She smiles at me. “You showed me that the curse doesn’t exist. I make choices, and they shape my life—just like everyone else.”
“So, just go ahead and let it go, huh? Just like that?”
“Just like that.” Dahlia stares at me and a smile stretches across her lips.
“You don’t have a Russian quote for me? Now seems like the perfect time.”
Dahlia thinks for a moment, chewing her lip and staring at the wall behind me.
“Your worst sin is that you have destroyed and betrayed yourself for nothing.” She glances at me. “Don’t let it be for nothing, Damon.”
“I thought you were going to say something about the power of love and forgiveness.”
“It’s Dostoyevsky, not Dr. Phil,” she laughs.
She’s too far away to kiss, and I’m in too much pain to move. But I squeeze her hand and smile at her. “Marry me, Dahlia.”
Her eyebrows arch. “Really?”
“Really. I don’t want to be apart from you ever again. I want you to be mine forever—and I want to be yours forever, too. You make me a better person. I want to do the same for you.”
Her smile is so dazzling that it makes my heart thump in my chest. Her eyes sparkle with unshed tears. She nods. “Okay.”
If I wasn’t confined to a hospital bed, I’d shout out and celebrate, and spin her around the room. As it stands, though, all I can do is smile and squeeze her hand.
“I love you,” I whisper.
“I love you too.” The two of us fall asleep beside each other—exactly where we were always supposed to be.
EPILOGUE
DAHLIA
DAMON and I spend another week in the hospital together. On the third day, a knock comes on the door. Lady Malerie sticks her head in, and Damon nods for her to enter.
Her face looks pinched, and more lines have appeared around her eyes. She sits down in a chair beside Damon’s bed and takes a deep breath.
“I spoke to my brother,” she says.
“And?” Damon asks.
Lady Malerie shakes her head. “Oh, Damon, I’m so sorry. I had no idea.” Her eyes fill with tears and my chest squeezes. “He told me everything. He admitted everything. I’m so sorry.” A tear rolls down her cheek. I’ve never seen her look so… human.
Lady Malerie swings her gaze to me and inclines her head. “Miss Raventhal, I know that forgiveness is a lot to ask, so I won’t ask it of you. I was blind to my brother’s crimes. He was King and I… Well, I guess I didn’t want to believe that he was a bad person.”
“We were all blind to it,” I respond.
“Your mother wasn’t.”
“No,” I admit.
Lady Malerie takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry—and I want you both to know that… Well, I’m happy for you—truly. I see the way you look at each other, and I hope that one day I’ll find someone who loves me the way you love each other. I’ll never forgive myself for the pain I’ve caused you and your family.”
“Must run in the family,” I grin.
“Excuse me?” Lady Malerie frowns.
Damon chuckles. “I think what Dahlia is saying is: she forgives you.”
“Wholeheartedly,” I respond. “I know you didn’t mean to bring the bee inside, and I know that you were only trying to protect your family from what you saw as a threat.” I pause. “But, Lady Malerie, can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Will you please try to talk to my mother? I’m not expecting you to be best friends, or anything—but I’d like it if you were civil.” I glance at Damon, and we both smile. “I think I might be sticking around the castle for a while, which means you and my mom might be seeing each other quite regularly.”
Malerie straightens her shoulders and nods. “I’ll do my best.”
I extend my hand toward her, and she grasps it in hers. She leans over Damon and presses a kiss to his cheek, and then leaves us alone again.
Damon exhales deeply and I smile at him.
“I respect that of her,” I say. “That took a lot of guts to come in here and apologize like that.”
“She’s not a bad person,” he says. “Although she does smell very oniony.”
I laugh, nodding. “She does. That’s actually fairly common with women.”
“It is?”
“Uh huh,” I nod. “Women excrete more sulfur when they sweat. It mixes with the bacteria that causes body odor—staphylococcus hominis—and makes an onion smell. Men excrete more fatty acids, so they smell like cheese.”
