Paulette.
I frown, clutching my baby to my chest. Gabriel puts his hand on my thigh protectively, and, damnit, I love his touch.
I was just about to tell him that I can’t be with him. I just can’t. He’s too violent. Too angry. He’s a pile of gunpowder, and the world is a match. Anything will set him off. Thorne and I can’t be there when it happens.
His ex-girlfriend sashays her way up the path, with a row of paparazzi trailing after her.
Bodyguards materialize on either side of Gabriel and me, but he holds up a hand. They stop in their tracks.
“Well, well, well,” Paulette says, angling her face toward the cameras. “If it isn’t Prince Gabriel and his new baby mama. Are you going to steal her baby away, too?”
Gabriel’s hand tightens on my thigh. That’s it—this is the match. Paulette is striking it on her curvy, perfect body, flicking it toward the bomb beside me.
Tick, tick, tick.
I wait for him to explode.
Instead, his grip on my thigh loosens. I bounce my baby in my arms, eyes scanning the people around me warily. Gabriel’s hand sends waves of calm through me.
Paulette arches a thin eyebrow. “Well? It would make a great epilogue to my new book.”
“New book?” Gabriel’s voice is a razor blade slicing through the air.
Tick, tick, tick.
“It releases next month,” she proclaims to the cameras. “It’s called ‘Surviving Prince Gabriel’. Maybe you could write the introduction,” Paulette says to me.
I brace myself for detonation. I know Gabriel. To his core, I know him, and I know that this is the end. The big boom. The snap that breaks him in half, and ends up with me and Thorne as nothing more than collateral damage.
But it never happens.
Instead, Gabriel puts his arm around my shoulders, lifting his other hand to shield our baby from the cameras.
“Your words have no power over me, Paulette. Not anymore. Do whatever you need to do to survive—even if it means spreading lies about me.” His voice is even, calm, and soothing.
Paulette’s eyes narrow, and she cocks her hip to the side. “It’ll be bigger than my first book,” she threatens.
“Sequels are never as good,” Gabriel says. I look over to see his lip tugging up at the corner.
I repeat: His lip. Tugging up. At the corner.
He’s smiling.
Not exploding. Not tearing down rose bushes and scaring my baby. Not being violent or menacing. Not covered in blood.
He’s smiling at the woman who ruined his life.
Gabriel waves a hand, and his bodyguards descend upon the paparazzi. They usher them out of the garden, and suddenly we’re alone again. I realize I’m trembling, so I put Thorne back in his stroller. I grip onto the edge of it, sucking in a deep breath.
Finally, I look over at Gabriel. With a shaking hand, I slide my fingers over his scar. I feel the smooth skin, slicing up toward his ear.
It’s cool to the touch. He leans into my hand, letting out a soft growl. Gabriel leans into me, resting his forehead against mine.
“What do you say, Jolie? Will you give me another chance?”
Instead of answering, I angle my lips against his. I kiss him, softly at first, until his tongue swipes at the seam of my mouth and I let him in. His hands crawl up my legs, gripping my hips, my waist, tangling into my hair. He inhales, moaning softly as we kiss each other.
My fingers curl into his shirt and I pull him close. Tears slide down my cheeks as I let myself give in to love, to lust, to need, to want.
To him.
I keep one hand on the stroller while the other one claws at Gabriel. He scoops me onto his lap, crushing his lips against mine. He holds me there, and I cry and laugh in his arms.
When we come up for air, I lean my forehead against his. Tears soak my cheeks. He brushes them away with a soft finger.
“Don’t cry, Jo.”
“I love you,” I whisper. “I love you so much it hurts to breathe.”
“The past year has been torture without you.” His voice is breathy and raw. “I felt like tearing my own heart out of my chest, but you’d already taken it with you when you left. I can’t live without you, Jo. Never. Not again. Not one day. Not one hour.”
“Not one hour?” I pull away, tilting my head. “Bit psycho, no?”
