Clara suppressed a shiver. "That... sounds unpleasant," she remarked. "But why would they go after me? It's not like I'm some Hollywood actress or socialite. I'm not even nobility. I'm literally nobody special. So why would they care?"

  "Precisely because you're not anybody special," Holly pointed out. "Well, not that you're not special. But you don't have notoriety. If Erik were going to marry someone equally famous, they would have tons of past stories to mine. They would write up stories just like they would if she weren't marrying Erik. Readers would already be thinking about the glamorousness of their clothes and their travels and their homes. But you? A waitress who didn’t get her degree yet?"

  "Um, ouch?" Clara said.

  "I'm not saying it's shameworthy, or that you’re somehow less for dropping out. You’re one of the smartest, kindest people I know. I'm saying, tabloids are going to be irritated, and they’re going to use that against you," Holly explained patiently.

  "I thought the Cinderella angle might save me, honestly," Clara said. "I discussed it with the publicists. They were initially taken aback at..." She paused. "This is off the record, right?"

  Holly smiled. "Off the record, I promise," she echoed. Then she jotted down her phone number on a piece of paper from her notebook, tearing it out and handing it to Clara. "In fact, if you ever need someone to talk to, don't think of me as a reporter. I'm your friend first, okay? Because you're diving into a weird royal world. If you need a sounding board, I promise, I'll be there."

  Clara felt her chest warm. "Thanks. I will probably take you up on that," she said, emotion welling enough for her eyes to tear a little. She blinked quickly. Damned pregnancy hormones! "Anyway, when we talked about releasing the engagement, the publicists and I agreed that positioning it as Erik falling in love with a commoner, as a Cinderella story, where a gorgeous royal could become engaged to someone completely opposite... well, I think a lot of so-called normal people would find that charming."

  "You're not wrong," Holly said thoughtfully. "But I'll warn you: the tabloids around here have made Erik and his 'perpetual partying bachelor' routine their bread and butter. They want high fashion and high drama. And the only thing they'll love more than a Cinderella story?" She leaned forward. "Tearing someone apart."

  Clara swallowed. Her throat felt like sandpaper.

  "Miss Clara?" One of the publicists tapped on his watch. "It's time for the press conference."

  "Oh, goody," Clara said, feeling her heart race. She looked at Holly.

  "Shoot. I shouldn't have said anything," Holly said, looking aghast. "You're not nervous, are you?"

  Erik was at her side immediately. "Don't worry, I've got you," he said.

  His warmth, his offered comfort, was as reassuring as a weighted blanket. She gave him a quick hug without thinking, and he tucked her head under his chin, rubbing her back.

  "It's just a few minutes," he said. "We'll keep the questions limited, and we'll get right back to the apartments. If there are any questions you don't feel like answering, just look at me, and I'll field them. We will manage just fine."

  His voice, that caramel-smooth richness, was so soothing. She sighed. "All right. Let's do this."

  She followed the entourage of publicists to the ballroom, Erik holding her hand. When they arrived, she blinked at the flashes of light from various cameras. There were rows upon rows of chairs. She hadn't thought this was that newsworthy, but apparently the international press had other ideas.

  "Prince Erik! Prince Erik!" various reporters were yelling, trying to get his attention. They were asking questions, one atop the other, the words mushing together into a cacophony of sound. Clara forced herself to stand up straight and keep on walking, keeping her face placid.

  It's just a press conference, she told herself. Won't even be half an hour. And they're just reporters. This is not life threatening.

  Still, she had trouble swallowing past the lump in her throat. She only prayed no one else noticed.

  The publicists managed to calm everyone down, to silence. Then they read a prepared statement about Erik's engagement. When they got to the word "engagement," however, the room exploded into more questions.

  "You're getting married?" one reporter asked in shock.

  "Who is Clara Campbell?" another demanded.

  "Why the rush?" a third pushed.

  Erik held up his hands, and he and Clara stood behind the podium they'd set up. "This is Clara, and yes, we are engaged," Erik said, his ice-blue eyes gentle as he looked at her. "And yes, I'm in a hurry to marry her, because she's wonderful and I can't wait to make her my wife."