Damon grins. “Let me guess—Chekhov said that?”
I nudge him, laughing. “Entry-level microbiology, Damon.”
He just laughs, winking.
“I don’t mind your aunt. I don’t think she’s a bad person, even if she does smell oniony.”
“When I think about it now, she was around a lot after my mother died. I didn’t think much of it then, but now… Maybe she does really care about my brothers and me.”
I climb out of my bed and crawl in beside Damon in his. I’m a lot more mobile than he is—battered and bruised after his fight. He winces as I touch his chest, and I move my arm away. I settle in beside him, barely touching him but resting my head on his pillow. He leans his head against mine and lets out a sigh.
“I love you, Dahlia Raventhal...”
“…and I love you, Damon Farcliff. You know something?”
“What’s that?”
“Us being together is a big deal—not just for our families, but for the Kingdom, too.”
“How do you figure?”
“Well, it’s like a new era. Your father was power-hungry, and cruel, and now Charlie is ushering in change. So are you. Forgiving my family and dating me is like a new beginning for Farcliff.”
“What can I say? I live in service of the Kingdom.” Damon grins, and then presses his lips to my temple.
WE DON’T LEAVE each other’s side until we leave the hospital. Even then, I go back to Farcliff Castle with Damon and move into his chambers with him. The hundred hours I spent in a coma feel like they were a hundred years, and I never want to be apart from him again.
Damon makes me feel complete. Being with him shines a light into all the dark corners of my mind, where fears about my curse and doubts of my own abilities still lurk. He banishes them all, and gives me the strength to take on the world.
He gets his teeth fixed, and smiles more than ever before. Some of the scars on Damon’s body won’t ever disappear, but they remind us that things haven’t always been this good.
It takes weeks before we both feel back to normal. The Farcliff tabloids publish story, after story, after story about us—until I feel like I’ll never be accepted in Farcliff because I’m a Raventhal. Videos and photos of Damon’s fight also go viral, and the press is especially vicious toward him.
We try to stay out of it, but it’s hard to ignore every single news story. It’s not until Malerie comes out in support of our relationship that the news stories start to change. Lady Malerie spends more time in Farcliff in the weeks when we recover, and I come to appreciate her presence more deeply than I could have thought.
She’s not a warm woman, but she’s strong. I appreciate her unwavering sense of self, especially when I’ve struggled to find my own way in the world. I also appreciate the effort she makes in reconciling with my mother. The two women find an uneasy sort of civility with each other, and I decide that’s enough for now.
Baby Charlie’s christening is beautiful, and at the end of it, Lady Malerie wraps me in a big, onion-smelling hug afterward. Is it strange that I find her scent almost comforting now?
“I’m glad she chose you, Dahlia,” Malerie tells me. “You’ll be a wonderful godmother.”
I FINISH my last semester at Farcliff University a few months ahead of my due date. Damon, on the other hand, decides not to finish medical school.
When I ask him about his decision, Damon sighs.
“I thi
nk I was doing it for all the wrong reasons. I thought it would make me a better person, or it would make up for what I’d done. After the fight…”
He takes a deep breath.
“…after everything came out in the press, I know that I’ll never be able to be a normal person—not as a prince. They’ll always tear me to shreds. I can’t be a medical professional if I’m living under that kind of scrutiny.”
“Shouldn’t have chosen a Raventhal as a girlfriend, I guess.”
“I didn’t have a choice,” he grins. “I couldn’t have stopped myself if I tried.”
I lean my head against his shoulder and close my eyes, smiling. “So, what are you going to do now?”
Damon sighs. “Well, I was thinking that I wanted to do something good for Farcliff. What do you think about a foundation for mental health? Supporting youth who are struggling. I could have used something like that, growing up.”
I press a kiss to his cheek and smile at him. “I think that’s a wonderful idea.”
LIFE DIDN’T TURN out how I expect it to.
