Page 11 of King's Heir of Hate

But that was long gone. She tried to shake the memory off as she followed docilely enough behind Arturo as he led her deep into the palace.

Having grown up in the palace next door—give or take a few mountain ranges—Esme had always thought that the Bellazanpalace felt like a fairy tale. It was all about its spires and flourishes, with dramatic details in every direction. Her father’s palace was far more utilitarian, more of a civic expression of royalty than an ideal.

She would never admit this to her own people, but she preferred the Bellazan palace to the Clarebonne one. This one was prettier. Airier. It made her want to sing songs and spin about, not that she ever had. It would be frowned upon.

Luckily, she thought as they walked, its inhabitants made up for their lovely fairy-tale palace by being as dour as humanly possible.

Arturo took her on a route that, she couldn’t help but notice, avoided all the main thoroughfares of the palace where anyone might see her. Then delivered her into a salon in the family wing where only one person could possibly see her and left her there, with a deep and proper bow as he exited.

She wandered over to the window and gazed out of it, looking at the hills in the distance. The small principality of Andorra was to the south. Her own Clarebonne to the east, Spain to the west, France to the north.

It struck her then that her own world had become quite small these last five months.

“I was nesting,” she said under her breath, defending herself. “And sleeping.”

And mourning kings and lives lost in more than one way.

Then again, she thought as the door opened behind her and her whole body reacted—indicating at once that Tadeo had entered the room—it was possible that she had been preparing for battle.

She turned to look at him.

Today he’d chosen the typical dark, bespoke suit. His usual fare. And also his armor, she thought. She stood where she was,smiling gently as he let his gaze track all over her—lingering on her belly, of course.

And had the satisfaction of watching his jaw clench.

“I apologize for my emotional outbursts yesterday,” he said without any preamble, and he didn’t even sound stiff. Though he also didn’t sound all that sorrowful. “It won’t happen again.”

“I should think not,” she replied calmly. “That would mean you might actually have to feel things, and we can’t have that.”

That blue gaze of his went frigid, but he did not reply. Instead, he moved to take one of the seats, gesturing for her to do the same.

Esme thought about resisting, but decided against it for strategic reasons when there were far bigger things to worry about. She went and sat so she was facing him across an exquisite little table made of glass with dramatic leg flourishes. So cozy. So intimate.

Such bullshit.

She imagined it had taken most of his team to decide on this room. They would have debated it. Would the austerity of his office be the wrong touch? Was the royal glory of the more formal rooms too aspirational? She hoped that he was up half the night concerned with the messaging of this.

Tadeo was always preoccupied with hismessaging.

“I will confess to you that I did not make any provision for something so unforeseen to occur in this marriage,” he continued in the same relatively friendly voice, despite the chill in his gaze.

Esme gazed back at him. “Points for sounding so human, Tadeo. How long did you practice that? You sound sincere and slightly self-deprecating. The faint smile is a nice touch as well.”

Said faint smile disappeared immediately. “I’m trying to have a conversation with you.”

“No,” she replied steadily. “You are not. You are trying to manage me. They are not the same thing.”

“I’m not going to have a semantic battle with you, Esme,” Tadeo replied, sounding significantly more like himself. Which was to say, a lofty robot.

“I don’t think that pointing out the reality of a thing is a battle,” Esme said, sitting back in her chair. “Unless, of course, one of the people in this room is overly committed to protecting a reality that does not exist.” She patted her belly. “That couldn’t be me. Reality is growing inside of me, by the day, whether I like it or not.”

“It has always been my intention to divorce you, as you know,” he replied, something like steel around his eyes.

“The topic has come up a time or two, yes,” Esme agreed, warmly enough that she hoped it covered that spike ofhurtshe wished she didn’t feel any longer. Yet did. “But then, you wouldn’t be you if you weren’t planning your escape before you walked into a room. I do believe that some people refer to that as a trauma response, Tadeo. Have you ever considered—”

“When I want your psychoanalysis, Esme, I will ask for it. You may note that I never have.”

She inclined her head. “Please,” she said, smiling wider. “Don’t let me keep you from opining on the state of our marriage. I do love these chats. They are like quarterly performance reviews. Or better yet, like small, sweet love notes tucked into my life at these delightfully random intervals. I can’t tell you how I look forward to them.”