The King's Surprise Bride: A Royal Wedding Novella (Royal Weddings Book 2)

by Vivien Vale

  I shake my head, and my knees involuntarily buckle under me. Good thing the couch is nearby, and I collapse into a heap on top of it, trying to get my head on straight.

  I place my head in my hands and rub my throbbing temples. I have no choice but to agree to Maggie’s demands.

  “Okay.” I nod, appeasing her as she looks at me with a smug smile. “You can stay,” I tell her, “But only until the results come through.”

  I decide that I’ll place the confrontation with Rose on the back burner. It’s only fair―she doesn’t need to be involved in the never-ending drama unfolding in my life. Once everything is clear and out in the open, we can hopefully resume right where we left off.

  Rose

  I guess taxi drivers are used to seeing people cry in the backseat.

  If I had decided on an Uber Pool instead, or if I decided to hoof it all the way down to my apartment, I may have had to deal with concerned looks, or people uncomfortably trying to not look at me at all.

  Instead, the seasoned pro of a cabbie has no discernable reaction to my puffy, red eyes or my tear-strewn cheeks when I climbed in. Even though I’m barely able to verbalize my address through the sobs, he repeats it back perfectly before calmly starting the drive down to the Battery Park City area.

  The streets are quiet downtown. There’s no traffic, apart from the few other taxis bobbing and weaving between lanes.

  The weather’s warm, but the sidewalks are empty.

  I look at myself in the rearview mirror. I barely recognize the miserable, weeping face I see. My occasional sniffles sound like they’re coming from someone else.

  The numbness is back, but I can’t stop the tears from coming out.

  “There are tissues,” the driver points out helpfully.

  I look down and see the small tissue box just in front of the back seat. I grab one, and a second one, and begin the task of wiping the accumulated tears from my face.

  “Th-thank...” I blow my nose. “Thank you.”

  I have tissues in my purse, too, but I’m not even thinking like that.

  Like someone who’s crying.

  But I am. I’m still in shock, knowing that it’s going to hit me, but not ready for the pain and the reality to strike me yet.

  My tears are way ahead of me, though. I was crying while I was on my way out of Daniel’s penthouse, and I’ll be crying when it does hit me―probably after I get home.

  Then, there’ll be even more crying.

  That bastard.

  I’ve always wanted to live with the attitude that nobody can bother you unless you let them.

  And it’s always easier said than fucking done.

  We merge onto the West Side Highway. I see all the luxury yachts sailing in the Hudson, all the upscale condo high-rises being built in Jersey City, of all places.

  And all the hotels.

  Even if I could perfectly adopt that attitude now, to just not let Daniel get to me one second longer, then...

  No, that’s not an option. Not if I could be pregnant.

  And I couldn’t do that not ‘not letting him bother me’ shit anyway. Does that ever fucking work?

  It must.

  It really should, anyway.

  Maybe it can work. For me.

  I open my purse and find a fresh pack of tissues. I start clearing the next batch of tears.

  I’m breathing a little clearer, and I don’t hear myself sobbing any longer, but there are some fresh tears making it difficult to see clearly.

  After I clear the tears away, I see that we’re passing Stuyvesant High School and the Borough of Manhattan Community College.

  A public high school and a community college, and they’re still two of the best schools in the entire region.

  Anyone lucky enough to grow up around here, or to raise kids here, has some great options.

  I look at my stomach. It looks the same as always.

  Not that it would look any different at some point in the pregnancy, but...

  I pat my abdomen lightly a couple times. I don’t think I feel anything different.

  Do I?

  The driver’s used to seeing people cry, but I wonder what he’ll think if he happens to look in the rearview now.

  The numbness fades, making way for a strange, giddy kind of confusion. I put my hand over my eyes and feel fresh tears still forming.

  This is not the time to try and convince myself that I’m pregnant.

  But if I am, somehow, then cutting Da―that bastard out of my life becomes much more problematic.

  Both of my hands are clenching into fists.

