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“Are you saying that as the future king of the most powerful country in the world, you didn’t use every possible method at your disposal to find her?” Atticus replied with a dark laugh. “Or were you too busy sulking and fucking and making this about you? Living on that stupid ass yacht and crying because your father didn’t hug you enough as a child.”
I set the ring down and shoved Atticus’s chest. “Shut the fuck up. I tried, alright? Why didn’t you tell me? Did you ever see her?”
“Why would I make this easy for you? Why would I help you get a girl you don’t deserve? Look around you, August. Your mother is the only reason you’re engaged to Christine. I’m the only reason you’re getting her a ring she’ll actually like. You just have everything handed to you, don’t you?”
I shoved him again, then balled my fist. Fuck him. “You have no right—”
He cut me off. “I earned the right to care about Christine. I followed her. I watched her for three goddamn years. I flew out there for weekend trips. I took care of her. I got rid of every obstacle in her life. I made her stronger. You weren’t man enough to grow the fuck up.”
I blinked twice, gaping at him as I did. “Does she know you did this?”
Atticus picked up the ring and put it in a velvet box. “No. She wanted an escape.”
An escape? What did that mean? Once again he was hinting that she ran, and I didn’t like what that meant for me. What if Christine was hurt? What if she was suffering all this time and I did nothing to help her? “So, you stalked my fiancée?”
“That word has such a negative connotation, but yes. I suppose you could call it that.”
“I’m surprised you would admit it so easily,” I replied.
Atticus handed me the velvet box and smiled at me. “I just want you to know the lengths I am willing to go. Christine is mine, August.”
“A fucking criminal like you? I don’t care if you have more money than God, Atticus. You’ll never buy a crown; you’ll never be a royal.”
He frowned at me, malice seeping through his carefully constructed expression. “Why be a king when I can be so much more?” He straightened his spine before continuing. “Good luck giving her the ring, though. Want me to put this on your tab?”
I didn’t want anything from Atticus DuPont. Accepting that ring would be admitting he knew her better. I didn’t want it to be another thing handed to me. “Actually, I think I’m gonna try to find something else. Thanks for your help, but I know how to find her a fucking ring,” I replied. I’d buy her the finest damn ring money could buy. And it would be meaningful and shit. Damnit.
“Right. Well, I’ll wrap this up just in case you get high and forget,” Atticus said as he walked away, whistling to himself and thrusting his hands into his Armani pant pockets. Fucking asshole. Maybe he was right. Maybe I wasn’t the man Christine deserved.
But I could be.
I would be.
Chapter Ten
CHRISTINE
I felt raw and ashamed when I awoke. There were two versions of me. The woman I had to become and the girl still coping with the trauma of the Crown’s abuse. I was never sure which girl I was going to get. My two halves were constantly at war with each other. My clenched fist and strained muscles battled against my gentle heart. It was as simple as flipping a switch to summon my murderous alter ego. One moment was all it took.
The sun was still rising when I rolled out of bed, my finger aching from where I’d sprained it the night before. On my nightstand was a pair of pain pills, a press itinerary, and a pristine velvet box. I reached for the pills first, swallowing them dry, before scanning my schedule for the day.
I’d forgotten what it was like to have every moment of my day planned out for me. My throat closed up as I read each line and what was to be expected of me.
The queen wanted us to announce our engagement to the world. It was risky, announcing something so close to King Frederick’s funeral, so they made sure to plan out every smile and provide us with scripted responses.
It was all so goddamn fake.
I tossed the paper off to the side, dreading the day. Then, my eyes drifted to the other item left for me. When I reached for the velvet box, a sinking sensation weighed down my stomach. I flipped it open and stared at the sparkling emerald on the gold band. It was a beautiful ring, something understated yet still impressive in size. The green gem was a princess cut, and the piece fit perfectly on my ring finger.
I had a feeling this ring was hand-selected by someone on the publicity team. There was probably some mysterious symbolism in their selection that the tabloids would gossip about in the coming weeks. I wouldn’t be surprised if they made the expensive jewelry a focal point of my wardrobe.
It hurt to know I didn’t get a proper proposal. I wasn’t much of a traditionalist, nor was I a romantic, but the clinical way it was left on my nightstand by one of the maids made the experience more hollow. Although I expected plenty of fabricated fanfare in the hours to come, there was something anticlimactic about sliding it onto my finger and going about my day.
The royal stylist and her entourage of cosmetologists stormed my room like a skilled military fleet. It had been a while since I’d been plucked, prepped, and primed for an event. I’d gotten used to it in my youth; the idea of getting dressed up like a doll for the royal court was something I’d conditioned myself to view as normal long ago.
Now, it felt intrusive and wrong.
I hated the way they inspected my body and whispered to themselves about my toned arms or muscular back. How they picked at the birthmark on my shoulder and the dried ends of my hair. I let them paint my face with expensive makeup and curl my hair.
