Page 16 of Fallen Crown

“As you should,” he says with the hint of a smile. “It’s damn good.”

“Strange,” I say, over my shoulder. “That’s not what I heard.”

“Perhaps you should get your hearing checked.” He lets out a chuckle, and the warmth in it is surprising. He’s enjoying our verbal parry and riposte. Am I?

“What’s that? I didn’t quite catch it.” I place my hand next to my ear as I continue deeper into the crowd. No point in dwelling on whether our mutual digs at each other are amusing or frustrating. The smart angle is absolute indifference.

At dinner, I’m seated next to a Montgomery who asks far too many questions about Enzo and his extended business trip overseas. That’s the official lie Enzo and I agreed on after my parents insisted they needed something to tell people. Anyone who understood Enzo’s job would realize it’s impossible for him to have to be anywhere but with me for this long, but the people who’ve turned their nose up at my husband don’t stand a chance of comprehending what a social media influencer does. Lying to them is easy.

Sometimes I consider revealing everything, explaining in detail how he let me down to every socialite who asks, but then I’d have to admit what happened. The only thing that would get me is their pity or some trite, meaningless comment about my youth, as though that somehow shields me from grief. I’ve gotten enough of that from my own family.

Dinner finishes without too much pomp and circumstance, and I weave my way toward the exit, satisfied I’ve fulfilled my duty and quite exhausted from the last three days of trying to kick Brice’s ass and, instead, kicking my own. Ahead, the queen steps into my exit path, a sleeping Grace nestled against her.

“Maren, right?” she says with a broad smile.

We’ve met before at other fundraisers, but I’m sure she’s introduced to lots of people around Bellerive. Since she didn’t grow up here, it must be a tad overwhelming to be expected to remember everyone’s name. That’s one thing the former king and queen had in spades—they were raised here and neither of them ever seemed to forget a face. Part of me wonders how long the king was slipping before people realized it wasn’t age leaving rust marks on his memories but something much more sinister.

“Queen Aurora.” I offer a half curtsey even though I don’t technically have to.

“Oh, it’s—” She flushes. “No need for that. I just wanted a quick word with you about Brice. How is he doing so far? There have been a lot of calls for Epsom salts and some sort of special muscle rub that Brent recommended.” Her brow is furrowed.

The baby stirs in her arms, and a vise circles my abdomen. Before I can gather a response, King Alexander appears at her elbow.

“Do you have the donation? I can’t seem to locate it,” he says to her.

The tiniest grimace flashes across her expression, and she shifts the baby, trying to get into her pocket.

Someone draws Alex away, and I’m left watching her struggle to maneuver the baby and dig something out of the bejeweled outfit she’s wearing that must have pockets. Other than a burp cloth that resembles a shawl, she doesn’t have a purse.

“Would you like me to help?” I offer. “Dig it out of your pocket?”

“If you could take Grace for a second, that would be fantastic.” She holds the baby toward me, and on instinct, I accept her.

As soon as she’s in my arms, Queen Aurora’s sigh of relief is audible.

“Carrying her around all night has been exhausting. I should have told Alex, and he did take her for part of dinner. But I’m trying so hard, you know? PR said the optics were better if I held her. The optics. Listen to me. Such an old-fashioned sentiment, don’t you think? That I have to be the one with the baby.”

The whole concept of royalty is old fashioned, but I’m not going to be the one to drop that truth bomb when she’s in over her head. Not sure what she thought she was marrying into, but if my family is steeped in tradition, her new one has traditions layered with actual societal rules.

“Why I was trusted with the donation, I have no idea.” She riffles around in what appear to be deep pockets.

Grace wiggles, and I stare down at the sleeping figure in my arms, and my heart contracts. She’s such a gorgeous little thing with a tuft of blond hair and sweetly puckered lips. The handover didn’t phase her at all. She’s still sound asleep.

There’s something about the smell of new babies that’s intoxicating, as though the world is rife with possibilities. For not the first time, I understand my mother’s preoccupation with these tiny bundles. Celia Tucker has never been shy about her desire for grandchildren. All of us have been hearing about it since we were teenagers.

“Do you mind holding her for a moment longer?” Queen Aurora asks. “I just need to get this to Alex, and I can get to him and back a lot faster on my own.” She worries her lip and glances around. “Or perhaps I should find family or staff.”

“I can hold her,” I say, but the vise around my abdomen is tightening. In my head, I do the math, what might have been mine. What will never be mine.

She purses her lips and seems to consider the decision for a moment, and then she flashes a smile at someone over my shoulder, and the tension eases out of her. “Back in a sec.”

Grace stirs again, and I sway gently, willing her to stay asleep. There are other people milling around us, but it could be just the two of us. Contentment and sadness mingle at the weight and feel of her cradled against me.

“Well, look at you,” Brice says at my shoulder. “Never would have pegged you as the mothering sort. Maternal instincts would be something to scoff at, I’d expect.”

The comment is a bullet to my heart, and tears prick at the back of my eyes. I steel myself, the same way I’ve been doing for months, ever since the accident. It takes a moment before I’m sure I can speak without him realizing how deeply his words struck.

“Kids aren’t my thing. No idea why anyone would want that weight of responsibility.” The band around my abdomen has migrated to my chest, and it’s so constricting, I can barely breathe. “Here.” I pass her to him, and he takes her as though he’s held her a thousand times. Maybe he has. Maybe the PR photo wasn’t fake. “I have to go.”