I came to Farcliff wanting to find out the truth about my past and about my family. I found it, and it’s not a neat little story that I can lock away in my heart. The past is messy, and jagged, and full of hurt feelings and rancor that might never heal.
But by coming here, I also found love—and the love I have with Damon is worth any messiness that comes with it.
OUR BABY GIRL, Dawn, is born surrounded by happy tears and doting grandparents.
Damon and I get married six months later, in a similar ceremony to that of Elle and Charlie. It’s just close friends and family—and no press, thank goodness.
At the wedding, I lean my head against Damon’s shoulder, and watch our guests as they dance and drink. Near the edge of the room, my mother is rocking my baby girl and dancing along to the music. Malerie approaches, and I watch the two women smile over the child. My mother hands off my daughter to Lady Malerie, smiling, and my heart grows.
“They look like they’re getting along,” Damon says, following my gaze.
“Never thought I’d see the day.”
“You brought us back together, Dahlia,” Damon says, putting his arm around me.
I settle into his arms and let happiness wash over me. In his arms, I know that we’ve found the type of love that I didn’t think existed.
We’ve found true love. A love that runs deep and strong. A love that doesn’t waver and doesn’t hesitate—the kind of love that lasts until the end of time.
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Psst… Keep reading for a preview of Book 3: Cruel Prince
CRUEL PRINCE
ROYALLY UNEXPECTED: BOOK 3
PREVIOUSLY TITLED KNOCKED UP BY PRINCE GALLANT
JO
THE DOOR SLAMS, and my boyfriend of two years becomes my ex-boyfriend, as of right now.
I stand in the middle of my studio apartment, staring after Ryan. He’s gone. I’m not even sure how I feel about it. Offended? Relieved? Indifferent?
Glancing over at my laptop screen, I flinch. A grimace lingers on my lips as I read the form letter for the fourth time. It’s yet another rejection email from a publisher, and it stings. I’m more hurt about their rejection than Ryan’s—and that’s probably exactly why he left. Apparently, I care too much about my flagging writing career and not enough about his ego.
Should I care that he’s gone? Does the fact that I don’t make me a bad person?
I’m not heartless, I swear. Ryan was nice, I guess.
But he kept talking about marriage, babies, and me being a stay-at-home mom. Never once did he ask me if I really wanted that.
I stare at the door again, and then back at the email. I scan my body, and decide that I do, indeed, care more about the publisher’s rejection than I do about my ex.
My shoulders slump, and I sink down onto my desk chair.
Ryan and my relationship was probably over a long time ago, but I’d hung on in the vain hope that something would change. Our relationship was just like every other relationship that I’ve ever had—and like my short stint in college, or my current writing career: Another failure.
Just like this email. Rejection never gets easier—even if it’s the thirtieth refusal letter I’ve received this month.
Reading the email over and over again, my heart sinks. Every publisher’s snub is the same. It’s professional, yet it cuts deep into the fabric of my once unshakeable confidence.
My manuscript didn’t grip the editors, it says. The beginning wasn’t compelling enough.
How much of my book did they read before rejecting it, I wonder?
I rub my hands over my face, sighing. That was the last publisher on my list. My book is dead. I’m single, broke, and apparently a big, old failure.
Look away while I wallow for a while, will you?
I push myself off my chair and stare around my apartment. My shifts at the restaurant aren’t covering all my expenses. My freelance work has dried up, and I’m not sure how I’ll make rent next month.
I came to New York City six years ago with big dreams and bigger expectations, and they haven’t quite come to fruition. By ‘haven’t quite’ I mean I should probably tattoo FLOP in big letters across my forehead. I’ve ended up with a big pile of rejection letters and a very small bank account.
Ryan was offering to help me out with my expenses until I got a book deal—but that’s obviously not going to happen, now.
“That’s fine,” I say under my breath. “I didn’t want your money anyway.” I talk to the closed door, as if my ex-boyfriend can hear me.
