Page 3 of Breathtaking

Because the other option is far worse than going on a diet.

I stare at the three sticks and wonder why three.

Do I need to use all of them?

What if they don’t all agree?

What then?

Apparently, what I should have been wondering was how to do this without making a mess.Guess I should have used the gloves.I lay each test flat on the counter and wash my hands while I wait the required seven minutes for three stupid sticks to decide my future.

There are so many reasons why this can’t be happening.

Good reasons.

Valid reasons.

Frightening reasons.

Number one—my family is going to kill me. An unmarried, pregnant Windsor princess would not be acceptable. Not even a little bit. Not to my father or my grandfather. My late mother was the daughter of the king of Mornea, and my father is a royal prince of Elwyn. Appearances have always mattered.

Once my mother died, my oldest brother Rhys became the heir apparent to the throne of Mornea. And that spotlight shines bright and wide on our entire family. What I do reflects on them as much as me.

Number two—Montgomery Hastings V, Duke of Mornea. My fiancé... On paper if not in any other way. I don’t even like the man, but that didn’t seem to matter to either of our families when our marriage was arranged.

Number three—ballet. My career. My escape. I can’t dance if I’m pregnant. I hang my head and close my eyes, hoping this is all a bad dream. Maybe the ice cream was spoiled and this is some kind of reaction to food poisoning.

Atticus bangs on the door, reminding me this is very much real life.

“It’s been nearly fifteen minutes, Lennon. Either you come out or I’m coming in.”

Terrified and spiraling out, I crack the door open and step back, allowing my overprotective big brother to push inside and grip my shoulders in his hands. “Did you do the deed?”

Apparently, I’m already too stressed to try to decipher his question.

When Atticus was little, he used to try to make Rhys and me learn whatever made-up language he’d come up with that day. Rhys, being the oldest and most serious of the three of us, wanted no part of Atticus’s nonsense, but I’d always try. Half the time, I’d fail miserably, but I was never as smart as Atticus. Pretty sure I’m still not. My brother is a genius. “Which deed?”

“Don’t play daft.” He looks around, stopping on the counter. “Uhhh... Lennon.”

“Don’t,” I warn him and close my eyes, not ready to face this reality he just force-fed me. “This is your fault.”

“Nope. Sorry. I’m not taking the blame this time. Like you said, we’re not those kind of royals.”

I slide down to the floor as the walls close in around me, pulling my knees protectively up to my chest as shock sets in. “I don’t know how this happened.”

I try to count back in my head, but it’s a struggle. I’m going to blame that on the way the room is pirouetting like it’s opening night ofSwan Lake.

“Pretty sure you know exactly how it happened. The bigger question is when? I didn’t think you were actually screwing the douchey duke. Or should I say I thought you might have been the only one in the entire countrynotscrewing him, because I’m pretty sure he’s worked his way through every other titled woman in Europe.”

My eyes bug out of my head. Yes. My future husband is a fuckboy. Not like I had anything to do with picking him out. Our marriage was arranged when we were children, and the news was broken to me when I turned eighteen. Lucky for me, according to the contract, we didn’t have to get married until I turned twenty-five. Even luckier, he decided he wanted to go to law school and pushed the wedding back another year.

Not that any of that even matters at the moment.

“I’m not sleeping with Monty, you asshat,” I snap. “I never have.”

Confusion settles in my brother’s kind green eyes.

He may be the smartest guy in nearly every room he walks into, but this has him stumped. Serves him right for assuming. He slides down next to me and plants his ass on the radiantly heated tile floor beside mine. “Oh... Nowthat’sa problem.”

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