Chapter Ten
Wren clutched the bouquet in her hand, her palm damp, nerves jumping in her gut. It was her wedding day, and she wasn’t ready.
It had come up so fast, much faster than she’d expected. Then again, perhaps that wasn’t any wonder when she’d been so distracted. Every day she couldn’t wait until the end of the day, when it was time to meet Isandro, and the thrill she got every time he appeared made her heart leap.
He’d taken her on lots of outings in the past week.
To a little Italian restaurant that had at least one Michelin star.
To a vineyard in the mountains not far from the palace, where they had the best sparkling grape juice she’d ever tasted.
To one of the national parks that Valdora was famous for, where they had an evening picnic in an alpine meadow.
They’d talked on those evenings, not about anything personal, but in the way they’d used to, about art and politics and what books they’d been reading.
Every so often she’d wondered if she should push him more, about why he felt he had to do better all the time, and why he felt that he’d failed, but it was too good just talking to him.
She didn’t want to touch on things that were painful for him.
Yet she couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d told her that night at the museum.
About how his happiness wasn’t important, about how it was his responsibility to make others happy.
About how it was his responsibility to make her happy.
She didn’t want to be his responsibility, though.
She was tired of being everyone’s burden.
And she was tired of him disregarding his own happiness, because it was important.
It was important to her, and all she’d kept thinking about was what he’d told her about his childhood.
Him being brought up by parents who didn’t seem to care about him.
A castle full of strangers, as he’d so aptly put it.
Strangers who, of course, wouldn’t be interested in one little boy’s happiness.
No wonder he didn’t think it was relevant.
It hadn’t been to anyone else, and so he’d decided it wasn’t important.
That thought made her ache.
But he hadn’t liked being pressed on the subject, either, and when she had pressed him, he’d turned it into sex, which he often did when she touched on painful subjects.
In fact, since that night in the museum, he’d taken her to his bed every night, and she hadn’t protested.
The opposite, in fact. She’d gone eagerly and willingly, easing her own hurt with his touch and by touching him.
If sex was the only way she could get close to him, then she’d take it while it lasted.
Yet people who felt nothing didn’t respond to pain, and Isandro did. In fact, he was a man who’d detached so profoundly, it made her wonder exactly how much pain he’d detached himself from. Pain didn’t come from nowhere, either, it came from caring. Caring too much in many cases.
Perhaps that was the key. Perhaps he’d lied to himself when he’d been a boy, lied to himself so completely that now, as a man, he believed it. He believed that he hadn’t loved his parents and so wasn’t capable of love himself.
But that was a lie. She’d seen his face the moment their baby had kicked for the first time.
His dark blue gaze had glowed bright, the wonder on his face lighting it up, making him so painfully beautiful that all she’d felt in that moment was a wild, intense love for him, and for their child.
She’d met his gaze and had seen her own love for their baby reflected in his, and she’d felt no surprise.
Deep down, she’d always known that she’d never doubted his ability to love.
It was he who doubted himself on a fundamental level.
Her bridesmaids, chosen from amongst the household staff, fluttered around behind her, arranging the train of her gown and the veil that fell down her back. Ahead of her were guards arranged to escort her to the car that would take her to the cathedral in central Valdoria.
Crowds had gathered to watch and they were sizeable. The new PR person had told her that reports were generally more favourable towards her, mainly because it was clear that theirs was a great love story and the public loved a love story. Especially one that included a baby.
Except, this wasn’t a love story. As Isandro had first pointed out weeks ago and often since, this was a necessity. At least, on his part it was a necessity.
Not on yours, though.
No. And if she married him, all she’d ever be was another responsibility he had to manage, another burden to bear.
Then he’d end up resenting her, the way her grandparents had resented her.
Oh, he’d assured her that he wouldn’t, but when his passion for her died, he most certainly would.
Meanwhile, her passion for him would never fade.
The new PR manager came bustling over to her carrying a tablet and she held it up for Wren to see.
