7. Lennon
LENNON
T he obnoxious ringtone Atticus programmed in my phone for Monty as a joke wakes me a week later. For a hot moment, I consider throwing it across the room and watching it shatter. What do I really need a phone for anyway? I can order food online now. It’s not like we have to call anymore.
I’ve barely slept a wink since Atticus forced me out of denial, and last night was the worst by far. How could I, knowing today is the day? D-Day . Also known as the day I see my doctor and either confirm or deny the grand total of twelve pregnancy tests I’ve taken since Atticus threw a sack at my face. My hope was that one of them would come back negative and give me a smidgeon of hope. News flash—none did. But I’m still trying to stay optimistic. I wouldn’t go so far as to say it’s working, but I’m trying... I guess that’s something.
Even now, the weight of the world—or at the very least, the crown—is crushing me.
I sit up and grab my literal to-do list from my bedside table and cringe.
I like to write things down. I always have. There’s something about physically checking things I’ve accomplished off an actual list that gives me a much-needed serotonin boost. Hell, I’ve been known to add tasks to my list after I’ve completed them, just so I can drag a line through the words. Don’t judge me.
This week’s is a mile long and an ocean wide.
And is singularly focused on one thing.
Preventing an international scandal.
Talk to my father—Not yet.
Advise the king—Umm... Also not happening. Not yet. Not ever, if I can help it.
Tell my fiancé—hell no. I’d rather walk naked through a hill of rabid fire ants. Okay, so maybe it’s time to lay off the Nature channel.
Break the news to the father—I mean... is this one negotiable? Do I have to tell him?
The phone rings again. Only this time, it’s Maria.
Maria
Confirming our itinerary for the day. You have an appointment at eleven, after which we’re driving to Mornea. Is there anything else I should be aware of?
Lennon
The appointment is confirmed. I’m not sure if we’re going to Mornea. I’ll let you know later.
Maria
Copy.
Monty’s name flashes as soon as Maria messages, and I stuff the phone under my pillow. I’ll answer him once I’ve showered. That sounds good... a long shower. Can I shower for the entire weekend? Then I could avoid the appointment and avoid the event I know I’m supposed to be attending with the douchebag duke.
Avoidance—any proper royal’s favorite way of dealing with conflict.
And I’m here for it.
* * *
O ne hour, one piping-hot shower, and three different outfit changes later, I’m as ready to face what’s likely going to be the worst day I’ve had since the day we laid my mother to rest as I’m going to get. My makeup is on point because let’s face it, good makeup is a shield for the world to see and for me to hide behind. My hair looks as good as it’s going to get, and every inch of my body is semi-recently waxed, buffed, and lotioned.
I flip my head upside down and fluff my hair, only to look at the woman staring back at me with pity. The one whose breasts are overfilling her bra cups. Whose normally nearly concave stomach has the slightest softness. Like she ate one too many fish tacos last night, when in reality, she hasn’t had an appetite in days.
I remind myself of something my mother used to say often.
Chin up, darling, or the crown slips.
What would she think of this?
Pretty sure the crown is about to be seriously tarnished, but there’s not much I can do about it now. When Monty’s muffled ringtone chimes again from under the pillow, I force myself up. Time to face the music.
His name flashes on my phone as I slide my thumb across the screen to answer.
I can do this.
“Hello, Montgomery.” His name tastes like acid on my lips.
“Why aren’t you here?”
Right to the point.
No hellos or niceties. No how was your day . Just why aren’t you where I want you .
Montgomery Hastings gives douches a bad name.
Here goes nothing. “I’m leaving for a doctor’s appointment in a few minutes. I think I’m coming down with something. I don’t want to get anyone sick, so I’m not coming home this weekend.”
Not like they can catch what I’ve got, but he doesn’t need to know that.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Lennon. Of course you’re coming home. Pack your bag, get your bony ass in a car, and tell them to have you here this afternoon. Pre-dinner cocktails are at five, and dinner is being served at seven.”
