Page 21 of Breathtaking

“Oh, there’s no saving you from this, little sister. You’ve screwed the pooch this time. And that dirty dog is a mob prince. Definitely not the kind of royal you’re allowed to marry.” He stretches his legs out in front of us and crosses one over the other, then pushes up to his feet and holds his hands out for me. “Come on. Up you go.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” I whine but take his hands and let him pull me up. “Dad and Rhys are going to kill me.” My chest tightens, and anxiety clogs my throat. “And oh my God... Grandfather. What is Grandfather going to say?”

“The king is going to lose his shit,” Atticus announces excitedly, like he’s watching some ridiculous soap opera and not talking about my life. “Oh, please let me be there when you tell him.”

“Oh my God, I hate you.” I drop his hand and storm into my kitchen, slamming cabinets as I search for the chocolate bar I hid a few weeks ago. “This is serious. I’m supposed to marry Monty in what—nine months?”

Atticus laughs, and I throw an apple at his head.

“What?” he asks as he ducks. “Come on. Nine months? Kind of poetic, if you think about it.”

I open the fridge and yank out the produce drawer, and there, under a questionably old bag of celery, is my chocolate bar.

I found you, you little wanker.

When I slam the door shut, Atticus is looking at me with a worried gaze. “We’ll figure it out, okay? No need to go commando on the apple. I don’t need one of your guards rushing in here to save you and accidentally shooting me. This face was not meant for scars, little sister.”

I break off a piece of dark-chocolate goodness and close my eyes.

Pregnant.

There’s not enough chocolate in the world to make this okay.

Part II

* * *

LENNON

The obnoxious ringtone Atticus programmed in my phone for Monty as a joke wakes me a week later. For a hot moment, I consider throwing it across the room and watching it shatter. What do I really need a phone for anyway? I can order food online now. It’s not like we have to call anymore.

I’ve barely slept a wink since Atticus forced me out of denial, and last night was the worst by far. How could I, knowing today is the day?D-Day. Also known as the day I see my doctor and either confirm or deny the grand total of twelve pregnancy tests I’ve taken since Atticus threw a sack at my face. My hope was that one of them would come back negative and give me a smidgeon of hope. News flash—none did. But I’m still trying to stay optimistic. I wouldn’t go so far as to say it’s working, but I’m trying... I guess that’s something.

Even now, the weight of the world—or at the very least, the crown—is crushing me.

I sit up and grab my literal to-do list from my bedside table and cringe.

I like to write things down. I always have. There’s something about physically checking things I’ve accomplished off an actual list that gives me a much-needed serotonin boost. Hell, I’ve been known to add tasks to my list after I’ve completed them, just so I can drag a line through the words. Don’t judge me.

This week’s is a mile long and an ocean wide.

And is singularly focused on one thing.

Preventing an international scandal.

Talk to my father—Not yet.

Advise the king—Umm... Also not happening. Not yet. Not ever, if I can help it.

Tell my fiancé—hell no. I’d rather walk naked through a hill of rabid fire ants. Okay, so maybe it’s time to lay off the Nature channel.

Break the news to the father—I mean... is this one negotiable? Do I have to tell him?

The phone rings again. Only this time, it’s Maria.

Maria

Confirming our itinerary for the day. You have an appointment at eleven, after which we’re driving to Mornea. Is there anything else I should be aware of?

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