is, he has a funny way of showing it," Clara said with a teary laugh. She bit her cheek, trying to prevent herself from full-blown crying. "It's all right. It's fine. I just... I need to get back to London."

  "Are you sure?" Holly asked. "It seems so sudden. Maybe with a little time..."

  "He said he wanted me out of Fervia today." Another slice of pain. It hurt, it hurt so badly.

  I should have known better.

  Holly's eyes narrowed. "This sounds really suspicious."

  "Really? I thought it sounded very straightforward," Clara said with a touch of acid in her voice. "He doesn't want me. He said he'll pay for the care and upbringing of our kid, who will still be in the line of succession. But he and I... we're through."

  "He's not like this," Holly said.

  "Yes, he is!" Clara yelled back. "I literally just talked to him, and he tried to make it sound magnanimous, like he was doing me a favor, but then he simply told me to leave and not come back and it just hurts. It hurts so much!"

  Just like that, she broke down, the tears streaming down her cheeks as sobs choked her. She rested her face in her hands, her grief hitting her like a storm. She vaguely registered the sound of Holly dragging her kitchen chair closer to Clara, then the warmth of her hand on Clara's back, rubbing between her shoulder blades, the way you might comfort a child, making soft, soothing noises.

  When the worst of the tears passed, she took a napkin, wiping her face, blowing her nose. She looked at Holly, imploring.

  "I never should have trusted him. I should have stuck to my guns, asked for the child support, and then kept things... separate,” she said, her voice weary. “But he said it was important for him, and for Fervia. He pointed out how much chemistry we had. What the hell was I thinking, agreeing to marry him?"

  She looked over to see Holly smiling at her, a little sadly. "You were in love with him," Holly pointed out. "You still are."

  Clara jolted. "What? I'm..."

  She blinked. Was she? After so soon?

  You've been in love with him for months. Almost since you met him.

  She groaned, rubbing at her face. No wonder things went so horribly wrong—and why they hurt so badly right now. "I am," she admitted. "How incredibly stupid of me."

  "Why would that be stupid?" Holly's face was inquisitive—it was her reporter's face, the one she wore when she was digging into a story.

  "Because it was never a love thing," Clara said brusquely, gripping the mug so tightly she was surprised it wasn't burning her palm. "He asked me so we could make the baby legitimate. It was always a political thing. He's not in love with me."

  "Did he say he wasn't in love with you?"

  "He didn't say he was," Clara countered. "And he did tell me the other stuff."

  "Did you tell him that you were in love with him?"

  Clara looked away.

  "I'll take that as a no," Holly said. "You said that you should have known better. Why? Has Erik done things that make you realize you shouldn't have trusted him?"

  "Are you a therapist as well as a journalist?" Clara snarked.

  Holly sighed, not pushing. But her expression was one of disappointment, and Clara immediately felt ashamed.

  "It's... it's not Erik," Clara replied. "It's just that good things, really amazing things like that? Don't happen to people like me."

  "People like you?" Holly echoed. "What kind of people are those?"

  "I don't know. Unlucky people? All I know is, there are some people that the world shines on, and there are some people that it shits on, and if you're smart, you figure out which one you fall under, and prepare accordingly."

  "And you're one of the latter."

  Clara grimaced. "Historically? Yes."

  "When else has it happened?" Holly asked gently.

  Clara didn't want to talk about it, didn't want to relive the pain. But Holly was being so patient, and some part of her felt like it might help drain some of her feelings. She just wanted to get rid of the poisonous anger and despair she was feeling. So she found herself talking, her tongue tripping over itself to keep up with the torrent of emotional words. "Mum got diagnosed with fibromyalgia right when I was making college plans, and after the first year was done, I went back for the summer and never returned to school. How could I, knowing they were at risk of losing the roof over their heads? I moved back into my old bedroom for a bit and helped cover her missing salary while she went from doctor to doctor, trying to figure out how to manage her pain. Oxford had always been my dream, and it was finally there, but my parents needed urgent help. I pushed back my plans for one year, then two, then three… now I’m twenty-five and it all still feels so precarious, like I’m still just one disaster away from losing any progress I’ve made. My parents were so sad, but it can’t happen until I have enough money to make it work." She laughed, a short, bitter laugh.

  "You still found ways to build up your political experience, even if they weren’t the most traditional methods," Holly said, quoting what she'd learned during their interview. "You love politics. Why didn't you do something in politics? Why didn't you use your volunteer experience and the connections you’d made to get a job in the field you love?"

  "Because I wanted Oxford!" Clara said. "I still want to get my degree from university."

  "I see," Holly said. "And you think it was better to waitress and save up that way? To get the college degree? Rather than be a publicist, or something closer to politics, which has more stability, while also saving up money? Take a risk with a loan, given how much that degree would have helped in the long run?"

  Clara tilted her head. "Where are you going with this?"

  Holly's face was compassionate but held a touch of sternness. "Did it ever occur to you that you always assume that things are going to go badly—so you retreat to what you're used to, and stop struggling for what you think will be hopeless?"