  No more numbness, not much more confusion―it’s mostly just outrage.

  I can’t even get myself to think his full first name.

  The taxi winds through the quiet blocks of my neighborhood too quickly and screeches to a halt perfectly at my front door.

  Dammit, now the shaking’s starting again.

  I steady myself as best as I can and carefully fetch a few bills from my wallet. I can’t even fucking count them right now.

  The driver smiles when I hand over the fare. It must be enough.

  Shaking and weeping, I propel myself inside, past the doorman and concierge, to the elevator and to my sofa—no, my bed, all through sheer force of will.

  I’m not taking this well, but that’s right now. I allow myself to let lose in a way I couldn’t in the taxi, or the lobby. I need to get it all out now so I’m ready to deal with this rationally soon.

  I sob into my duvet cover until I’m worn out on every level of my being.

  I feel like I just had an intense workout, but without the spirit-lifting endorphins or sense of accomplishment. Fortunately, the worst of my physical reaction to the ridiculous, horrible revelation is over.

  I turn over to lie comfortably on my back, looking up at my plain, white ceiling.

  “Maybe it’s time to paint this room,” I say in a collected, tranquil voice.

  Now is probably the time to think of something, anything positive that I can find in this shitstorm.

  At least I found out about it tonight, right? This could’ve gone on much longer.

  But what did I find out, exactly? I have some ideas, but now that I’m no longer a bawling mess, I should use my brain to solidify the obvious.

  I zombie-walk to the bathroom to wash my face. I keep my eyes on the sink to avoid seeing the current state of my makeup in the mirror.

  I scrub hard with foaming face cleanser and hot water, washing off the layers of deceit.

  Without looking in the mirror, I pull out my makeup removal basket—yes, that’s what I call it—from under the sink and methodically cleanse my face of mascara and foundation.

  One more wash, and I look in the mirror to see a red but clean face. I like the look of it—that’s another positive to come from tonight.

  An heir.

  That’s what it’s all about to him.

  An heir for the fucking hotel magnate.

  How I feel doesn’t factor into it, except for how he wants me to feel as means to an end.

  It could be the way things work―or the way things are often done in that world, at that towering level of that industry.

  That’s not my concern, though, because that’s the way that Daniel is doing things, and it’s selfish, disgusting, and downright fucking immoral no matter what.

  I pull a washcloth from under the sink and dry my face, starting to breathe a little faster.

  I take another look my reflection. A deepening shade of red is taking over my face.

  How long could this have gone on for?

  It’s like he didn’t miss a beat when we walked in to find that woman.

  And his son.

  He just kept looking at me. So weirdly calm.

  I shout out some angry, nonsense syllable and throw the washcloth across the room. It falls harmlessly to the floor. I’m glad I wasn’t holding something breakable.

  I don’t know. I likely won’t be in a
state to figure out every part of the situation for some time.

  I let out a small burp.

  No more champagne—not until I’m sure I’m not pregnant.

  Damn it, if I am, then...

  Then, I’m pregnant. Daniel needn’t have a damn thing to do with it.

  I retrieve the washcloth from the floor. It’s still close enough for me to just lean over and pick it up.

  I’m feeling calm as I put the washcloth over to my clothes hamper, but when I toss it in, I notice that I’m still wearing my purse.

  I get a peculiar pang of nausea, and I look down at my stomach again. I pat it a couple times.

  Then I break down weeping again.

  I rip my purse off my arm, let loose another angry yelp and throw the Fendi bag to the other side of the room with gusto.

  The bag hits the far wall and drops peacefully to the floor without a single item tumbling out.

  I acknowledge my luck with a quick nod.

  “Okay, no more angry throwing.”

  The tears only last another minute or so, but I know I won’t be falling asleep easily tonight.

  Almost without thinking, I walk into the kitchen, open a drawer and pull out a stack of Post-It notes and a ballpoint pen.

  I sit down at the table, ready to write something.

