Chapter Three
Wren woke the next morning to a relentless sense of dread. After the meeting in Isandro’s study where she’d walked out, she’d made straight for the familiar set of rooms that she used whenever she was in the palace.
The place was a warren of corridors and stairs, and since those rooms were far away from the royal apartments, it took her a good five minutes to get to them. But once she had, she’d shut the door, gone straight to the bed, and slept dreamlessly for at least ten hours.
The past month had been all early pregnancy exhaustion, sickness, and the anxiety had meant a lot of sleepless nights, so she should be feeling much better after a sleep like that, but she wasn’t.
Not when her head was full of Isandro’s hard expression, his authoritative tone, and his flat insistence about everything.
It hurt. He’d seemed to her a stranger the day before, a man she didn’t know and didn’t want to know, either. And it scared her. This whole mess of a situation scared her, especially when he’d reminded her about her own reputation and how the press were always harder on women.
She’d tried to keep it together as she’d sat in her usual chair in his office, but she couldn’t stop remembering all the times she’d been in there.
When they’d talked over campaigns and issues, and solved problems. When they’d laughed and talked about other things too, world events, their lives, their opinions and their dreams.
He never closed the door of his office while she was with him, which had been a good thing. An open door meant they could be seen, their conduct noted, and so they’d had to keep things appropriate for work.
She’d loved those times, even with the open door. She’d loved talking to him, listening to him speak about things that excited him and interested him, and she’d loved the way he’d listened to her in return.
Then of course there was the memory of his fingers closing around her upper arms, and the shock of being pulled against his hard, hot body. And his mouth finally—finally—on hers. She’d felt like Sleeping Beauty being woken with a kiss…
Painful memories, and so at odds with the present, which had been her, pregnant and exhausted, sitting on that chair, listening to him talk about how he was going to take the blame for the whole thing, because that was the kind of noble idiot he was.
She’d wanted to reach across the desk and touch his cheek, tell him he was being ridiculous. She’d wanted to push her fingers into the thick black silk of his hair and kiss his stern, unforgiving mouth.
But she couldn’t. She wouldn’t. Touching him in any way would be so bad for her.
It would hurt her in ways she couldn’t bear to think about.
Especially given his anger towards her. He hadn’t said anything specifically, but the distance he’d radiated at the airport and on the silent drive back to the palace said more than enough about how furious he was.
It almost made her regret her decision to leave. Then again, the outcome wouldn’t have changed. Either way, she was going to have to suffer through what was essentially a shotgun wedding, except it wasn’t her father holding the shotgun, it was Isandro himself.
Eventually, Wren hauled herself out of bed and went into the bathroom, hoping a shower would make her feel better, which it did. Standing under the warm water, letting it flow over her bare skin, she knew she was going to have to make a decision.
She wasn’t accustomed to feeling so powerless, and Isandro had never treated her like one of his subjects, so it was only natural to feel awful about it. He had all the power, while the only power she had was the fact that she was pregnant with his child.
Which meant she had to use it. She had to take control of this situation somehow, and stop letting him call all the shots. Yes, he was the King, but, as he’d reminded her yesterday, she was no longer his employee. She was now his fiancée, and that put her in a different position.
Marriage was inevitable, he’d made that clear, but if he thought he could decide what kind of marriage they would have, he had another think coming.
She couldn’t control public opinion, or what anyone thought of her, but she could control herself and her response to it.
She could control her response to him, too.
In fact, she already knew what kind of response she was going to give him.
The kind she had to give him. It was not and could not be a marriage of the heart, not when it had been forced on both of them.
It couldn’t be a physical marriage, either, not for her.
It would be too hard sharing his bed, all the while knowing that was all of him he’d ever share.
Perhaps she was wrong in that, perhaps, over time, he might share more, but she couldn’t risk it.
And she couldn’t wait for him to dictate terms. She had to be committed in setting boundaries for the sake of her heart, and her future happiness, especially with a child on the way.
As to the rest of it, she’d have to bear public scrutiny.
