shaking my head. “How could they possibly know any of this?”
“So it’s true.”
“Is it true that Rowan and I are involved? Yes. Is it true it started at the Summer Palace? Yes. Is it true that she went to the gynecologist because she’s pregnant? Absolutely fucking not.” My breath shortens as anger clouds my vision. I click through to another article, which is an exposé of my relationship with Abby, and a brilliant think piece about whether or not I might have moved on to a new woman.
Fucking wonderful.
“This is exactly what happened with Abby,” I say. “The media made up a bunch of stories and crafted this narrative about our relationship. They became obsessed with her. Why do they care about who I date? Why is this newsworthy?”
“Well, dear brother,” Penelope replies with a tilt of her head. “You are royalty. Or have you forgotten?”
“It’s bullshit.”
“It’s not,” she shoots back. “You just said yourself that you’re having an affair with this woman. How are we supposed to let her redesign the palace now?”
“Because she won the contract, Pen. This has nothing to do with me. She’s a talented architect. And it’s not an…affair.”
“What is it, then?”
I stand there trembling, but I say nothing. The words don’t come. What is going on between Rowan and me, really?
The Queen folds her hands in her lap, but I don’t miss the tension in her jaw. “It doesn’t look good. It looks like we gave her the job because you’re sleeping with her.”
“That’s not what happened,” I snap.
Penelope arches an eyebrow.
I sigh, dropping my shoulders. “I hate the media. They twist our lives into some sorry soap opera. Abby died in my arms, and in all those dozens of photographers that surrounded us, not one called an ambulance. Not. One. They snapped photos of her last moments instead of helping.”
They did nothing, just like me. Isn’t that why I hate those images? Because it reminds me of my greatest failure? How I froze, holding my dying fiancée, unable to move or help? How I failed to call anyone? How I failed to perform CPR? How I watched her die and did absolutely nothing to stop it?
Penelope lets out a sigh, lowering her eyes to the floor. For the first time in a long, long time, I see the tension rippling through her shoulders. She’s usually the strong one. The unshakeable, unbreakable one—but is that weighing on her? Have I been too hard on my sister?
She lifts her eyes to mine. “Is she pregnant, Wolfe?”
“No,” I reply emphatically. “No, she’s not pregnant.”
She nods. “I’ll get the media team to do some damage control. They usually advise us to do nothing in cases like these. Feeding the beast only makes it hungrier. We won’t respond to rumors.” Turning back to her vanity, she sits down and starts dusting her face with powder, signaling that I’m dismissed.
I leave the room, letting out a heavy sigh. My sister is still my sister, but she’s the Queen first. She has to bear the weight of the crown and think of what’s best for the family. She has to make decisions I wouldn’t want to make—all while carrying her own scars.
I know why she has a cold exterior. I know why she seems callous sometimes—but damn, if it doesn’t make my blood boil. I feel like a child who’s just been scolded. I’m a grown man!
I make my way to the dining room, hoping to find my brothers. When I walk in, Jonah glances up at me. He reaches for a platter full of bacon, heaping a few rashers onto his plate before looking at me again. “Haven’t seen much of you around lately.” He grins, pushing his cropped black hair back off his forehead.
Silas grunts from the corner of the room. A tumbler of bourbon dangles between his fingertips. “He’s been too busy banging the architect.”
“Screw you,” I grumble. “Isn’t it a bit early for a drink?”
“Hair of the dog.” Silas grins. “Late night last night. Need to take the edge off.”
“How am I the one in the tabloids?” I frown, staring at Silas’ rumpled clothes and half-drunk, half-hungover face.
Jonah whistles, wiggling his eyebrows. “So it’s true.”
“You like her.” Silas ambles over to me, his blue eyes flashing. His rich, chocolate hair curls around his temples and makes his eyes look even more piercing. He’s the one who always has women screaming for him. Not me. He’s the one who’s slept with every pretty maid who’s ever walked