  Clara felt her stomach go sugary, and for a second, it was as if there weren't anyone else in the ballroom but the two of them.

  "Clara!" An impatient voice cut through the tender moment. "How did you manage to bag the prince?"

  Clara jolted, looking at the impertinent questioner. It was a reporter, with a press badge and a cheap looking brown suit, his mustard tie crumpled, his expression disgruntled. "Bag the prince?" she repeated, letting out a surprised laugh. "I didn't realize he was a hunting trophy."

  That made the other reporters laugh—and the one questioning her turn red with irritation and embarrassment. "It's just odd," he continued, his voice tinged with anger, "that literally no one has ever heard of you, and now you're marrying one of the most eligible bachelors in Europe. One that has dated literally hundreds of the most beautiful and famous women in the world," he tacked on, with a malicious smile. "So we want to know: how did you manage to make Prince Erik marry you?"

  Clara was shocked at his cheek. She looked over to see Erik turning red with fury, and she quickly put a hand on his arm, shaking her head. The last thing he needed was bad press over this. Rude reporters and invasive paparazzi were probably going to be part of their lives—she needed to learn to deal with it.

  "I'd like to think that Erik and I met each other at the right time," she said, pitching her voice gentle and slow, making the reporter look even more rude in the process. "I was lucky. I am lucky. And I want to spend the rest of my life showing Erik how grateful I am that we're together."

  The red color receded on Erik's face, and he took her hand, brushing a kiss over her knuckles. She smiled, nodding.

  "That's sweet," the reporter said, although his saccharine sarcastic tone suggested it was anything but.

  "Where are you from?" Another reporter from a major news outlet interjected, making the tone more hospitable.

  Clara spent the rest of the interview telling them about herself and her family, sticking to facts. The whole thing lasted perhaps half an hour, but afterward, she felt as wrung out as a mop. Erik escorted her back to the apartments, arranging for the castle's kitchen to send up tea and scones.

  "That was harder than I thought," she admitted. "How do you stand it?"

  Erik sighed. "This is why I've never loved the political side of what the family does," he said. "I can get lost in music for hours at a time, and it seems like a blink. But put me in a room full of reporters or ministers for fifteen minutes, and it feels like a century. All relative, I guess." He looked resolved. "We'll get used to it."

  She frowned, thinking of the rude reporter.

  "We'll handle it, I'm sure," she echoed, even though she got the feeling things were about to get even rougher.

  12

  After the press conference, Erik and Clara began braving the public more, under the blessing of his father and the publicists. They had dinner at a fancy restaurant in the heart of the capital; he showed her the historical sites of the country, acting as tour guide, even while he surreptitiously made sure that she wasn't exhausting herself. They'd made a conscious decision not to let the press know about the pregnancy yet, knowing that they'd probably be nasty about it, casting aspersions about a royal shotgun wedding. Erik wanted to protect Clara from that, as best he could.

  Today, they were going to the opening of a charitable cafe, one of Pelle's wife Aliana's pet projects. The cafe trained people from disadvantaged backgrounds how to cook, and offered jobs either front of house, waiting tables, or in the back, cleaning up. The cafe also offered a sliding scale, paying what you could, and catered to the needs of the homeless in Fervia. Aliana supported a number of charities, but she was particularly proud of this. He wanted to make sure he and Clara showed their support.

  The cafe itself was modern and bright, with big windows and clean, minimalist design, very Scandinavian. There was a line at the counter, and Pelle and Aliana were actually behind the counter, talking with some of the staff, taking selfies. Erik grinned.

  "What can I get you?" he asked Clara, squeezing her hand. But when he looked over, she was ignoring the glossy glass cake of pastries and the shiny coffee machines. Instead, her gaze was fixed on a tabloid paper that some customer had left behind on one of the tabletops.

  He picked it up, ignoring her sound of distress, and read the headline: PLAYBOY PRINCE ACTING AT HAPPY FAMILIES.

