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He noticed the new sign leaning against the wall. The display Tilly had sketched on their honeymoon was being brought to life.

‘Tilly would normally do this part.’ Kara looked apologetic. ‘She’s faster than I am.’

Hearing her name again was a sucker punch. No one but Erik had dared breathe her name in his presence in the last thirteen days. He didn’t want to think about her—not her efforts, not her grace, not her laughter. She was too loyal. Too readily giving of her time, her self, in gratitude. He wasn’t having it from her.

‘She did an amazing job the other day.’ Kara smiled, unaware of the storm circling within him. ‘I’m sure you’re grateful for her support.’

He nodded and quickly turned away. What support? What job? Tilly was supposed to be hunkering down and regaining her privacy. He had no idea what the woman was talking about. He didn’t want to know. But the second he got around the corner he opened his phone—reduced to the paparazzi photos he’d always loathed. And there she was—all over the main pages. Guarded wariness muted the gleam in her eyes. She wasn’t a game player. She wouldn’t have tipped off the media to her presence, but she was a bloody fool. She’d ended up in a paparazzi scrum because she’d been idiot enough to attend an art exhibition. Why would she do that?

Masochist that he was, he hit play on the video.

‘He cares enormously for the country and the people… Montaurella is his absolute priority.’

Alex replayed the clip, his anger building. She made him sound like a dick who couldn’t handle more than one thing at once. A martyr locked in the role of sacrificial king. Though, given it was the reason he’d given her, he could hardly complain when she used it to justify her absence. But why was she talking to them at all? Why was she out in public? She was supposed to go and do what she wanted without the eyes of the world on her. Rafa could have arranged a private showing out of hours for her. He scrolled down, seeing another photo. Another gallery. What the hell? Alex had freed her from this performance—from this scrutiny—yet here she was, inviting it. What was she thinking? What was Rafa thinking? Did she think this was ‘supporting’ him? Because it was no support for him to see her so damned luminous.

‘I love him very much.’

Was that so? If that was the case, she should have taken the freedom he’d given her and treasured it. He curled his hands into fists as he seethed. Well, if she was going to defiantly remain in the public arena, then perhaps she should have her tiara. Maybe he’d take it to her. He texted Rafa to find out her schedule, doubly infuriated two minutes later when he learned there actually was a schedule. What the hell? Right. If she still wanted to live a public life despite all his efforts, then she definitely needed her equipment.

Two nights later his car pulled up just in time to see her exit the vehicle one ahead. From the safety of his tinted windows he watched her shoot a wide smile towards the waiting bank of cameras. Seriously? He blinked at her beautiful attire and graceful ease. This wasn’t just calmly coping with the spotlight, this was radiance demanding all eyes on her. Her smile widened when she saw the trio waiting on the top step to welcome her. Yes, there she was. The Tilly he’d known was hiding in plain sight this whole time—lustrous, stunning, warm. She was a damned flaming torch tempting him nearer, while he was a pathetic little moth unable to resist.

She looked genuinely relaxed—seemingly didn’t care whether everyone was staring or judging. Which was what he’d wanted—for her to be confident, strong, herself. Only he was bitter as hell to see it now.

He was shut out. Just as he’d been shut out from being there for his mother, from being close to his brother, from being in his own country. He’d been locked in the bowels of the palace alone and sent away to school, until he’d banished himself and built his own world on an island a stone’s throw from them all. He’d had to hold back from the people he loved and they’d held back from him too. But not Tilly. She’d held nothing back the other week. She’d wanted to be with him and wanted him with her.

So he’d sent her away.

Now he’d never felt as alone. Not even those hours in the dark, dreaming—wishing—for a flicker of light. Now he stared at the fiery gleam of her hair, the radiance of her skin and eyes. She was about to walk into a room full of people with that sparkling smile and effervescence. She might meet someone else in there. Might marry someone else. Carry someone else’s baby. His muscles coiled.

‘Drive around the block,’ he gritted to his driver. He needed to clear his head.

Coward.

He picked up his phone.

‘Sir?’ Rafa answered immediately.

‘Why are there teenagers at this exhibition opening?’

‘Because it’s a fundraiser for children who’ve lost a parent to suicide.’

His lungs collapsed, the last of his anger eviscerated. He should have checked sooner—wouldn’t have dreamed of gatecrashing, of wanting to provoke her, if he’d known. His body felt as bruised as if he’d been trampled by Trevor. He wished he’d known.

Her attendance to this made perfect sense. She was being hounded by cameras, so she was leading them to events and causes that mattered to her. Determined and defiant and wholly stunning as she lived her life on her terms. He understood her now—she would visit the galleries and the museums—celebrating and highlighting history and creativity, helping fundraise for foundations that had meaning to her. She was more than making the best of her situation. Belatedly—painfully—he realised that she’d done that in Montaurella too. She’d carved out a career in the palace museum that he’d mocked—worse, that he’d taken from her when she’d loved it. Her staying in the palace hadn’t entirely been based in fear—she’d had genuine passion for her work.

But worst of all he’d taken away their chance of having time together—when he and she both knew how precious, how precarious such time could be. He ought to be at her side right now. But he couldn’t cope with the despair spiralling inside of him—nor all the other feelings. He’d not even tried. His first act as King had been to eliminate her from his life. So much for self-sacrificing, he’d been self-limiting. And grossly unfair.

‘Your Highness? Is there a problem?’

He realised he was heavy breathing into the phone. ‘No. Everything’s fine. I’m here.’ His tie was too tight. Everything was too tight. ‘I need a minute with her later. Find us a private room. Bring her after she’s done her thing.’

He needed the time to pull his shattered self together.

Chapter Twenty-One

‘What’s going on?’ Tilly’s pulse skipped as Rafa swiftly guided her to a discreet exit. The speeches were done, the art auction complete, but the night wasn’t quite over. ‘Has something happened?’

The bodyguard had never moved her so decisively before.