Mallory.
“He can’t date a woman that he can’t marry,” Kelsey insisted, crossing her arms.
“There’s no rule that says that, actually. I know, because out of the two of us, I’m the only one who’s read your copious binders on royal protocol.”
“I’m just trying to do what’s best for my brother and my sister. This ultimately isn’t good for either of you. There’s no fairy-tale ending here, Mal. You need to stay away from him.” Kelsey’s voice was stern, her features set in disapproving lines.
This was unbelievable. Was fudge suddenly a vitamin-packed diet aid? Had the top ten runners-up for Miss World huddled together and figured out a doable plan to make world peace a thing? Because Mallory’s world had just tilted upside freaking down. She teetered on the edge of tears and screaming.
But it was so hard to push the words out that they were barely more than a breathless whisper. “Do not…you can’t…are you seriously playing the don’t date my brother card? Where are your loyalties?”
“That’s a horrible question to ask.” Kelsey took slow, halting steps backward. Away from her. “Don’t make me answer it.”
“I think you’d damned well better.”
“You know I love you, Mallory. But I have a duty now, to the House of Villani. You’re the one who drummed that into me, made me understand it. It’s time you came to terms with it as well.”
Then Kelsey turned on her heel and ran. Ran like rabid wolves were right behind her.
She ran like she couldn’t risk sticking around to hear what Mallory’s response might be.
She ran to the palace. To her new role as a royal. Away from the woman who she’d always loved like a sister.
Was this their line in the sand? They’d survived setting aside their dreams of living and working in Manhattan. They’d uprooted and traveled around the world, to live surrounded by strangers. They’d accepted the unimaginable fact that they were not, in fact, sisters. Through all of it, they’d been each other’s touchpoints.
But now…now that Mallory had accidentally found a man who was everything she never knew she wanted, who treated her well, who made her feel good…Kelsey expected her to turn her back on all that?
Did she have to give up Christian to mend her relationship with Kelsey?
Could it ever be the same if Kelsey did, indeed, force this choice on her?
Mallory dropped to the cold ground, put her head on her knees, and wept.
Chapter Thirteen
Christian’s phone beeped a notification. He reached for it on the floor and felt the pull of his jacket at his shoulder.
Why was he still wearing his suit jacket?
“Unacceptable,” he growled.
It was after ten on a Saturday night. He was alone. No press, no politicians, no staff, no bodyguard. When had he morphed into a man who fucking relaxed in a suit jacket?
Since stepping up, covering for his father, he’d had to suit up more often. A daily basis, if not more when he had to change into formal attire for dinner. Sir Kai had pointedly reminded him back in June that showing up to meetings in jeans didn’t fly for the man “representing” the king.
Was it a small thing? A blip of discomfort?
Sure.
But it also pointed to an acceptance of his new station in life. His new life. The one he hadn’t planned on starting for at least another thirty years.
Christian wanted a hoodie so bad his teeth ached.
He wanted to walk over to the glass case on the wall containing the Scepter of King Stephen that every king for the past 699 years had used at their coronations, rip it out, and rub the golden pinecone on top of it.
And then he damn well expected a gray fleece hoodie to magically appear on his shoulders.
Because if that damned golden staff was going to magically change his life, he wanted it to start right this minute.
Christian gave it a solid twenty seconds. In his current burn it all down mood, that counted for…what…about a week’s worth of patience? When no hoodie appeared, he took matters into his own hands.
He grabbed the back of his collar. Tried to rip the coat off in one smooth move, like he did with his Henleys.
But his impatient frustration bit him in the ass, as always. As Christian stepped forward, not looking at anything but the damned jacket, he caught the tip of his polished loafer on the edge of the rug. That tipped him onto the semicircle of ottomans he’d created.
His free hand stopped him from landing on his