My ass is not bony, and I’m getting tired of people commenting on it.
Fucking wanker.
“I thought the party wasn’t until Sunday evening.” I’m not sure why I even bother arguing, but I do it anyway because he’s pissing me off.
His annoyance bleeds through the phone, and I should probably consider ending the call.
Whoops.
Poor cell reception.
But I’m a bigger person. Bony ass and all.
Fucker .
“Father’s birthday reception is Sunday. There’s a dinner tonight, hunting tomorrow, and another dinner tomorrow night. I’ve been told your grandfather will even be in attendance Sunday.”
Of course he will. Because why wouldn’t we make this even more complicated?
“Montgomery...” I pull the only card I can think of. “I think I have the flu. Could you even imagine if I come and infect all your parents’ friends? The scandal. Not only that everyone got sick at their party, but that the king could get sick as well. I mean, that’s social suicide.”
A disgusted noise gurgles thick in his throat.
Gross.
“Fine,” he grunts and disconnects the call.
Such an asshole.
* * *
T he entire ride to my doctor’s office, I replayed that miserable conversation over in my head. I wish I could say it’s out of the ordinary for Monty and me, but it’s not. We’ve known each other for most of our lives, and my brothers and I have disliked him for just as long. But I guess that wasn’t enough to make my parents think twice about our arrangement.
It’s not like they were bad people.
They were just people who relied on tradition to guide their lives.
Unfortunately for Atticus, Rhys, and me, they relied on it to guide ours as well.
My life has rarely ever been mine to live as much as it’s been a tool for the crown to use in some way. It’s why I pushed so hard for ballet. I knew if I was good enough, it would be my golden ticket to freedom. I’d hoped at the time it was all I’d need. I had no idea about the contract or the plan my parents had for my future.
I’m not sure which was harder... finding out who my fiancé was or realizing that my family essentially sold me for political gain.
Now, here I sit after peeing in a cup, chilled to the bone in an itchy paper gown on a table in my ob-gyn’s office. Waiting for someone I see once a year to come in and essentially either disarm the impending bomb I’ve created in my head or press the button that’s going to blow up my life.
“Knock, knock,” I hear from a sweet voice on the other side of the door before my doctor comes in. “Hello, Your Royal Highness.” Her smile is riddled with anxiety, causing uncontrollable laughter to bubble up in my throat.
“I’m sorry,” I try to tell her through my laugh. “It’s just... you look so scared. Aren’t you supposed to be the one calming me down?”
She looks down at the tablet in her hands, then back at me. “There’s nothing to be concerned about.” She moves next to the table and smiles. “How are you feeling, Lennon?”
“I’m about as good as I’m going to get. My nerves are shot, and I’m hoping you’re about to tell me the many pregnancy tests I took at home were all wrong and instead maybe I have some incurable disease or something.” Okay... Maybe Atticus is right, and I am a teeny, tiny drama queen.
Her face tenses, and my stomach drops.
I can’t do this. I need to know.
She closes her tablet and places it on the counter, then looks back at me with a soft smile and grabs a pair of gloves. “It appears those were correct, Lennon. According to our test, you are pregnant.” She moves next to me and grabs a squeeze bottle. “How about you open your gown and we’ll see just how far along you are?”
* * *
I t’s crazy how much one hour can change things.
I walked into that office convinced—well, at least trying to convince myself—there was no way I was pregnant. Of course I was wrong. But that’s not why I’m shocked.
No... What’s shocking me isn’t the fear. And there’s plenty of that pulsing through me. It’s the other emotion balancing that out. The one I can’t quite name. The one making my heart speed up and slow at the same time.
Maria clears her throat from the front of the car. “Are we going to Mornea this weekend?”
I run my thumb over the ultrasound picture, still reeling. “No,” I murmur without looking up. “We’re going to Kroydon Hills.”