  I stare at the yellow notepad for a long, uncomfortable stretch of time before finally scribbling something down.

  Daniel doesn’t need to know.

  Okay, what does that mean?

  After staring at it for a bit, I realize that it means that even if I am pregnant, Daniel does not need to know about it.

  He has an heir already. That kid—Darren.

  “Okay.”

  Now that I’ve decided, I doubt I’ll forget. I crumple up the note and throw it in with the paper recycling.

  I go to bed and try to fall asleep.

  Daniel

  You can’t escape it.

  You get to a certain point where you think, At least I have my own place, a place that I’ve been working hard for pretty much my entire life. At least I could have a penthouse for myself.

  But nope.

  There’s no escaping certain things.

  That’s a lesson I’m learning now, and I’m trying my best to do what’s right—like sleep on the leather lounge chair so Maggie and Darren can have my bedroom.

  The kid is only five years old. I have to be as accommodating as I can.

  And he might really be my son.

  It’s Saturday morning, a good time for sleeping in, for catching up on the shuteye that I may have missed during the week.

  Instead, at five-thirty in the morning, I’m awoken by the jarring sensation of a bright green Nerf football smacking me in my face. Yes, I think the fact that the football is colored bright green makes it hurt even more.

  I’m even getting used to it. Seriously, a Nerf football is one of this kid’s favorite toys.

  Maybe he just likes hitting me with it, even though he acts oblivious―or, in some cases, convincingly contrite.

  And now I’m still lying here, hours after my initial Nerf wakeup call, trying in vain to get maybe just a few more minutes of sleep—only there’s a relentless sound that I know will make it impossible.

  The sound that keeps me awake so often these days can’t be described as a pitter patter of little feet that I may be able to actually sleep through, especially with these uncomfortable foam earplugs I picked up at the drug store. Without seeing what’s making this sound, I would think it could only be produced by Andre the Giant wearing tap shoes, tearing back and forth across my floor.

  By now, I know that it’s just Darren, wearing Velcro running shoes, tearing back and forth my apartment floor.

  It turns out he really loves to run back and forth, for hours on end, especially in the morning.

  I drift in and out of half-sleep. Maggie calls her son from just inside my bedroom.

  “Are you hungry for lunch?”

  Her voice is so fucking loud. Everything within me just wants to grab the two cushions my head is resting on and press them against my ears, but I don’t want to cause any problems by acting all melodramatic and frustrated.

  “Are you hungry for lunch?”

  Maggie just keeps yelling, and Darren keeps doing laps back and forth across the floor in front of me. I give up and open my eyes just to make sure it really isn’t Andre the Giant this time.

  It’s not.

  It’s still Darren.

  He’s cute, and I appreciate his childish glee. He’s getting some exercise, too. Maybe he’ll be in the Olympics someday. That is if they invent a new track event―a relay race where the competitors keep running the same twenty meters, back and forth, only handing the baton off to themselves.

  I think Darren could even get a gold medal today if it existed.

  “Do you want McDonalds?” Maggie screams. “You should ask Daniel to go get you McDonald’s!”

  “Is it really you who wants McDonald’s?” I shout in Maggie’s direction.

  “I’m vegan!” She’s still yelling from my bedroom.

  “Yeah, I remember now,” I grumble. “Sorry.”

  “Actually, I guess I could have a Filet-O-Fish,” she says, a little more quietly. “Just tell him to hold the cheese...and the tartar sauce.”

  “So you’re not vegan?” I try to speak loudly without yelling as I sit up.

  “I am vegan, but we’re talking about a fish sandwich. Fish doesn’t count—it’s not meat, and it’s not really an animal by-product. It’s just an animal that’s not meat.”

  I can’t take it. I fall back into my sleeping position.

  “What the...heck.” I stop myself from uttering a much less appropriate word.

  I hear sweet silence for a moment when Darren stops running.

  The silence doesn’t last long.

