Page 6 of Royal Bargain
Restless energy fills me, and I stand up, pacing around as my slippers make little squeaks against the laminate floor. My chest feels tight, tension winding my muscles so taut that every movement is sharp, jittery.
My family has already been through enough hell because of the Volkovs. Kellan almost lost Rose, Clary nearly died, and now we have all the kids to think about—Rosie, my nephews…
They’re still just babies.
No.
There are too many innocent lives tangled up in this mess. Bringing Annika back into the fold, even for a moment, could destroy everything we’ve worked so hard to protect.
I stop pacing abruptly, gripping the edge of my kitchen island until my knuckles turn white. Memories flood back, sharp andpainful. The night she broke things off still plays in my mind on a cruel, endless loop—her eyes glossy with tears she refused to shed, her voice trembling as she told me we were done. I hadn’t seen it coming. Maybe I should’ve, but I didn’t. It sent me spiraling for weeks, drowning myself in whatever distraction I could find, trying to pretend I wasn’t completely fucked up over her.
“Goddammit,” I mutter, grabbing my phone off the counter again. I stare at the message like it might reveal some hidden clue or answer if I glare hard enough.
Something nags at me, irritating me even more as I realize that no matter how much I want Annika to be the villain, no matter how desperately I want to paint her as the bad guy, I know she isn’t.
Back when we were still together, she gave me the benefit of the doubt for way too long. She let me off the hook, even when I stood her up for date nights over and over. Even when I prioritized my family, she said she understood. She was too good for me and I blew it.
Plus, I know for a fact that she’s never once lied to me.
Because of the nature of our relationship—the fact that we came from two different worlds—we made a promise to each other to always tell the truth. We knew we could only work if we kept each other honest.
So why would she start lying now? If she says she’s had my kid, she’s telling the truth. If she says she’s in danger, she’s being honest with me.
My hand curls into a fist as I slam it onto the counter, frustration finally spilling out. If that kid truly is mine, if they’re my flesh and blood, there’s no way I can turn my back on them.
The sudden jangling of my phone breaks the heavy silence, and I nearly jump out of my skin. My alarm flashes on the screen, a reminder that I need to get my ass in gear and headto campaign headquarters. There’s so much to do and nowhere near enough hours in the day to get it all done.
As I sit down at my new desk, to a shiny new laptop courtesy of the senator, my mind is sent into overdrive thinking of everything on my plate for the day. There are major donors who need wooing, advertisements to approve, polls to scrutinize… just an endless list of things that need to get done.
So I start by focusing on the one task I can get done right now—creating the flyer for the upcoming potluck fundraiser. It’s simple, mindless. An easy way to get into the groove of working without overloading my brain.
An hour later, I chew my lower lip as I examine the art I’ve chosen for the main image. I’m trying to decide whether it gives more “family-friendly” or “childish” vibes. It’s just a simple clip-art cooking pot, but suddenly, this seems like a monumental decision.
Frowning, I drag it into the bin and search the digital library for another illustration, realizing that I need to make sure I craft the right image for the senator, that it has to say that he’s approachable and friendly, but also that he’s a serious candidate. Tapping through a few more choices, I examine one that looks a little more like a watercolor illustration than a computer-generated image, and the corner of my mouth quirks upward. Perfect.
As I’m dragging it into place, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and I realize that someone is behind me. Swiveling to look, I realize it’s Burns himself standing there.
My mouth twists in surprise. I hadn’t expected to see him until this afternoon.
“Hello, Senator,” I say, standing up quickly. “Is anything wrong?”
“I just thought I’d come in and check to see how things were going,” Burns says, a placid smile on his face. His dark blue eyesrake over my office setup, eyeing the ring of coffee under my mug, the crumpled-up pieces of paper from where I’d discarded some notes, the stash of paperclips in a haphazard pile, and I feel a sudden twinge of self-consciousness. Hastily pushing the paperclips into the drawer, I then chuck the trash into the bin next to my desk and quickly use a napkin to mop up the wet coffee.
“Just been busy,” I say as I straighten up. “Working on the flyer for the potluck.”
Burns nods. “How’s that going?”
“This is what I’ve got so far,” I say, directing his attention to my screen. “What do you think?” It’s only half-finished, but I think it looks pretty damned good so far, with the watercolor cooking pot taking the front-and-center position, along with a fancy script font announcing the event.
Burns studies the image for a moment, expression unreadable. “Have you had a chance to contact Courtney Ashton?” His question takes me off guard, and I stumble to answer.
“Ah, not yet,” I say. “I know she was one of your biggest donors in your last campaign, but I haven’t managed to reach out.”
“I see. Did you at least get an analysis of the polling data from the Center for Advocating Policy?” Burns says, an edge of exasperation in his voice. I huff out a breath and shrug.
“Not yet. It’s on the list.”
Burns sighs, the sound escaping him slowly. “So this flyer thing… is that all you managed to get done today?”