  "Excuse me?" Clara snapped, affronted. "I have worked hard every day of my life! I have fought for everything I've ever wanted!"

  "Do you want Erik?" Holly asked, her voice kind. "I'm so sorry that you two have had this argument. I know that you're hurting. But if you assume that only bad things happen to you, if you assume that you have to keep fighting and trudging and doing the hardest things and that life will still be horrible... isn't that what you're going to get?"

  Clara felt that like a slap. "So you're saying it's my fault?"

  "No! No." Holly gave her a comforting pat on her shoulder. "I'm saying it's easy to fall into that trap. When bad things happen, it's self-protecting to try to armor yourself against the disappointments of the world. But after a while, assuming the worst, embracing the worst? That's not a self-protecting mechanism. That's self-harming. It's an overreaction, a good thing turned bad."

  Clara bit her lip. She wanted to rail against Holly, and if she'd been her old self, back in London, maybe she would have. But now she was too tired, and too emotionally fragile—and what she was saying made an odd sort of sense.

  "One more question," Holly said, her expression serious. "The belief that life will always disappoint you, will punish you for wanting something better. Is that what you want for your child?"

  Clara gasped audibly.

  "Oh, my God." The thought was devastating. She couldn't bear it.

  "There's a chance that Erik doesn't want to have a relationship with you," Holly said quietly. "But from what you've said, and what I know about him... I get the feeling this is his way of doing what you're doing. Protecting you and maybe himself... but doing a bad and hurtful thing in an attempt to do something good. And if you don't fight, you're both going to pay for it."

  Clara sniffed. "Thank you, Holly." She sent Holly a lopsided smile. "How do you know all of this?"

  "I deal with people every day," Holly said. "I see what makes them tick, and I see how they are when they're under extreme pressure. I've seen Erik, and I've seen you. I know you two are in love, and I want you two to make it."

  Clara took a deep breath. "I'm not afraid of fighting," she said. "And I'm not going to back down from taking a risk. Not again."

  "That's the spirit," Holly said with approval. "Anything I can help with?"

  Clara's mind whirred as she developed a plan. "Do you think you can stop by the castle and grab some things for me?"

  18

  There were a few hours left until the gala. Erik had already dressed and gotten himself mentally together enough to acknowledge he'd need to run any possible excuses for why Clara was not at the gala past his father. He found himself going to the east wing of the castle, his father's royal quarters. It was weird to be there without his mother there, another layer of grief on top of his current pain. He grimaced, but knocked at the door. His father's butler opened it, then gestured to his parents' private sitting room.

  The room was small, by comparison to most of the rooms in the castle, he supposed. His father sat in a wingback chair by a lit fireplace. Over the heavy marble mantelpiece was a portrait of his mother and his father, in younger years. His father still had the fierce gravitas that made him one of the most intimidating kings in the lineage. His mother's smile, on the other hand, was quicksilver bright. Just seeing her made his heart hurt.

  His father was reading newspapers and drinking a small snifter of brandy. He looked up, puzzled. "Is something wrong?"

  Erik grimaced, but he answered with a steady voice. "I broke up with Clara."

  His father blinked. "Already?"

  "Well... yes," he replied, surprised at his father’s reaction. "You said that it had to happen in a hurry. That it would only cause more scandal if..."

  "But the gala!" his father barked, dropping the newspaper on the table beside him. "You couldn't wait one day? Now, there are going to be questions. Is she supposed to be ill? Are you breaking up with her because of the Aldland issues? God. We'd have to drop a press release..."

  Erik stared at his father as the older man frowned, obviously deep in thought.

  "Do you think you can get her to agree to the gala itself?" he asked. "Just put up a good front, and then we can send her back. She'd be generously compensated, of course."

  Erik actually took a step back, appalled. "Are you kidding?"

  His father seemed to shake himself out of his thoughts. "What?"

  "I just broke her heart," Erik all but snarled. "I broke my own! To serve Fervia. To help you. Because you said it would be best politically, and to protect her. And now you're telling me you want her to act just to protect our asses? After I treated her like a complete bastard? Are you a robot?"

  "You will respect me!" his father roared, getting to his feet.

  "I have always respected you!" Erik roared back. "But how much have you respected me, Father?"

  His father's eyes widened. "I don't know what you're—"

  "You said, 'Erik will never have anything to contribute to the throne' and then wrote me off!" Erik shouted. He had never spoken to his father like this. But it felt like decades of pain and frustration were finally bubbling to the surface... and exploding. "You told Mother that, when I decided to go to uni. You told her that she was spoiling me by encouraging my music! You told me I was spoiled!"

