Page 67 of His Beloved Princess
A highly inappropriate smug grin settled on my face, and for sure, Debra noticed it, too, but I just couldn't fight the slight satisfaction I felt. Thanks to the popularity of my relationship with Bastian, my life was easier. At least in some ways, while in others, it was tremendously hard.
The blonde receptionist named Lucy left me in the modern, futuristically designed office. In the middle of the room was a vast L-shaped glass table, which was empty; only the laptop was on the right side of it. Behind the black leatherchair was a bookshelf, covering the entire wall full of law books, folders, and photo frames of two kids with a beautiful red-headed woman I knew was Andreas’ wife.
On the left side of the room, in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, which provided a spectacular view of Seattle, were two white leather sofas and two armchairs. The flat TV hanging above a chest of drawers was muted, showing the daily news.
I slowly walked to the couch and placed my bag on it, impressed by the collection of six paintings on the opposite wall, which created a panoramic view of New York. I heard about the artist who made those pieces, but he was too expensive for regular people to afford his work.
Moving leisurely throughout the room and checking every corner, I stopped in front of the photo frames, which sat proudly in perfect order on the bookshelf. The smiling faces of a six-year-old boy and maybe a ten-year-old girl were like a knife into my pained heart. It was a possibility I would never have kids with Bastian, and the idea hurt me more than I could’ve ever expected.
Because of my mother, I’d never wanted children. I was afraid I might do to them what she had done to me. With Bastian, though, I secretly started to imagine a family. A little boy with his crystal-blue eyes and frisky smile or a girl with high-class behavior and a hint of arrogance so typical for her father's family. But this would only be my biggest wish and no more if the situation didn't change.
"Is everything okay, Electra?"
I almost jumped out of my skin when Andreas’ strong voice resonated through the room. I abruptly turned to him, feeling uncomfortable, like I had been caught snooping in his personal space.
"I was just," I started, motioning for the photos, when he raised one of his eyebrows. "Never mind." I gulped, walking towards the couch. "I need to ask about this."
I handed him the letter, which turned my world upside-down last night and waited for some kind of reaction from him. However, I didn't find anything suspicious. He just took the paper from me, frowning.
"Are you sure it's for me?" he asked doubtfully, blinking in confusion. "I'm nobody's princess."
"Read it, please," I sighed, almost rolling my eyes at him. Most of the time, his usual responses were a combination of sarcasm and irritation, but I was too tired for his antics. Sometimes, I didn't understand how Bastian was able to survive his entire life in the company of such an annoying person.
He sat in the armchair, crossing his long legs, reading. But it was only about twenty seconds of silence before he looked at me like he just stuck his nose into a pile of shit.
"It's a love letter," he spat, waving it at me. "For you, from my brother!"
"Yes." I nodded calmly, sitting opposite him. "I need to ask you something about it, but you must read it."
"Are you serious?" He folded the paper and threw it at the table, glaring at me. "First of all, this is my brother's deepest feelings expressed in words." He rose, looking down at me as if I had committed treason. "And second, I don't have time for this nonsense. Have you lost your mind?"
"I need answers." I stood, holding his gaze.
"He loves you! What other answer do you need?" He was confident in his words, and I knew he was right. Bastian loved me; I didn't doubt that. It was just a few little things that didn't match up.
"Why would he write me a letter asking me to marry him if he knew we broke up?" I asked, shrugging. "It doesn't make sense!"
Andreas narrowed his eyes at me, and the scowl on his face deepened. Frowning, he bent down and took the letter from the coffee table, shaking his head.
"I hope I ‘m not about to be suffocated by flattery and love declarations," he mumbled under his breath, plopping down on the couch and earning a snort from me. I was tempted to start another round of arguing with him, but I also needed his insight.
He knew Bastian the best. If, after reading the letter, he said everything was fine, I would be willing to consider signing the marriage certificate. Rightnow, he was the only person who could soothe my paranoia about the hidden meaning of Bastian's proposal.
"What is the problem here?" Andreas inquired after a few minutes, giving me the letter back. His face was a blank mask without any emotion.
"It seems like I shouldn't find this so early," I replied, hiding the letter in my bag. "Like he wrote it as a precaution if he failed to get me back. But why the marriage?"
"Bastian knew he fucked up," Andreas grimaced, tapping his fingers on his thigh. "He was willing to do everything in his power to get you back, but if, in the meantime, something happened to him, he wanted to be sure you were taken care of."
"As his wife? Even if I left him?" It just didn't make sense in my head. Why would someone make so much effort to ensure the other person's well-being if they were finished?
"You still don't understand, Electra," Andreas sighed theatrically, repositioning himself. "Bast couldn't imagine his life without you by his side. You're acting like he did something shocking, but he only did what he felt was right."
"It's a fake marriage!" I yelled, overreacting, but he still didn't tell me anything useful. He was repeatedly saying the same thing but with different words.
"It's as real as it could be, darling. Don't underestimate me." He looked genuinely offended. "And if he hadn't had an accident, you would never have known about this. You were coming back with him."
"To pack my things and leave," I declared, instantly regretting it. It wasn't the truth, and Andreas saw right through my act.