  He bristled. "What the hell?"

  "It's not a big deal," Clara said, but her voice sounded weak. "I think it was that reporter who didn't like me at the press conference."

  Erik continued scanning the article. Prince Erik hasn't had a relationship that's lasted longer than a few months, and he's certainly never been engaged. While he seems sincere, how long will it be before his eye starts roving and those bored feet head for the door?

  "What. The. Hell." Erik felt his blood boiling. He was used to tabloids and gossip—you couldn't be a prince, or any sort of quasi-celebrity, and not make some sort of peace with journalists thinking they had the right to every corner of your life. But while they'd poked fun at his casual lifestyle and maybe nitpicked his relationships, they'd never been quite this bloodthirsty about it. He felt Clara squeeze his arm. "Are you all right?"

  "I'm fine," she said, but he could tell that she wasn't. She looked pale, when her cheeks usually glowed with the pregnancy. She bit her lip. "They do seem to feel like you're going to bolt, don't they?"

  "I'm not," he said quickly, wrapping his arms around her and giving her a comforting hug, ignoring the curious smiles of the people around them. He kissed her cheek. "I'm not going anywhere."

  "That's a comfort," she said wryly. "But they're just looking to stir up trouble. I have to think that they'll get bored and find someone else to torment when we don't provide them any scandal fodder."

  "You're probably right." Even as he said the words, a niggling little doubt was stuck in his mind, like a thorn. The reporters seemed downright offended that their bachelor playboy was settling down. It was edging into mean-spirited.

  "Come on," she said. "I'd like to try an eclair, I think. I didn't eat anything this morning, and I'm starving."

  "Still having some problems in the morning?" he murmured, but not loudly enough for anyone else to overhear.

  "I'm fine," she reassured him. "Get me something decadent, with a million calories."

  He laughed and ordered her an eclair, while he got himself an espresso. Then the two of them admired the cafe, met all the staff, and talked with some of the cafe customers, who looked a little starstruck by the attention.

  “Aliana and Pelle did a great thing with this café,” Clara noticed, as she nibbled at the sweet. “They’re good people, aren’t they?”

  “Even though he can be somewhat stiff, Pelle’s one of the best people I know,” Erik admitted. “And Aliana is quiet, and somewhat shy, but that just means she’s underestimated. She’s sweet, and she works behind the scenes.”

  “I like them,” Clara said, a bit absently. “And I like the idea of helping people, through charitable work and policy. I can’t wait to see what I might be able to contribute.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be amazing,” Erik said, and he meant it.

  “How about you? What would you like to pursue?”

  He frowned. He’d never really thought about it, and his father usually dictated, rather than asked. “Something with music,” he said instinctively, then winced. “Our schools often have trouble finding the funding for musical instruments, and there are studies that prove that musical aptitude helps with, you know, maths and things.” He felt his chest warm. “I think that would be something.”

  “I think,” she said, taking his hand and squeezing it, “that you would be great at that.”

  After an hour, Clara was looking a little wrung out.

  "You all right?" he asked again. He got the feeling he'd be asking that for the next six months.

  "I'm fine," she said, but her voice was tight. "The eclair was delicious, but I think I'm ready to head back to the castle. I could use a nap."

  He called his driver on his mobile phone, then tried not to be too obvious in helping her up out of her chair. She smiled at him, and they headed for the door.

  When he opened it, though, they were met with a wall of bodies. Reporters surrounded them like circling sharks, yelling a chaotic overlapping mess of questions as paparazzi’s camera flashes peppered them like lightning.

  "Prince Erik! Prince Erik!" a reporter asked, as the crowd jostled around them. "Are you planning on going to the upcoming trade summit? Prince Nicolas of Mynia and Prince Ben of Reinia are here, as is the Prime Minister of Aldland. Is it true you're going in Pelle's place? Why would you replace the Crown Prince?"

