Page 18 of Crowned For The King's Secret

It had been forty-eight hours since she’d arrived in Santa Fiorina, speeding through the city from the airport in an armoured car. Staring out at the beauty of the vineyards and golden countryside she’d seen in photographs of the place as she’d researched for Nic, then onto the pockmarked desolation of a place scarred by civil war. It was such a contrast. Now she was a prisoner. Oh, sure, she’d been assured she wasn’t, but when she opened the door to her suite to see if she could make up a bottle for Nic there’d been two burly men outside. She’d tried talking to them but they didn’t talk back, so she didn’t go any further, calling on a phone she’d been told only carried an internal line to ask for some hot water.

It had been a humiliation. She was entirely reliant on that one phone for everything, not even having her own clothes, but a walk-in wardrobe full of new items which miraculously fitted. As though the people here knew everything about her, right down to her bra size, when she didn’t know anything about them.

Her only visitor had been a doctor who said he was taking Nic’s DNA for a test. She didn’t understand that at all. Wasn’t one DNA test enough in her son’s lifetime? And since their arrival, Sandro hadn’t even visited the son he professed so strongly had been kept from him.

That told her all she needed to know about him. He only pretended to care.

Victoria yawned, exhaustion bearing down on her. Last night, after a magnificent pasta dinner she barely ate and a thoughtfully prepared smaller serving with vegetables for Nic, she’d tried to sleep. It had been near impossible, the anxiety she’d thought she’d put behind her returning with ferocity, guilt riding her hard that she’d failed her little boy.

Nic had picked up on her emotions, was unsettled as well. Fearful he might be spirited away from her during the night, she’d tucked him into her bed and he’d fallen asleep as she stared at him, allowing tears to fall before collapsing into a fitful slumber herself.

This morning, she’d waited on Sandro. He’d stalked out those few days before, taking the name and contact details of her solicitor, and hadn’t returned. Victoria guessed, it still being the weekend, that her lawyers wouldn’t be in the office, but she expectedsomethingfrom Sandro at least. Not this fretful silence. She loathed feeling powerless. It reminded her of those dark days in her marriage where there was nothing within her control. Sandro’s refusal to believe her when she was telling the truth felt a lot like all the times Bruce alleged she was imagining things, such as when she’d confronted him about the women she’d suspected he was seeing. The way he’d gaslit her daily. Those thoughts creeping back now, crushing and oppressive.

In this suite, everything weighed on her. The atmosphere, dour and depressing, amplifying the negative feelings she thought she’d left behind with her marriage. Vic had loved the home she’d made with Nic. Had she been allowed to train and get a job, interior design was what she’d have chosen. Making a space warm, comforting. One that invited you in and made you want to stay in, not leave. So unlike this, where she itched to get out, even to the uncertainty of what was beyond these four walls. She looked around. Heavy mahogany furniture in some places, dainty items in others, which didn’t fit. The whole placed mismatched, as if it had been cobbled together as an afterthought.

Except Nic’s room. It was an explosion of colour and light. Books, toys, top-of-the-line nursery furniture. Everything perfect for the son of a king. Of course, she knew then. The afterthought in this place washer. Unwanted, unneeded.

No.

Nic needed her. He always would.

She went into the nursery where Nicci had been catching up on some sleep. He stood at the head of his cot, trying to reach the animals on the cot mobile. When he saw her he smiled, and she bit her lip to stop herself falling into floods of tears again. Did Lance believe the fiction she was on Sandro’s yacht? That they’d miraculously reconciled? Or was he suspicious of the story, and using his considerable resources to find her? She knew she’d been a constant worry to him whilst she was married, especially after her accident. During those dark days when she’d tried to numb the world and in the course of that was cruel to those she loved who’d tried to stop her. His constant worry had almost ended his engagement with Sara...

Enough.

She wasn’t that person any more. The one who didn’t fight back. With therapy and time, she’d found her voice. Her courage. She’d find it again. Except at home, she had people who supported her. Loved her. Here, she had no one.

Apart from Nic.

She picked him up and the gnawing referred pain in her side from her old back injury plagued her. Too much stress, not enough of her stretches. Yet another thing to worry about. After changing him, she carried Nic to the window and looked outside onto a walled garden. Rambling and wild with gravel paths, it looked like a beautiful place to visit. She craved to get outside, breathe the fresh air. Sit in the sun and allow herself to feel hopeful again. Movement caught her eye. A flicker in the undergrowth, then out onto one pathway tumbled one kitten, then another.

‘Look, Nicci,’ she whispered. Part of what had kept her going during the bleak years of her marriage were the animals she’d fostered. Of course, she’d only realised much later that they’d been a trap. One of the things keeping her there because she’d feared for their safety. She missed it, but she’d soon come to realise the only baby she could care for was her own, so she’d worked with charities instead. Still, watching the kittens brought back memories of her small triumphs.

Nic squealed and she smiled. Maybe they could go into the garden and feed the little ones? She couldn’t see the mother, but they looked happy. At least from a distance. She stared at the joyous frolicking, lost in it all, when a knock jolted her back to the present. Would it be Sandro with some news? Maybe he’d end this charade and she and Nic could go home?

She moved through to the sitting room as a woman walked in, having been allowed through by Security. Tall. Short, dark hair. Wearing weathered jeans and a T-shirt, with toned, muscular arms. She was free of make-up. Naturally beautiful. She smiled and, although that smile seemed genuine, Vic had the sense this woman wasn’t someone you’d toy with.

‘Signora Astill.’ The woman walked forward, holding out her hand. Vic took it, the handshake firm and strong. ‘My name is Isadora Fiorelli.’

‘And who are you?’

‘I am Nicolai’s nanny.’

Her replacement.

No. Way.

The inertia that had seemed to be overtaking her was burned away in an instant. She saw this for what it was, another attempt to sideline her. To show that she wasn’t necessary to her own son. Never again.

‘I don’t need a nanny.’

‘His Majesty—’

‘Can say whatever he wants to. Look around.’ She swept her arm wide, indicating the room. ‘It’s not as if I’m socialising or spending my days at tea parties. This suite is the sum total of my existence.’

The woman might have looked sympathetic. The thoughtful expression, the understanding nod. ‘And yet, I have my instructions. I’m here to help.’

‘Can you get me on the first flight home?’

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