He laughs, kissing my tears away. “Okay, as many hours and days as you want, as long as you promise that I’m yours, and you’re mine.”
His lips find mine again, and he kisses my pain away. I wrap my hands to the nape of his neck, staring into his bright, blue eyes.
“I’m yours, and you’re mine,” I repeat, brushing my lips against his. I rest my head against his chest, and watch as Gabriel reaches into the stroller. Thorne wraps his hand around his father’s thumb, and I let out one last sigh. I exhale all the hurt that I’ve held onto for so, so long, and I melt into Gabriel’s arms.
Epilogue
Jo
Gabriel and I are married on a Saturday in the new Royal Rose Garden at Westhill. We have temporary staff brought in, because I insist in having our usual staff attend the wedding as guests. Sam is my maid of honor, and she cries during the entire ceremony. Mrs. Grey is a bridesmaid, and to her credit, she only starts crying after the ceremony.
When I walk—or waddle—down the aisle, I’m already eight months pregnant with our second baby. Gabriel beams, leaning over to kiss my belly before straightening up for the ceremony.
The wedding is quick, mostly because my feet hurt and I can’t stand for too long. Gabriel stays by my side all day, and we mostly just stare at each other. It’s sickening—and perfect.
Flora is still small for her age but quickly showing how much of a genius she is. Since her bad infection two years ago, she hasn’t had to be at the hospital a single time. Managing her illness takes time and patience, but she does it with remarkable bravery.
I end up writing three more novels inspired by her, and all of them have gone on to find commercial success. Since I no longer need the money, I donate all the proceeds to a cystic fibrosis organization in Flora’s name.
Thorne is sixteen months old when Gabriel and I get married, and he spends the wedding day being bounced on my mother’s knee. He’s a happy kid, talkative and active, and when he gets a little older, I discover he’s not at all interested in reading.
We had him tested for cystic fibrosis as an infant and were relieved to find out he didn’t have it. I got a blood test and found I wasn’t a carrier, and Gabriel let out a big sigh of relief, knowing that any other children we have wouldn’t be at risk of having the illness.
Gabriel continues therapy, but decreases from daily appointments to one a week, and then once a month. He starts visiting Farcliff more often, but we spend most of our time in Westhill. I think it’s the solitude and serenity that keeps us out here—or maybe it’s the annual Westhill Town Fair.
Whatever it is, we try to balance family with everything else in our life. Thorne and Flora, and our youngest, Gabriela, spend lots of time with their cousins in Farcliff Castle. I want them to grow up with no fear of the capital, and with a healthy attitude toward being in the public eye.
The rose garden soon outgrows the community space where I first planted it, and soon becomes a vibrant tourist attraction for the sleepy town. Gabriel also sets up an art gallery in Westhill, and holds a yearly charity fundraiser. He sells his sketches. It grows in popularity every year, and I think he reluctantly accepts the praise that his drawings generate. He sticks to charcoal as his preferred medium, and most of the time he’s drawing me, or the kids, or roses.
My parents move back into the Gardener’s Cottage and take care of the roses—both the ones at the castle and the ones in Westhill.
We get four good years together before my father’s cancer comes back. When I start to cry, he smiles at me and shakes his head. “I had four more years with you since the last time. I saw you married. I go
t to meet my grandchildren. No tears. I’m one of the lucky ones.”
I snort and cry in his arms, and he pats my head like a child. When he passes away, I vow to plant a rose bush in his honor every year—even if it means all of Westhill is covered in them.
As for Gabriel and me—we live as happily ever after as is possible, given the constraints of real life. Sometimes we’re sad, and sometimes we argue, but we’re never truly angry. Never volatile. Never violent.
He kisses me every chance he gets, and still makes my stomach clench when he runs his hands over my body. He calls me the love of his life, and every day, he kisses me like we’re lying in a bed of wildflowers again.
I realize that my love for him isn’t a wild animal or a wound that never cauterizes—it’s more of a weed that just won’t go away. It grows and grows until I’m overrun, and I finally just accept that my heart belongs to him, always and forever.
