Chapter Thirteen #2
“It doesn’t matter,” said Livia, even though the words felt like lies. “He wants revenge on his family. He has plans to take down everyone around him. What kind of life would that be?”
“And there’s absolutely nothing that you could do to stop him?”
Livia shook her head. “He told me that if I left, I shouldn’t come back.”
“Sounds like he was really hurt when you left.” Her sister laced her fingers with Livia’s. “You were doing what our parents wanted, and then you planned a future around what you thought was best for me.” Her sister squeezed her hand. “What do you want?”
Livia thought about her sister’s question long after she had hugged and kissed Adele goodbye. All her sister asked of her were updates on the rogue phone. Livia was free. It felt…strange.
As she sat in the cool, dark car on the way back to the airport, Livia wondered if she would ever stop worrying about Adele. Probably not. But she also had to trust her sister, too—for both of their sakes.
“I was told that we were to pick up someone here and then continue to the Greek islands,” said the driver, interrupting her thoughts. “Do we need to pick this person up at some other location?”
“No, thank you. It will just be me.” Just her, in a small villa on the island. Maybe her sister would join her when she turned eighteen, or maybe she would do something different. Wasn’t this exactly what Livia had wished for? She could start over and live her own life.
But she didn’t want to start over. Her life was a complete mess, and yet she felt herself clinging to it harder than ever.
She couldn’t let Gustav go. She couldn’t let go of the tentative glimmers of hope and trust that they had built—and then so quickly destroyed.
But they weren’t gone. They were still inside her, battered and battle-weary but persistent.
Livia could feel just how hard she would fight to convince him to turn back from this path to self-destruction.
She would remind him that the blame for his mother’s path did not lie at his feet.
She would convince him that there were far more satisfying uses for his power than vengeance.
She would tell him that she loved him, even if he didn’t believe her.
She would make it clear that he was exactly what she wanted.
Had Gustav’s meeting with her father and the king ended?
If it had, it would be too late to stop his plan.
It would take a lot of effort to undo the mess, to build a truce with all parties that still protected the nation’s financial interests.
But it could be done, Livia knew, if she could convince Gustav to change his mind, convince him to soften his heart, the way she had seen on the boat.
Because she knew him.
Maybe she would return to find more chaos. Maybe he would stay true to his word and send her away. But regardless of what she found when she landed, Livia would fight as hard as she could for him. For them.
“Actually, there is a change of plans,” she said to the driver. “We are not going to the Greek island I gave you coordinates for. Take me back to Isrikesland.”
* * *
Gustav forced himself to stop pacing. Any show of emotion was a show of weakness, an opportunity for his father to exploit him.
But right now, Gustav had little interest in his father’s thoughts.
Instead, he was frustrated by the restlessness that had crawled through him since Livia had left.
Each of her accusations were another twist of the sharp knife she had so deftly wielded at his righteous anger.
You can make a different choice. You are better than vengeance.
The words had left something else in the wreckage, an emptiness that ached inside relentlessly, putting all his plans at risk.
Gustav could not afford the distraction—not when he was on the cusp of something this important.
Livia’s father and the king were keeping Gustav waiting.
Though he suspected this was either a power game or more back-room dealings, he was having difficulty mustering his usual sharp-edged anger that focused his thoughts.
Instead, he found that all he could think about was the fact that Livia had left him when he needed her the most.
And he had told her never to come back.
He had been so focused on keeping his temper under control, on not destroying the plans he had worked so hard for.
Livia had been right about one thing: He hadn’t thought any further into the future than his revenge.
Not consciously at least. Yet somehow, over the last week, a vision had developed in his mind, one with her at the center of it.
Not just on paper. Not hiding their secrets.
Truly together in a way that had felt within reach—at least for a short time.
But that was before she had chosen her sister, who was not currently in danger.
Before you chose vengeance, she would snap back, if she were here to fight with him.
Gustav frowned. Now the vision of their future was fading, and all he could see was emptiness in front of him. Just power and control.
So much like his father.
Gustav stalked over to the decanter of whisky on the side table.
He snatched the bottle from the silver tray and poured himself a few too many fingers.
He forced himself to take a sip of the amber liquid and ordered himself to enjoy the burn in the back of his throat, the sweet full taste and the warmth that followed.
The pleasure didn’t come. He frowned at the glass in his hand, then slammed it onto the table, finding a little satisfaction in the way the sound disturbed a quiet room.
Where was the rush of success that should be resonating inside him?
Where was that final thrill that culminated when justice was served?
Gustav shoved his hands into his pockets to keep from balling his fists, then stalked over to the window.
He looked down at his home country he loved.
A country that took care of its people. A country that, despite its small size, figured out how to come forward in a crisis, from refugees to wildfires, in the name of the greater community.
A country he did not want to fall into greater debt because of the excesses of his family. He was trying to do the right thing.
But he had allowed Livia to become his weakness.
Yet even his anger at her was turning into something more complicated.
Livia had told him that her sister needed help, that she needed to be there for Adele, and yet he had demanded that she put Adele aside.
He hadn’t searched for a compromise. And now he found himself alone in a room he hated, stepping further into a role that he had resented for his whole life.
He had never wanted to be a crown prince—and definitely not the king.
He had just wanted to be respected for who he was.
Even if being loved was out of the question.
He didn’t want to be the Bastard Prince.
Just Gustav. He hadn’t even arrived at the what happens next part that Livia has pushed him to consider, and he could already feel that he was making an enormous mistake.
Because he would never find what he was looking for inside the walls of this castle.
The doorknob clicked, and Gustav’s body went rigid while his heart exploded with something that felt dangerously like hope. Was it Livia?
Slowly, he turned, and the rush of hope died in his chest. Of course it wasn’t her.
Instead, Henri Jacard and King Fredrik af Isborg filed into the room.
Gustav had fully expected his brother to walk through that door, too, enough that he had instructed the assistant to arrange four chairs.
But even stealing his brother’s fiancée was not enough to convince Edvin to return.
Gustav filed that away for later consideration and focused on the two men who were there.
Livia’s father was technically the taller of the two, and he had a rugged look of a man who’d spent years outdoors, despite his close haircut and bespoke suit.
But his father felt taller, with the look of a man who wielded his importance comfortably.
Gustav felt an aversion to both of them that was physical, and it took a moment to understand it.
But when he did, the realization haunted him: If Gustav did not change course, he would be some version of them.
He would spend his life grasping for power, wasting away the opportunities and privileges and responsibilities he had. How easy it was to waste one’s life.
The king crossed the room as if he noticed none of the glittering chandeliers and lush fabrics around him.
He sat in one of the chairs and ignored the spread of drinks and fruits and desserts that another one of the many attendants had placed on a dark wooden table.
His gaze was on Gustav, and it was icy. “I made the mistake of underestimating you the last time you showed up here. I won’t make that mistake again. ”
This was probably the closest to praise that his father had—or would—ever give him.
“Where is my daughter?” Jacard barked. He was hovering behind a red chair, his tanned hand curled into the silken material. “The last time I saw her was all over the tabloids.”
“My father can stop that bad press anytime he wants.” Gustav raised his eyebrow at his father, taunting him. The king’s expression was stony. “It’s impressive what a few words from the palace’s public relations team can do, isn’t it?”
Gustav let that subtle accusation hang between them. His father’s silence said everything he needed to know, and he hoped Jacard saw this, too. It was better that Jacard understood exactly what kind of man the king was.
“As for where Livia is,” he continued, “while as her husband I will use any resource necessary to protect her, I am not her keeper.”
Jacard blinked, as if this was the last answer he expected. “But you are—”