Lone Prince (Royally Unexpected #7) - Lilian Monroe Page 0,62
of the baby’s life, or you leave. It’s your choice, Rowan. You need to do what’s best for the baby.”
“And if he doesn’t want it?” My voice is small. My heart aches.
“Then the choice is made for you, honey.”
I blink a tear down my cheek and wipe it away in an instant. There are no good choices. My mania from yesterday has vanished. I’m staring at a bunch of bleak options for a sad future, that oily film coating everything from my head down to my bare toes.
If I stay, I’m subjecting the baby to media scrutiny—even worse so if the Prince doesn’t want to be a part of our lives. What kind of future is that for a child? Everyone would know who the father is, and everyone would judge me and the baby. What if it affected the baby’s future? Judging by the crush of reporters outside, they wouldn’t just forget about us. The kid would be in the newspapers for his or her whole life. They could be bullied, or judged, or stopped from getting jobs and opportunities.
Even if Wolfe wants the kid, do I really want to take that chance? Do I want to subject my child to that kind of future?
If I go back to Farcliff, I’m giving up my relationship with the Prince. I’m leaving the only place I’ve ever felt at home—but I’m giving my child a chance at a normal life. I’m choosing independence and anonymity. Privacy. Normalcy.
My life is crumbling around me and I feel so sad it makes my chest ache, but I feel like I finally understand the choices my mother made for me. I understand the pain she must have felt, and I understand the devotion. My hand slips over my stomach and I let my eyes close, knowing I’ll do anything to keep my baby safe.
25
Wolfe
Every night that Rowan isn’t in bed beside me is torture. Since we’ve been in the capital, we’ve stolen secret moments together in her office, or sneaked up to my chambers, or gone for walks on the palace grounds—but it’s not the same as being together. Really together.
A knock sounds on my bedroom door. I open it up to see Frederick, my sister’s little lapdog. His mustache is particularly thick and luscious today. “Good morning, Your Highness,” he says with a small bow that’s hardly more than a nod. “Her Majesty requests your presence.”
I let out a sigh. It’s too early for this, but Frederick just stands there and stares at me. I pull a sweater on over my head, then motion for him to lead the way. We walk across the castle to my sister’s private chambers, where I find her sitting at a vanity, putting on her jewelry like she’s readying for battle. She glances at me through the mirror.
“Brother,” she says, her voice cold as ice.
“Your Majesty,” I reply with an insolent bow. I’m not in the mood for this. I don’t want her to chastise me for something or tell me I’m not doing a good enough job with the Summer Palace design. Ever since her husband died, Penelope changed. She’s not the bright, happy sister I once knew.
I can’t judge her for that—didn’t my personality change when Abby died? Didn’t I become dark and lonely?
But now…things are different. There’s light in my life again.
The Queen turns around, delicately picking up a cell phone from the edge of her vanity. Tapping on the screen a few times, she turns it toward me with an arch of her brow. “Explain.”
I glance at the screen and frown. It’s a photo of Eyvar and Rowan outside the doctor’s office with headlines screaming about my affair with her and proclaiming that she’s carrying my child. Skimming through the article, my stomach drops.
The journalists—if you can call them that—have written a brief history of Rowan’s life. They point to the photo of us disembarking the royal jet together, coupled with my arrival in Stirling during the month of October when I’m usually away. Apparently, that’s evidence of our romance.
Which, I mean, fair point.
Worse, still, they point to ‘sources inside the palace’—which is bullshit speak for we made this up—saying that her visit to the doctor is as a result of our sexual affair. A secret pregnancy, they say, with a zoomed-in photo of a pamphlet as irrefutable proof.
Right.
And, I mean, we have been sleeping together. That’s true. But how fucking dare they?
“Well?” My sister’s still staring at me, waiting for an explanation.