  "I'm not replacing anyone," Erik protested, then realized he'd been baited into answering. He sighed. "I will be attending the trade summit, however. While it has been traditionally attended by only the Crown Prince, we're working on making the summits more inclusive. I take the welfare of Fervia seriously. That's why I want to be there, to learn more about our country and contribute however I can to its well-being and growth."

  He thought that was all right, considering it was on the fly. He was sure he'd get an earful from the publicists later, but he'd deal with that then.

  "And you, Ms. Campbell?" The reporter turned to Clara. "Are you planning on attending the trade summit? After all, you've got a background in politics." He paused a beat, then snickered, speaking in an aside to the other reporters. "I mean, if setting out chairs for a campaign presser and stuffing envelopes could be considered a background."

  Erik wanted to strangle the man. Clara, on the other hand, stood straight, eyes snapping. "Was there something you want to say specifically about me, sir?" she asked, in an even, icy voice. "Let's not mince words."

  Erik realized he had to step in, both to protect Clara, and to prevent any further bad blood between the royal family and the press. "Of course Clara will be attending the trade summit as well," he said, and he could see the reporters' surprise as they held out their phones, recording his statements. He hoped he hadn't screwed that up, but damn it, he wanted to include Clara in as much of his life as possible, and he hated the mocking tone in their voices. "As I said, inclusive. I for one am very interested in hearing Clara's comments and contributions, since she's going to be a citizen of Fervia, as well. Thank you."

  With that, he wrapped his arm around her shoulders and shoved his way forward, making a hole to the door. His driver and bodyguard cleared the rest of the way to the backseat of the glossy black Escalade. He let out a long breath as the car got started.

  "Well, that was a nightmare," he said off the cuff, then looked at Clara. "I hate that I keep asking, but are you all right?"

  This time, though, she didn't answer. She'd barely slipped her seat belt on when her eyes rolled back in her head, which lolled against the seat back.

  Erik's blood went cold. "Shit!" He turned to his driver. "Get us to the hospital. Now!"

  Erik sat in the small private waiting room at the Fervian hospital, sweating in his suit, his mind racing with worry. He wished he'd remembered to stick his earbuds into his jacket pocket. His father had disapproved of his habit, saying that there was no reason a grown man needed to have headphones all the time, and that it was rude to ignore the people around him. But right now, music would calm him down immensely. He was still angry at the reporters, whose invasive questions he felt were probably responsible for Clara's collapse. A good dose of thrash metal or even some Wagner would probably help with that. Or he could go the other way, and listen to something soothing. Mozart, or Saint-Saens. Hell, he'd even settle for crooners like Michael Bublé or Frank Sinatra at this point. Music was a lifeline for him, and it really would've been helpful right about now.

  He frowned, looking for some way to distract himself. He ignored the magazines that were fanned out on the side table, seeing that many of them were Royal Watch styled glossies, and he knew that would just get him angrier.

  He looked instead at the financial newspaper. There was mention of the upcoming trade summit. The island nations of Fervia, Mynia, and Reinia had been acting as a collective bloc for economic reasons for decades, and it had served them well. Now, Aldland was looking at entering the bargaining. Aldland provided a lot of imports for the islands, ones that they could not easily provide for themselves, especially agricultural supplies, while the islands provided finished goods. He knew that the minister of the economy had left him documents to bone up on the trade summit, and he'd given them a cursory glance. He really needed to buckle down and get more serious. He could probably access the documents from his phone, now that he thought about it. Not that he could concentrate, though. His attention for economic details was limited in the best of circumstances. Now, waiting to find out if there was something seriously wrong with his future wife and child? There was no chance in hell that he was going to be able to focus.

  It was amazing how something so small, this tiny, amorphous, almost sheerly conceptual child had upended his life. He'd already made a promise to his family after his mother's death, to be more serious, to prove that he was a worthy member of the royal family. His father had been so heartbroken and lost when his mother died... and Erik felt like he'd contributed to his disappointment and loss. Now, he had even more people counting on him to be responsible, to prove that he was ready to be an adult and to take on all the duties that entailed. He needed to prove himself worthy. He couldn't screw this up.