Chapter 39
LOUIS
The door clicks shut behind Addison, and the room feels larger without her in it. My father motions to the chair across from him, and I lower myself into it.
“Before we discuss anything else,” I say, “I have a request.”
“Go on.”
“I’d like to make Davis my personal guard permanently. I’d like that to come with a significant raise.”
My father’s mouth curves into a small smile. “I was going to suggest it.”
“Thank you. He risked everything for me. I won’t forget that.”
“Nor should you.” He leans back in his chair. “I’ll have the paperwork drawn up today. He’ll report directly to you from now on.”
“I appreciate that so much,” I say.
My father nods, and then his face shifts into something more personal. “I’m so proud of you.”
“Thank you.”
He studies me with those eyes that miss nothing.
“I’m not sure I’ve told you that enough over the years. I let your mother take the lead on many things. I told myself it was because she was better at day-to-day management. But the truth is, I was tired. I retreated into my illness before I even had one.”
“Father—”
“Let me finish.” He holds up a hand. “I watched you struggle this summer. I watched your mother put you through hell. And while I wanted to see what you were made of, it did go too far.”
“It worked though.” I manage a small smile. “I fought and found my limit.”
“You did. I’m sorry you went through this and that we put so much pressure on you.” He reaches across the space between us and grips my shoulder. “I’m sorry for all of it.”
I nod because words feel inadequate.
We sit in silence, and then I remember what Addison whispered before she left.
“The painting above the fireplace.”
My gaze moves to the landscape hanging there, and I study the garden scene that has a pregnant woman on a stone bench.
“That painting,” I say. “How long has it been there?”
My father looks over his shoulder at it. “Your grandmother had it moved to this room forty years ago. I remember asking why, and she mentioned it was one of her personal favorites. Never had the heart to move it.”
“No?” I ask, standing and moving toward the fireplace so I can get a closer look.
The brushwork is gorgeous. There’s something about the way Henri captures light and textures while paying careful attention to shadows. Sometimes, it’s the negative space that’s the most intriguing.
“Is this supposed to be my grandmother?” I ask the question even though I know the answer is yes.
The pregnant woman is a beautiful young Isabella, with her face turned toward the sun. One hand gently rests on her belly. As my eyes scan the perimeter, I notice a man in the shadows, watching. The face isn’t visible, but the posture is protective and loving.
“I’m not sure. I suppose if it is, then this person in the back is your grandfather.”
“Do you mind if I check the inventory number? I’d like to see if it’s listed correctly in the royal archives.”
My father gives me the go-ahead. I reach up and lift the painting off the wall. It’s heavier than I expected, and I have to brace myself as I flip it over. On the back, in faded ink, is an inventory number, and it matches the painting we’ve been searching for.
This is it. This is the painting Addison and I have been searching for—the missing Isabella in landscapes—and it’s been here the entire time, hiding in plain sight.
Something is tucked behind the frame, pressed against the canvas. An envelope, yellowed with age. I pull it free carefully, afraid it might crumble in my hand.
The handwriting on the front is elegant, feminine, and it holds a single word—Lucian.
My father’s name.
I turn to face him, holding up the envelope. “Did you know this was here?”
“No,” he says.
I try to hand it to him.
“Please. Do the honors.”
I stare at the envelope in my hand, then back at my father. I lower myself into the chair, the painting propped against my legs, the envelope resting in my lap.
“Open it,” my father says.
My hands are trembling slightly as I slide a finger under the seal. The paper inside is thin and fragile, covered in the same elegant script. I unfold it carefully and begin to read.
My dearest Lucian,
I’m curious how long it took you to find this letter—or if you’ll find it at all.
You weren’t mistaken. What you saw when you were fifteen was real.
I’ve carried the shame of lying to you about that day for my entire life, and I’m sorry.
I was afraid. Afraid of what the truth would do to you, to our family, to Henri.
So, I did what I’d been taught to do and protected the Crown at the expense of the truth.
That was wrong. I owe you an apology that’s long overdue.
I think you’ve suspected that Henri is your biological father.
I tried for years to have a child with Felix after I was threatened to never see Henri again.
Once my father passed away and I took reign, it became clear that I wasn’t getting pregnant.
I panicked. I was checked out by the best doctors, and everything seemed fine. I even tracked fertility schedules.
Producing an heir was one of my requirements. I was sad and upset, knowing the bloodline would die with me. I thought I’d never know what it meant to be a mother.
But after long, honest discussions with Felix, everything changed.
He knew how much I’d loved Henri before we married and how my father had threatened to have Henri arrested.
He gave his blessing for me to pursue the relationship—in secret, of course—and accepted it as his duty.
There were rules, and we did everything we could to prevent any scandals from leaking into the palace. It worked.
You, my son, are the best gift I’ve ever had, but you wouldn’t have happened without both men.
Felix married me because we were both forced into it, but he wanted me to be happy.
And he desperately wanted to be a father.
He loved you so much, Lucian. He chose you.
He raised you and wanted to be your father in every way that mattered.