A shot of the crowds waiting for the arrival of the royal bride at the cathedral.
They were cheering and waving flags, and she was surprised that they looked happy.
Then she frowned as the camera zeroed in on a man holding a child in his arms. A woman stood beside him with her arm around his waist, smiling up at him as he said something to her.
A husband and wife, presumably, and their child.
A family together. A family who loved each other.
You will never have that with Isandro. All you’ll ever be is a burden on his shoulders. He won’t love you and he never will.
She’d be Carlotta, the queen he didn’t love. She’d be the girl who’d only ever been in the way, the girl no one had wanted. The girl who’d sacrificed everything to be with a man who didn’t love her, and maybe never would.
Tears filled her eyes behind her veil, and she had to blink them back fiercely, her heart aching and aching.
You could leave. You could turn around and leave, and never return.
But she couldn’t do that. She couldn’t leave him standing at the altar with the whole world watching.
She couldn’t leave a man whom no one had cared about and who had been ignored by everyone who was supposed to care about him.
She’d promised him. She’d promised that she’d stay, so how could she break that promise?
She couldn’t. Because this was the one thing she could give him that no one else could.
She would love him without asking for anything in return.
The wedding planner smiled at her, indicating that it was time for her to leave for the cathedral, so Wren gathered the skirts of her gown, as well as her courage, and started towards the car.
* * *
The cathedral was full of dignitaries, heads of state and nobility, and others Isandro had invited for strategic gain. There were cameras everywhere, as he’d ordered, because he’d wanted no one to be in any doubt that this wedding wasn’t to be conducted in haste or in secrecy.
He stood by the altar, the bishop waiting with him, dressed in full royal regalia, and he was conscious that his heart was beating faster than normal.
A little nervousness was to be expected, though he hadn’t felt that way when he’d married Carlotta in this very same church.
No, he’d felt nothing beyond the mild satisfaction of having completed an onerous task.
But it wouldn’t be Carlotta walking through those doors today. It would be Wren.
A tight, hot anticipation wound through him.
He’d been deliberately keeping his distance from her for the past two weeks apart from their meetings in the evening for two reasons.
One, because he’d known the paparazzi had found out about their outings and a game had sprung up between them about where the King would take his fiancée next, and the first one to get pictures got the money.
He’d decided to let it happen since it reinforced the love story he was writing for the press.
But naturally, he didn’t want them to get physically involved the way they had in the museum.
So he’d been good, he’d satisfied himself with a couple of touches to her arm and the small of her back.
A whisper in her ear. A touch on the rounded swell of her stomach, touching the small life inside it.
He’d thought about what she’d said in the museum that night, about how his happiness was important, and he’d decided that his happiness involved taking her to bed, and if he did that, her worries for him would be satisfied.
It was strange to have anyone worried about him, but he didn’t mind that she did.
You should be worried about her.
Well, he was. About her health and that of the child.
Also about her happiness. Those things were important to him, and he thought he’d been doing much better since taking her out in the evenings.
She’d enjoyed those outings, and he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t himself, and so he’d planned for more.
He could allow time out of his schedule for her. It was more time than he’d spent with Carlotta, and that was a good thing. He wouldn’t make the same mistakes that he’d made with Carlotta with Wren.
The buzz of conversation in the church grew louder, and Isandro glanced down at his watch, checking the time. She should arrive at any moment.
He kept watching the doors, waiting for her. His best man—one of his bodyguards, since he had no siblings nor anyone else close enough to be a friend—would advise him of her arrival so he didn’t actually need to keep watch, but he did anyway.
More time passed and Isandro glanced at his watch again. Five minutes late, which he supposed was fashionable.
The buzz of conversation increased.
Isandro glanced at his best man, but the man only shook his head. Not here yet.
He tried not to be impatient, or at least he didn’t let his impatience show, or pay attention to the growing, gnawing seed of doubt that sat in the pit of his stomach. It was ice cold that seed, and grew colder with every passing second.