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Broken Prince
Preview
Royally Unexpected: Book 4
1
Ivy
There’s a special place in hell for people who are jealous of their sisters. My spot has been reserved since I was just a little girl. I’m pretty sure Lucifer himself has a party planned for my arrival, complete with a thousand emerald balloons and a banner that says, ‘WELCOME HOME, IVY.’
Whenever I’m near my sister Margot, I bleed green. Envy curls in the pit of my stomach and sends roots into my heart, squeezing my insides until I can hardly breathe.
It’s happening right now, as Margot twirls in front of the mirror in yet another perfect, figure-hugging gown—which, by the way, she got for free. Yes, my sister is so beautiful that all she has to do is post pictures of herself online, and brands send her boxes and boxes of free things.
“Which one do you like better?” Margot asks, tilting her head. “I think the blue one might be more appropriate for a royal event, but this pink one would make a statement. Prince Luca seems like the kind of guy who would appreciate a statement.” She bites the inside of her cheek. “My stylist asked me to make a decision tonight so that she can put together my shoes and accessories before the event.”
Her long, false nails slide down her abdomen as she sucks in her flatter-than-flat stomach. My older sister is tall and willowy, with waist-length blonde hair and blue, come-hither eyes. All she has to do is bat her eyelashes at a man and he falls to his knees in front of her.
Why would Prince Luca be any different? I honestly don’t think it matters which dress she chooses. She could show up in flannel pajamas if she wanted to. People would call it fashion, darling and put her on the ‘Farcliff’s Best Dressed’ list.
Margot’s eyes move to my reflection in the mirror, and her eyebrows jump up in question.
I shrug. “Yeah, either one is nice.”
Margot’s shoulders fall, and a pang passes through my chest. I know she needs my support right now, and I’m not giving it to her. She’s meeting one of the Princes of Argyle tomorrow. The entire royal family of Argyle—the King and Queen, and two of the three Princes—have been invited to our Kingdom of Farcliff following the coronation of Prince Luca’s older brother, King Theo.
The Kingdoms of Argyle and Farcliff haven’t always had the best relations, but with King Theo in Argyle, and King Charlie here in Farcliff, there are high hopes of reconciliation. The formal dinner tomorrow night is an opening ceremony, of sorts, which will kick off the Argyle family’s month-long visit in Farcliff.
My sister—being one of the most famous celebrities in Farcliff—is invited to the ball. Me?
Not so much.
I guess the slightly shorter, slightly chubbier, black-haired version of Margot isn’t exactly in high demand.
Did I mention I’m most likely spending eternity in a fiery abyss?
I don’t even know why I’m so jealous. That dinner sounds like my idea of death by a thousand boring conversations. I’d rather pluck my leg hairs out one by one than spend time with the guests at tomorrow’s event.
Still, I envy her.
Margot’s management team has arranged to hook her up with Prince Luca, as he’s apparently the hottest thing since sliced bread. They think it’ll be good for her ‘image’ to have her dating a high-profile celebrity like the Prince. The Prince’s management team agrees, wanting to bring Argyle and Farcliff closer together. It’s a match made in royal Instagram heaven.
For a month, at least. All bets are off once Prince Luca leaves Farcliff again.
I swing my legs off the bed and stand up, throwing my jet-black hair into a messy bun. “Go with whatever dress you think is best, Margie. You know I’m no good at these things.”
Margot throws me a look when I say her name. Her real name. She changed it to Margot when she started acting, because her agent told her ‘Marguerite’ isn’t fame material. At least our mother died before that happened.
“I just want to make sure the Prince likes me.” Her eyes return to her reflection in the mirror.
Taking a deep breath, I put my hands on my sister’s shoulders. She swings her gaze back to me, and I force an encouraging smile. “He’s going to love you. Everyone does. Literally everyone—even me.”
