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Usually, she simply left the various publications on the credenza, having red-flagged articles that she thought required particular attention. Her choosing to hand this one to him personally did not bode well.
“Thank you, Caroline.”
With a nod and a murmured, “Sir,” she left him, quietly closing the door behind her.
Circling around behind his desk, he dropped into his chair. Aware of a terrible, crushing sensation of dread, he spread the paper on the leather desk pad before him. For a time, he stared furiously down at it, as if by glaring at it long enough, he could somehow make the words and the pictures rearrange themselves into something else, something that had nothing to do with him or his family.
But no matter how long and hard he stared, what was printed on the front page didn’t change.
The headline read, Stepchild—Or Love Child?
There were several pictures of him—by himself and holding Trevor, pictures of him holding Trevor with Sydney beside him, pictures of him at the same age as Trevor. Since the resemblance between Rule and Trevor really was so strong, the pictures themselves told a very clear story. Anyone glancing at them would say that Rule must be Trevor’s biological father—or at the very least, a close relation.
The article itself was a total fabrication. It proposed that he and Sydney had earlier enjoyed a “torrid secret affair.” When it ended, she was pregnant with his child. And he had walked out on her, left her to “have his baby alone,” because he felt duty bound to marry in “the aristocracy of Europe.”
But then, “as fate would have it,” he’d been unable to forget the one woman who “held his heart.” After more than two years had gone by, the “handsome prince” had at last realized that his child and his true love “mattered more than royal blood.” He’d returned to claim the woman he’d “always loved” and the child he’d “left behind.”
There was even a long explanation of how Sydney had “put it out” that her child was the result of artificial insemination. But The International Sun wasn’t fooled and neither should its readership be.
“A picture is worth a thousand words.” And the pictures showed clearly that the child in question was Prince Rule’s. At least the prince had “done the right thing” in the end and married the mother of his child. Since “all was well that ended well,” The Sun wished the prince and his newfound family a lifetime of happiness.
It was ugly, stupid, insulting and riddled with clichés. Not to mention mostly fiction. However, within the general ridiculousness lurked the all-important twin kernels of truth: that Trevor was in fact Rule’s child. And that Sydney really had used a sperm bank.
And that was why deciding what to do in response to this absurd flight of pseudo-literary fantasy was of the utmost importance. Really, anything he did—from making no statement, to issuing an outraged denial, to suing the paper for slander—could make things worse. And no matter what he did next, some ambitious and resourceful reporter might decide to dig deeper. It was possible that someone, somehow, could unearth the fact that he’d been a donor at Secure Choice. If that happened, and he still hadn’t told Sydney his secret …
No. He couldn’t allow even the possibility that it might go that far.
He was going to have to tell her. Now. Today. And when he did, she was going to be angry with him. More than angry. She might never forgive him. But if she found out in the tabloids, the likelihood was exponentially greater that he would lose her forever.
Rule shoved the tabloid aside, braced his elbows on the desk pad and put his head in his hands. He should have told her by now, should have told her weeks ago. Should have told her at the first….
Should have told her …
How many times had he reminded himself of that? A hundred? Five hundred?
And any one of those times, he could have told her.
Yes, it would have been bad.
But not as bad as it was going to be now.
He’d made his choice—the wrong choice—a hundred, five hundred, a thousand times. He’d wagered their happiness on that choice. He should have known better than that. Wagers were not a good idea—not when it came to the things that mattered most.
Half an hour later, Rule and his father met in Evan’s private office. Also in the meeting were Donahue Villiers, a family advocate, or legal advisor, and Leticia Sprague, Palace Press Secretary. Leticia had been a trusted member of the palace staff for over twenty years.
They discussed what their next move should be and decided that Donahue would be in contact with the paper’s legal department to discuss the lawsuit the family intended to file. He would also demand that the paper print a full retraction which, he would assure them, would go a long way toward mollifying Prince Rule once a settlement for damages was under discussion. Leticia suggested that Rule release a statement wherein he refuted the story and made his outrage at such ridiculous allegations crystal clear.
Rule’s father said, “Before we proceed with any of this, there must be a family conference. Her Sovereign Highness must be brought up to speed and given the opportunity to make her wishes in the matter known. So, of course, must Sydney.”
And that was it. The meeting ended. Leticia and Donahue left Rule and his father alone.
Rule and Evan exchanged a long, bleak glance.
And then Evan said, “It’s not the end of the world, son.”
Rule started to speak.
Evan put up a hand. “You will get through this—with your family intact. And you could look on the bright side.”