  “What the heck! What the heck! What the heck! What the heck!” Darren takes the opportunity to start running back and forth again, this time adding his new favorite phrase to his usual racket.

  “What the heck! What the heck!”

  “Oh!” Maggie yells. “Now you’ve fucking got him swearing!”

  Darren only gets louder.

  “What the heck! What the heck!”

  “Attaboy,” I mumble, closing my eyes and slowly falling asleep, hoping to not wake up until we get the DNA test results.

  “Daniel!”

  A shrill voice slices through the rich tapestry of my sleep.

  “DANIEL!”

  The voice makes another slice, lengthwise through my slumber, forcing my eyes to open and see the early dusk light on my ceiling.

  At least I slept a bit more, even if it was all fucking day.

  I sit up to see my darkened living room, Maggie watching me with an overwrought frown, holding Darren at her side.

  Maggie doesn’t notice that Darren’s now bringing his finger out of his nostril.

  I stay silent as Maggie scowls at me and Darren looks at the greenish, gooey treasure he found, examining it like a jewelry appraiser in the Diamond District.

  Darren’s face scrunches up in serious contemplation. I can almost see his thoughts.

  “Should I enjoy a little snack now?” he’s thinking. “Or should I make this into a real investment and smear it somewhere on the living room wall?”

  Darren shrugs and slurps the booger off his finger, smacking his lips proudly.

  I’m glad it’s dark in the living room, otherwise my stomach would really be turning right now.

  Darren’s finger goes right back into his nostrils, maybe for another chance at a long-term investment.

  “Why haven’t you turned on the lights yet?’ I ask Maggie.

  “Why haven’t you actually woken up yet?” she flings back.

  “It’s Saturday...catching up,” I mumble.

  Christ, now Darren’s toddling over to the coffee table, and a pint glass is sitting there without a coaster.

 
; From what I can see, he’s poured all kinds of random ingredients from my kitchen into the glass: maple syrup, maybe rolled oats, some tonic water, avocado oil and...god, he’s not going to put what he found in his nose in there, is he?

  And wow, somebody moved two of my end tables, placing them so they’re just sitting next to each other haphazardly by the coffee table.

  I stumble over to the dimmer switch just to get a bit more light into the room.

  Darren’s still hunched over coffee table, making Lord only knows what kind of foul creation. He’s humming a random little tune to himself, obliviously happy.

  I don’t mind his little song, but I don’t think I’ll ever use that glass again.

  I spin slowly around the room. Somebody’s been doing some interior decorating—I’m surprised I slept through it.

  The only two pieces of furniture still in place are the coffee table and lounge chair serving as my bed during this interminable waiting period.

  Everything else is rearranged, but it doesn’t look like it. Not by any sort of logic or sane sensibility.

  “What the heck?” I ask Maggie quietly.

  “What the heck is that we’ve been waiting for you to get us food, and now it’s almost dinner time.” Maggie shoves her forefinger at her nonexistent wristwatch. “There’s nothing left in your kitchen for us. I don’t think my diet’s unreasonable...”

  “Did I dream that you asked about that Filet-O-Fish earlier?”

  “What? No. I don’t eat carbs, but I do eat fish...”

  “And bread. Or do you take the bun off?”

  “Why would I take the bun off?”

  Maggie’s voice doesn’t have a hint of awareness. Darren’s still toiling away, and I hope I somehow can avoid ever seeing the final result of his big experiment.

  “Let me get dressed and I’ll run out to get you food at…someplace.”

  “Just the Filet-O-Fish for me,” Maggie says like she’s ordering at a drive-through. “Or a fish sandwich from somewhere. Fried, please. And no cheese, and tell them to go easy on the tartar sauce because that might have carbs in it! And a hamburger for Darren—I’ll let him hear the call of veganism when he’s ready. Fries for both of us, please!”

  “No carbs,” I grunt under my breath.

  I need to shower and shave and brush my teeth, but right now I just need to get dressed and get the fuck out of here for a few minutes.