Page 83 of Royal Bargain
I can’t burden her right now. I can’t stress her out more, not with everything going on.
I’m just protecting her.
27
ANNIKA
The morning air in Liam’s apartment feels thick, like it’s pressing down on everything. Even Lily can sense it. She’s unusually quiet, tracking my movements with those wide eyes of hers, like she knows something’s coming—we just don’t have a name for it yet.
I pace the living room with her on my hip, the floor creaking under every step. She lets out a small, restless sigh, and I bounce her gently, trying to soothe us both. Liam was already gone by the time I woke up—dressed, distant, half-muttering to himself about ballots and precincts. His coffee sat untouched on the counter. Mine too.
He kissed my forehead before he left, but it felt mechanical. His hand never even brushed my arm. Just a quick press of lips and a distracted murmur about checking in with Burns’s team before heading to a polling site. I didn’t ask which one. Didn’t see the point.
Now it’s just me and Lily and this gnawing quiet. Like the day is holding its breath.
I settle her into the bouncer and drop onto the couch across from her. She waves her hands a little, unfocused, like she’s notquite sure what to do with them. No smiles. No giggles. Just stillness.
Liam’s been off all morning—tense, edgy, eyes flicking to the windows like he’s waiting for something. When I asked what was wrong, he just muttered that he was tired.
But I know tired.
And that wasn’t it.
I glance at my phone on the coffee table. No new messages. No warnings. No reminders. But I can still feel them, like ghosts pressing in at the edges of my mind.
Sasha’s text is burned into my memory.You need to stay hidden for the next few days. Stay out of the spotlight. I never responded. What could I even say? That I’d take her advice while secretly signing contracts and planning performances under an alias?
Then there’s Miranda. I still don’t know what game she’s playing, only that I’ve stepped onto her board and every move I make feels like it’s being watched. She’s not the type to help without strings attached—and I have a sick feeling I won’t like where those strings lead.
And Ingrid. Cool, poised, terrifying Ingrid, who looks at me like she’s assessing a product instead of a person. She says she believes in my potential, but she’s already started making plans—sponsored content, social media, interviews. None of which I’m ready for, not really. But I told her I was. I had to.
I’ve been telling everyone what they need to hear. Liam. Miranda. Ingrid. Myself.
So no, I don’t ask Liam what’s really going on. I don’t demand the truth or press him for the things he’s too afraid to say out loud.
Because I’m just as guilty.
I told myself I came here for protection—for Lily. But the truth is, I ran here because I didn’t know where else to go.Because I needed Liam. And now that I’m here, I’m holding on too tightly to everything, hoping it doesn’t all fall apart.
That evening, the hotel ballroom pulses with energy—glasses clinking, voices rising and falling in waves, screens flashing red, white, and blue as the precinct results roll in. Campaign volunteers cheer as numbers tilt in Burns’s favor, and Liam stands near the front, flanked by Lucky and a few of Burns’s aides, deep in conversation. He hasn’t noticed me walk in yet.
I hover near the edge of the room, feeling the weight of every glance tossed my way.
Even with my hair curled and makeup done, dressed in a soft, slate-blue dress Ingrid insisted I wear, I might as well be wearing a bullseye. Eyes slide over me, pause, then slide away again—cold, cautious, calculating. Whispers don’t reach my ears, but I feel them anyway, the unspoken question hanging over everything. What is she doing here?
A glass of champagne is pressed into my hand by one of the aides, but I barely sip it. My throat feels too tight. Too dry.
I shouldn’t be here. Not in this world, not in this moment. I’m not part of this celebration—not really. I’m an interloper, a Russian Bratva girl who ran into the arms of the enemy with a baby in tow, hoping to find something that felt like safety.
And now I’m surrounded by suits and whispers and allies who only tolerate me because Liam insists I’m on his side.
Even if I’m not sure I am.
I take a shaky breath and scan the room again, eyes finding Liam near the stage. He’s not watching the screens. He’s not watching me. His gaze is fixed on his phone, thumb moving fast, face set in a tight, unreadable line.
He’s wearing a sharp navy suit—the one that makes him look like he belongs here more than anyone else—but there’s a tension rolling off him in waves. His jaw ticks. His shoulders staylocked, arms crossed over his chest and I know his mind is miles away from this party.
I inch closer, slowly weaving my way through the crowd, trying not to look like I’m following him, even though I am. Someone brushes against my shoulder and mutters an apology.