But she was used to that. She was used to portraying a certain image, and there was no reason for her to stop doing that now.
There would be rumours and gossip once the scandal got out, and no doubt her mother’s name would be tossed around.
She would have to steel herself and act accordingly, but, again, she’d been toeing the line for most of her life and had lived with constant resentment—her grandparents had resented having to look after her and had let her know in no uncertain terms.
This wasn’t any different.
After showering, she went to the little closet where she kept a few clothes in case of emergencies, and saw the array of suits hanging there.
That was another little dart of hurt. She would never be the woman who wore those suits again, the woman whose main happiness was working for the man she loved.
Eventually, Wren shut the wardrobe and found some loose black lounge pants in a drawer, and a blue sweatshirt to go over the top, then debated what to do. She needed to find Isandro, see what he’d decided about the press release, and this time she’d keep her emotions firmly in check.
She was just about to leave the room when someone knocked on the door. Pulling it open, she saw one of the chambermaids standing in the hall outside. The woman must be a new hire since Wren didn’t recognise her.
‘The King would like you to join him for breakfast, Miss Weaver,’ the maid said.
Wren was tempted to say no purely out of spite, but she didn’t want to put the maid in a difficult position, so she kept her mouth shut and followed the woman through the corridors.
Expecting to be taken to the usual breakfast room near the kitchens, she was surprised when the maid took her to the King’s private apartments instead.
Despite herself, her heartbeat quickened as they entered Isandro’s rooms, and a whisper of electricity ghosted over her skin. She’d never been to his apartments—he’d been very strict about that—and the fact that she was being led here now made her wonder what he was planning.
Did he want her here with him? He and Carlotta had always maintained separate apartments, but had he changed his mind with her? Or was he making a point to his staff about her? A subtle signal that Wren wasn’t one of them any more?
The chambermaid led her through an elegant yet masculine sitting room, and out onto a small stone terrace.
It overlooked the King’s private garden, and contained a white wrought-iron table set with bowls of fruit, yoghurt, cereal, toast and a variety of spreads.
There was also coffee and orange juice, and Isandro, lounging at the table.
He looked devastatingly attractive in a crisp white shirt and blue suit trousers. He had his cuffs rolled up to expose his muscled forearms and strong wrists, the long, blunt fingers of one hand wrapped around a coffee mug, the other resting on his thigh.
His inky blue gaze met hers, and once again the gut punch of his presence hit her, making her skin tighten and a dark, nagging ache start up between her thighs.
It had become even worse after their interlude in his office.
She’d half hoped that those few minutes would have sated her curiosity and desire for him, but they hadn’t.
Because now she knew exactly what it felt like to have him inside her, to feel his hands on her skin, his mouth on her throat.
To know just how passionate he was, how intense, and how fierce. It was almost unbearable.
Her face heated, and she had to tear her gaze away, which felt like a failure, especially given that she’d decided she was taking charge of what was happening between them.
‘Thank you, Esperanza,’ Isandro said, his deep voice warm with the charm he used with all his household staff. The maid flushed prettily, gave him a hurried curtsy, then vanished back inside.
Wren, her mouth dry, moved over to the chair opposite and sat down.
She wanted to look at him again, hold his gaze, but she didn’t know if she could actually do it.
Looking at him felt too much. She was good at hiding her emotions, but never around him.
That’s what had got her into trouble in the first place.
‘I thought we could continue our discussion from last night,’ Isandro said without preamble, reaching for the jug of orange juice and pouring her a glass. ‘I trust you slept well?’
Wren swallowed. ‘Don’t do that. Don’t treat me like a stranger.’
‘How would you like me to treat you, then?’ He pushed the glass in her direction.
‘Like a person you’ve known well for five years.’ She ignored the orange juice. ‘A person you’re going to marry, or so you’ve said.’
‘Oh, we’ll marry, you can be sure of that.’ He straightened in his chair then reached for the coffee pot, pouring himself some more coffee. ‘How do you want to go about this, Wren? I tried talking to you about it last night, but you walked out.’