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* * *
When I went to bed that night, the statue was gone.
Ethan must have retrieved it, and no one had witnessed the ridiculous display of affection. Dumping Ethan once was already hard enough, but dumping him a second time was even worse. I didn’t want to hurt him—or myself.
A hurried knock sounded on my door the next morning. “Harlow?”
I recognized my mother’s frantic voice. “It’s open.”
She opened the door and rushed into the room.
“What is it?” I kicked off the sheets and got to my feet, prepared to grab my sword even though we’d never been attacked.
“There are statues all around the castle—and right outside our bedroom.”
“Oh shit.”
“Harlow, he knows.”
“Fuck.”
“And Ethan has requested an audience with your father.”
I gripped my head as I stood back. “This is not happening.”
“I thought you ended things with him.”
“I did—twice.”
“Well, Ethan didn’t get the message.”
“He won’t let me break up with him.Literally.”
“You need to hurry,” she said. “Because your father is about to meet him in his study.”
“This is not happening.” I rushed across my bedroom and grabbed whatever I could find. “Not happening.” I pulled on my boots and nearly tipped over. “I tell him it’s over, and he decides to speak to my father? Who does that?”
“A man about to propose.”
I stilled as I looked at her. “No.”
My mother gave a slight shrug. “What else would it be?”
* * *
I burst through the door to my father’s study and found Ethan sitting in the armchair that faced my father’s desk.
My father sat there—and he’d never looked more uncomfortable. His eyes shifted to me, his hard face stoic like he was stuck at a dinner party he wanted to escape.
When Ethan saw me, he rose to his feet.
There was so much I wanted to say but couldn’t in front of my father, so I whispered, “What are you doing?”
Ethan’s eyes turned back to my father. “My bloodline isn’t tied to royalty. I have no connections to the aristocracy. My father tilled the earth until the blisters on his hands popped. My mother has sewn clothes and pricked her fingers until they bled. Just like them, my hands are my craft. I’ve produced the best pieces for the halls in your castle, made powerful statues to warn our enemies when they march on our gates. I don’t have a lot to offer your daughter, but my hands will provide a life for her. My heart is in my hands, and every sculpture I produce is in her likeness, because there is no woman more beautiful than she.”
This was mortifying.
“King Rolfe, I ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage—”