Ryan used his money as a chain around my neck, always making me feel guilty for not having enough of my own. He’d make a big show of paying for things whenever I couldn’t—which was often. I hated it.
But not anymore. I won’t use him as a crutch. I’ll figure this out on my own. I press my lips together and widen my stance. Pushing up my sleeves, I swing my eyes from one end of the room to the other.
Is my sofa worth anything? I don’t even sit on it that much. Maybe I could get a hundred bucks for it. The TV can’t be worth much—it’s an old-style thing with knobs on the front and no remote—but maybe a hipster will want it in an ironic kind of way. My dining room table has three mismatched chairs and a lot of rings from coffee mugs on it. I doubt I’d be able to even give it away for free.
My eyes flick around the tiny studio apartment, cataloguing all my belongings. Only my two most precious possessions aren’t for sale. My laptop and the little leather-bound notebook where I stuff all my ideas. Those two items will stay with me until I croak.
When my eyes land on my dresser, I pause. Maybe I could sell my dirty panties on the Internet, or something. Don’t people pay a lot for those?
Shaking my head, I try to build myself back up again.
I’m not a screw-up. It’s not failing until you stop picking yourself back up. Isn’t that on a motivational poster somewhere?
Things will work out—they always do. I’ll pick up a couple of extra shifts at the restaurant. I’ll put my groceries on my credit card. I’ll hustle harder for some freelance writing work. I’ll sell my panties, if needs be.
I’ll make it work. I can do it.
I stretch my neck from side to side and try to build myself back up. Maybe if I rewrite the book—revise it for the millionth time and make the beginning more gripping—maybe then a publisher will pick it up. I’ll get a nice advance cheque, and my problems will be solved.
It’ll happen. I have faith.
Confidence starts to creep into my heart. A sense of calm washes over me, and a smile drifts over my lips.
I haven’t been reject
ed by my ex-boyfriend—I’ve been freed. I can do anything. I can be anything! I’m not Jolie, failed writer and tired waitress. Not anymore. No, I’m Jolie, the independent and successful boss-lady! Watch me blossom!
My smile grows wider as my belief in myself grows. I slam my laptop screen down with a thud as a giggle bubbles up inside me.
Laughter tastes sweet, even if I’m alone in my apartment. I throw my head back and let out a big belly laugh, leaning into the feeling.
Freedom.
It feels good. Great, even! I build myself higher, and higher, and higher…
…and then reality brings me crashing all the way back down when the lights in my apartment flicker off.
I hear the refrigerator shut down, too, as the power to my entire apartment is cut.
“Shit, shit, shit.” I rush to the switch on the wall. I flick the lights on and off, but nothing happens. Using the flashlight on my phone, I find the electrical panel and turn the breakers on and off again, but nothing works. I try it again, and again, and again…
…nothing.
Groaning, I sink down to the floor. I drop my head in my hands and I admit to myself what I’ve known since the lights went off:
It’s not the breaker. It’s the bill.
To be precise, it’s the red-marked bill currently sitting on my kitchen table, unopened and unpaid.
Tears sting my eyes as an overwhelming sense of failure creeps into my heart. How did I think I could do this? When I moved away from Farcliff, I truly believed I could make it in the world. I had eight hundred dollars, half of an English Lit college degree, and an ego the size of Farcliff Kingdom. I was invincible.
I got myself a work visa to the United States and I moved to New York, full of hope and dreams and naivety.
Bright-eyed, I fell in love with the lights and noise of the city.
Now, the lights are off and it’s deathly quiet.
I’ve failed. Professionally, personally, and philosophically flopped.
My lower lip trembles as I squeeze my hands into fists. I dig my fingernails into my palms to try and get a grip on myself. I’m working the closing shift at the restaurant tonight, and the last thing I need to do is show up with puffy, bloodshot eyes and a red nose from crying.
Heartless Prince: An Accidental Pregnancy Romance (Royally Unexpected Book 2) Page 19