Margot cracks a grin and shakes her head. With a sigh, she makes a decision. “I’m going to go with the blue one.”
As the personal assistant to Farcliff’s hottest star, my life revolves around my sister. It always has. Ever since she landed her first commercial when she was four years old, my sister’s life has always taken priority.
Even when Mama’s illness got worse and the end was near, my father would still take Margot to her auditions and modeling jobs before going to see his own wife in the hospital. That’s what happens when there’s an opportunity to lift a family out of poverty—everyone latches on for dear life.
Including me.
Margot is the gravy train that we all need to survive. And because my sister is such a damn saint, she doesn’t hold it against us. She shares her wealth and success with my father and me without rancor or the need for anything in return.
So, every day, I swallow my jealousy and get up at the crack of dawn to make sure my sister’s days go according to plan.
This morning, in particular, is hectic. I have to make sure the hair and makeup artists are here on time. I need to confirm the limo service and call her stylist to make sure she’s finalized the outfit.
I need to make sure Margot eats enough so that she doesn’t faint on her way to Farcliff Castle, but not so much that she’ll look bloated in her pretty blue dress.
Most importantly, I need to make sure my sister is happy, confident, glowing, and ready to meet the Prince of her dreams.
Margot still has her silk eye mask on when I gently shake her awake. She lets out a cute little sigh—because even in her sleep, she’s graceful and perfect—and pushes the pink silk off her eyes and onto her forehead. Her golden hair is still curled from yesterday, splayed out in soft waves on her pillow.
I couldn’t look that good when I wake up if I tried.
“Hey, Ivy,” she smiles. “Is it time to get up already?”
“Rise and shine, future Princess.”
Margot beams at me, and pads to her ensuite bathroom. I hear a yelp, followed by a series of clattering bangs, and I let out a sigh.
My sister’s single, solitary flaw is that she can’t go anywhere without knocking something over. ‘Clumsy’ doesn’t even come close to describing it. She’s a bull, and the world is a china shop.
A really pretty, really feminine, blonde-haired bull, but still.
An accident waiting to happen.
She’s lucky she has an entire team of people around her who hide that particular flaw from the public. The Margot LeBlanc that the masses s
ee is graceful, kind, and pretty much perfect.
Knocking on the bathroom door, I wait for her response.
“It’s fine,” she calls out. “Just the shampoo bottles.”
“Okay. Let me know if you need anything.”
I make her bed while she showers, and check my phone when it dings. The hairstylist is on her way. Makeup will be late.
Today is all about managing Margot. Her agent, Hunter, arrives at our seven-bedroom mansion at eleven o’clock, prepping Margot with a thousand and one facts about Prince Luca.
“Remember, Margot, don’t mention Queen Cara.”
“His ex. Right. Got it.” Margot nods. “No mention of the Queen of Argyle.”
“I mean it, Margot. They were sweethearts their entire lives. When Queen Cara married Luca’s older brother, it was a massive controversy in Argyle. Prince Luca was still in Singapore at the time.”
“For his operation?”
Hunter nods. “That’s something you can focus on—his recovery from the spinal fracture and how miraculous it is that he can walk again. But not Queen Cara. Not even her name. When she married his brother, Prince Luca went off the rails. Talking about her is a sure way to get the Prince to dislike you.”
“I get it,” Margot repeats. Her voice has a slight edge to it—the most aggression you’ll ever hear from my angelic older sister.
Hunter pulls his phone out of his pocket and stares at it as he continues: “Keep the conversation light. He likes sports—he’s a big basketball fan. Just be yourself.”
“Is she supposed to be herself, or is she supposed to talk about basketball?” I ask, arching an eyebrow.
Hunter ignores me.
I slink to the kitchen, tired of hearing about Prince Luca. It’s all they’ve talked about for months. If I hear the words ‘bad boy meets good girl’ or ‘relationship of the century’ one more time, I think I might explode.
Royally Unexpected: An Accidental Pregnancy Collection Page 59