The love he gave you was never a lie. It was the most generous thing he ever did.
I’m so sad he’s not here to see you succeed.
But Henri loves you too.
Every painting he made of me, every moment he spent in this palace, was so that he could be near you.
He watched you grow from a distance, and it broke his heart that he could never claim you as his own.
When you learned to ride, he was there. When you graduated, he was there.
He is always there for you, Lucian. Always watching.
Always proud. But he follows the rules that have been put in place for our relationship long before you were alive.
I know this is a lot to handle. It’s why it’s easier for me to write it and pray that you’ll find it.
For the first time, I will admit that I love them both.
Felix for his kindness and being a solid rock, and Henri for how he makes me feel, his passion, and his art.
I know that sounds impossible and like a betrayal.
But hearts are complicated, and mine holds room for both.
It was a messed-up situation, but I found happiness again.
I’m sorry I never told you the truth. I’m sorry I made you doubt what you saw. I’m sorry I let fear win.
But please know you were never an accident or a scandal to be managed. Every part of your existence was planned. You are my greatest accomplishment, the best thing I’ve ever done, and I have loved you every single day of your life.
Be happy, my son. Don’t let fear dictate your heart.
Love fiercely. Love openly. Love without apology.
With all my heart,
Your Mother
Isabella
I read the letter twice, then a third time. The words blur together, and I have to blink to clear my vision.
When I finally look up, my father is patiently watching me.
“That was touching,” he says.
My brows furrow. “Wait, you knew?”
“I suspected it for a very long time.” He takes a steady breath. “Then I caught them together when I was a teenager. I asked her directly, and she told me I’d misunderstood what I saw and to never mention it again. So, I didn’t. I buried it. Told myself it didn’t matter.”
“And Henri?”
“Days before he passed away, I told him I knew. And that I appreciated him and loved him.” His voice roughens. “He didn’t say anything in response, but he smiled.”
I look down at the letter, at my grandmother’s elegant handwriting, at the love and regret bleeding through every word.
“How do you feel?” I ask.
When he finally speaks, his voice cracks. “Relieved.” He wipes his eyes. “I spent my whole life wondering because no one had confirmed that my mother loved someone other than my father. I wasn’t a bastard child; I came from love.”
“That’s not a bad thing.”
“No, it’s not.” He looks at the painting propped against my legs, at the pregnant Isabella with her hand on her belly, at Henri watching from the shadows.
“There are more of these paintings. I’ve named them the Isabellas. They’re landscapes of Grandma.”
“I’ll have to search for them. I guess I didn’t realize they were part of a collection,” he says.
“Not officially. It’s a pattern Addison pointed out,” I explain. “I’d love to show you.”
“I’d enjoy that. She would be proud of you, Louis.”
“I know,” I say with a smile.
We sit in silence, the weight of generations settling around us, and I realize I’m still holding the letter.
“What do you want to do with this?” I ask.
My father is quiet for a moment. “Release it once I’m gone. I think the public should know the truth. So much time will have passed that it won’t matter. You’ve already corrected history once. Do it again. Please.”
I nod. “Yes, Father. I promise.”
I look at the landscape, at my grandmother’s peaceful face, at Henri standing watch in the background. It’s a love story that’s stayed hidden in plain sight for decades. A secret kept to protect reputations, to preserve the illusion of a perfect royal family.
My father clears his throat. “There’s something else I wanted to discuss with you.”
“What?”
“Addison.” He raises an eyebrow. “I assume you have plans.”
A smile spreads across my face before I can stop it. “I might.”
“We will need to go in front of the council. There are still protocols that need to be met, along with announcements and traditions that must be followed.”
“I understand,” I say, not able to hold back the smile. “Thank you for this. Thank you for getting treatments and allowing me to make my own decisions. I know they’re two things you could’ve refused.”
“I want you to be happy,” he says. “Happy king, happy kingdom.”
He pulls me into a hug, and we hold on to each other tightly.
“Go,” he says. “Get some rest.”
I fold the letter carefully, tuck it back into the envelope, then slide it into my pocket. When I return to my loft, it will be put in my personal safe.
At the door, I pause.
“Father?”
“Yes?”
“I love you.”
“I love you too, son. We’ll talk again once you’ve resettled.”
I step through the door and pull it closed behind me.
Addison is leaning against the wall, alone, waiting for me. Her shoes are dangling from one hand, and her eyes are half closed.
She straightens when she sees me. “Hi.”
“Hi.” I move closer to her and press my mouth to hers.
“How was it?” she asks, studying me.
“Emotional. I’ll tell you everything, but first, please let’s get some sleep. I’m crashing hard.”
“That sounds amazing.” She leans into me. “I don’t think I can walk another step.”
I lift her into my arms without hesitation.
“Seriously? You’re going to carry me through the palace?”
“No more hiding, remember?” I steal a kiss, and she laughs. “Everyone can watch.”
She loops her arms around my neck and rests her head against my shoulder as I carry her down the corridor without caring who sees.