She’d run out on him once, and he’d had to drag her off the plane and bring her back.
Perhaps she’d do it again. Perhaps she’d lied to him when she’d promised she wouldn’t leave.
Perhaps, even now, she was throwing off her wedding finery and taking a taxi to the airport, getting on a plane and leaving him.
The minutes ticked by with relentless momentum, the five evolving into ten, then becoming fifteen. People were getting restless now, but Isandro paid them no attention, his focus solely on the doors, as if staring at them could somehow make her appear.
As yet more time elapsed, he was aware of a strange feeling coursing through him, as if he were falling from a great height, and that when he hit the ground, he’d smash into pieces, never to be repaired.
What if she doesn’t come? What will you do?
He had no idea. None at all.
Just as he was about to hit that ground and break apart, his best man hissed, ‘She’s here.
’ And the falling sensation turned into something else, a rushing wave of relief that threatened to take him out at the knees.
He froze, his every sense trained on the doors, as if moving would make her disappear.
She hadn’t left. She’d kept her promise to him. She was going to marry him. He wouldn’t lose her. He would never lose her.
Wren appeared at last, framed by the huge, ancient wooden doors of the cathedral, a vision in silver and white tulle, the crystals sewn into the bodice and skirts of her gown making her glitter as she walked slowly towards him.
The rest of the world fell away. The cathedral, the people, the bishop. There was nothing else but her and a curious ferocity that tightened every muscle in his body. Possessiveness and protectiveness, tenderness and desire, all of them rolled up into one filling him.
Her face was hidden by the silk veil she wore, which was frustrating, because he wanted to look into her eyes. He wanted to know how she was feeling, whether she was happy, whether she felt the same strange ferocity that he did.
She came to stand beside him at the altar, and he reached out to lift her veil slowly, putting it back over her head and looking down into her face.
Her cheeks were pink, and there was a tinge of redness to her eyes, a hint of moisture gleaming on her skin.
She gave him a smile, but he knew it was forced.
She’d been crying.
A kernel of ice, which should have melted at her arrival, instead grew sharp spikes, digging into him. He wanted to demand who had made her cry, and why, but he had a terrible feeling he already knew the answer.
The bishop began the ceremony and she turned away from him, staring at bishop instead, while he found himself staring at her.
You’re the one making her cry.
Right from the beginning he’d insisted she stay, insisted that she marry him, be his queen. Insisted that they portray a love story to the media and not what it actually was. A necessity.
Except it was a love story for her, wasn’t it? And he knew, down deep inside, that that was why she’d stayed. Her love for him.
She’d chosen him over her own happiness. She’d chosen her child’s happiness, and now she was sentencing herself to a lifetime of pain with a man who didn’t love her and never would.
How can you do that to her? Given her childhood?
He turned to face the altar, staring unseeing at the bishop intoning the ceremony, the coldness inside him growing deeper and wider. He could make her happy, he was certain of it, and yet… He’d been trying to make her happy these past two weeks, with little outings and conversation, not just sex.
That will never be enough, not for her.
He glanced at her, seeing the curve of her cheek and the gleam of moisture on it. Her face was serene, but he knew that was a mask. She’d always known how to pretend.
He was failing her and all the outings in the world wouldn’t make any difference, and neither would the sex. He could try and fill her life with that, but she deserved more than sexual obsession. More than enjoyable conversation. More than feeling like a burden or a responsibility.
She needed someone to love her in return, but that was the one thing in the world he couldn’t give her.
The cold in his gut became a knife, cutting him, and for the first time in his life, he didn’t know what to do.
He couldn’t stop the ceremony, not with the world watching, and even if he did, that would leave her open to all sorts of gossip and conjecture, which was the last thing he wanted for her.
No, he was going to have to go through with it. He was going to have to marry her. But he knew in his heart that he couldn’t keep her, not if he wanted her to be truly happy.
For that, he would have to let his little bird fly free.