I don’t need you, Margot screams through the photos. I’ll be fine without you.
For the first time since she left, my anger fades. The roaring of rage quiets down in my ears, and another voice speaks up.
Maybe I was wrong.
It’s a bitter pill to swallow, and one I’m not quite ready to accept—but everywhere I look, there she is. Beautiful. Strong. Proud.
Alone.
Then, the voice gets louder: I should be by her side. She shouldn’t need to be facing this on her own.
Didn’t I tell her that I didn’t care who the father was?
I turn away from the photos, shutting all my screens down and forcing myself to stay off the internet. I can’t look at her. I can’t face the shame of abandoning a pregnant woman just because of my own sick vanity.
So, I cling on to the idea that Beckett masterminded it all. Margot must have been in on it. She must have plotted with Beckett to bring down Luca and her sister. She’s vindictive and jealous, and she tricked me into loving her.
I have to believe those horrible thoughts, because the alternative is admitting that I was wrong. The alternative means that Margot is on her own in Farcliff, facing the birth of a child fathered by an attempted murderer. The alternative means I’m the lowest, most cowardly excuse of a man to ever wander this earth.
I let my anger grow louder again. I let bitterness rise up in my throat, and the sound of my own pride drowns out any other thoughts.
29
Ivy
Luca is tense. Margot is gone. Dante is angry. King Theo is worried, and the entire Kingdom is in turmoil.
And me?
I waddle around and try to keep it together. I talk to my twins day and night, singing softly to them to try to soothe my own worries. I make my way to the kitchens and bake late into the night, just to distract myself from the troubles that surround me.
About a week after Margot leaves, I’m in the kitchen making my signature cinnamon buns. When I start dicing the apples for the filling, the knife slips and slices across my finger. Wincing, I bring the finger up to my mouth as blood beads over the cut.
“Damn it,” I whisper to myself, walking to the sink. My hands are trembling and my breath is shaky.
This isn’t what I expected when I got married to Luca. Somehow, I thought that getting married would make things easier, but everything just seems to be falling apart more and more.
Letting water run over my cut, I drop my shoulders and let out a sigh.
Everything is upside down. Luca doesn’t want me to go back to Farcliff until Beckett is found, but I feel like I should be with my sister and my bakery. The twins assure me that Spoonful of Sugar is in good hands, but that bakery was my first baby.
Glancing down at my growing belly, I let out a sigh.
I just hope Beckett is found before my babies are born. In my heart of hearts, I know Luca is right about staying here. I need him by my side, and he needs to be in Argyle for his family.
Pulling out my phone, I dial Margot’s number.
“Hey, Poison,” she answers, using Luca’s nickname for me.
I smile. “Hey, Margie.”
My sister chuckles. “You know, it used to really bother me when you used my real name, but now I kind of like it.”
“It reminds me of Mom.” Tears start to sting my eyes. I turn the water off and wrap my finger in a clean towel, leaning on the kitchen counter.
“Me too,” Margot answers. Her voice sounds small, and I hear her sigh over the phone. “A lot of things remind me of her these days.”
“Are you okay? I wish you were still here.”
“I’m not welcome in Argyle, Ivy.”
“Of course you are. You’re my sister. Dante would come around… He’s just a man who had his pride hurt.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Beckett.”
“You don’t have to tell me anything,” I answer.
“It was only one time,” Margot says. She groans, and I hear some rustling as if she’s moving to sit or lie down. “The night that I OD’d, I felt so lonely, and he was there…”
“And Dante thinks you planned the whole thing?”
“Yeah. He said he thought I was using him, that I just jumped from one brother to the next.”
“Ugh,” I groan. “Men.”
Margot laughs. “You’ve changed, Ivy. You’re talking like a grizzled divorcée, not someone who