  His father huffed out a breath. "I have never disguised the fact that I would have preferred you going into diplomacy, or international business, or law—"

  "Have you ever heard me play, Father?" Erik barreled on. "Ever heard any of my compositions? Do you know just how much I love it? How good I am at it? I've won awards. I could have performed around the world, but you were so... so dismissive of my talent, so intent that being a musician was no pursuit for a prince, that I became a playboy, just wasting my time around the globe! You believed I was useless. You all but told me I was worthless." Erik let out a brittle laugh. "So I eventually believed it."

  His father looked aghast. "Erik, no. I would never... I didn't want that!"

  "Do you want to know why I promised that I'd do more for the family? That I'd try to support you, and do whatever I needed, to help the kingdom, to help Pelle? Even when I've never shown any interest in statecraft or diplomacy or trade agreements before in my life?" Erik felt like a train accelerating out of control, but he couldn't stop now. Probably wouldn't, even if he could. "After Mother's death, I felt so much pain... but I saw you were even worse. You've always been the strongest man I've ever known, but I know just how hard it hit you."

  His father looked stunned.

  "So I thought I'd do whatever I could, to help you. Because you were so lost. You needed a son you could count on."

  "I..." His father looked at a complete loss. "Did you feel like I thought I couldn't count on you?"

  Erik closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Fought for control. "I think you've felt like I made bad decisions," Erik said slowly. "And because I haven't pursued anything in the political arena, because I've kept myself out of the machinations of the royal court and the kingdom's affairs, I thought that you knew best. I thought that by doing what you wanted, I'd be doing what was right, for the kingdom and for our family. But I'm not doing this. I'm seeing now that my gut was right... and that you, Father, were wrong. In thinking that I'm useless because I'm more musician than diplomat. In telling me to leave the mother of my child, the woman I love, because of political expedience. You're wrong in thinking that, if you can only control everything and boss everyone, that you and your family and your kingdom will be safe. That's not how the world works." Erik sighed. "I may not be much of a prince, but I know that."

  His father stared at him like he'd never seen him before. "Was I that terrible a father?" His voice was soft, shaken. Very unlike anything he'd ever heard his confident father sound like. "Do you... hate me?"

  Erik shook his head. "No," he said with honesty. "You've been a hard man to live up to. But I know that you've had the best intentions. It's just... I can't do what you're asking. I don't want to. I choose not to."

  His father swallowed visibly. "I... see. What does that mean?"

  "That means that I'm never going to be the prince Pelle is, or the prince you expected me to be," Erik said. "I'm not going to try. And I'm not going to try to 'protect the reputation' of Fervia by hiding my music anymore. It's a big part of who I am. Above all, I'm going to be the best father, and the best husband, I possibly can. I screwed things up with Clara because I lost sight of what was important, because I got all caught up in this."

  "She'll still be in the line of fire, politically speaking," his father reminded him.

  "Yes—but that should be her choice. I want to protect her, but I can't choose for her," Erik pointed out. "I will still do whatever I can to protect her, but she has always wanted to be in politics. She's strong. One of the strongest people I know," he added. "She will probably handle it better than I would in her shoes."

  His father nodded, a small smile of his own. "Your mother was like that," he said, his expression wistful. "I miss her. I never should have said that she spoiled you. She just understood you, better than I could. Than I do. And she was a force of nature. They might say that I'm an imposing figure as King, but your mother... as Queen, your mother was beloved."

  Erik swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. "I miss her."

  "So do I," his father agreed.

  They stood there silent for a moment. Then his father cleared his throat. "Please give Clara my apologies," he said.

  Erik blinked. "Oh, God. Clara. I have to apologize. I have to fix this!"

  His father nodded. "Hurry, then. The gala's going to be soon."

  Erik rushed out. She hadn't been in the royal apartments when he'd gotten changed for the gala. He'd been told that she’d left. She wasn't at the airport, though. He asked the chauffeur where he'd taken her, and found out that she had headed over to Holly MacPherson's, the reporter for the Fervian Times. He felt a moment's pang of apprehension. She wouldn't be selling a story or something, would she?

  He immediately calmed himself. Of course she wouldn't. She and Holly were friends—and God knows, with the stupidity he'd just pulled, she'd be looking for a friend to lean on at this point. He had to fix things.

  He hurried to the car. "Take me to the last address you brought Clara, please," he asked the driver, his pulse racing with nerves.

  He had to fix this. Make this right. Get Clara to agree to marry him... again.

  19

  Erik was nervous as hell as the car pulled in front of Holly's house. His mind scrambled as he tried to come up with a way to explain why he'd done what he had, why he had been so harsh—why he had sent her away. But right now, his brain was going haywire, like an overblown fuse. He kept grasping at bits of arguments, at ways to grovel. He even considered grabbing a boombox and serenading her, something so over-the-top and Hollywood-esque that she'd have to forgive him. Wouldn't she?

  God, he needed her to forgive him.

  As he was striding up the walkway towards the front door, Holly and her husband were already stepping out, heading for their own car, obviously dressed for the gala. Holly's eyebrows jumped to her hairline as she took in Erik's obviously frazzled appearance in his Tom Ford tuxedo. "Is she here?" he asked quickly.