[Hunter’s POV]
The message goes out through channels my mother doesn't know exist. A contact at the palace. A servant who owes me a favor from years ago, because Christina blocked me right after the engagement announcement. I noticed only after she left.
Which is precisely why I'm using it.
I wait in a private room at a gentleman's club my family has frequented for generations. Neutral territory. Discreet. The kind of place where powerful people conduct business they'd rather not explain to their mothers.
The irony isn't lost on me. I'm betraying my family in a room decorated with my ancestors' portraits. Great-grandfather Valdren glares down from above the fireplace, judging my treachery with oil-painted disapproval.
Sorry, old man. Some traditions deserve breaking.
The door opens. Christina enters wearing a simple grey sweater and jeans that somehow look more regal than any gown I've ever seen on her. Her dark hair is swept back. Her grey eyes assess the room—exits, windows, potential threats—before settling on me.
She's learned to think like a queen. The girl who used to lower her gaze when entering rooms now commands them without trying. The transformation would be impressive if it didn't make my chest ache with regret.
"You requested another meeting." Her voice carries no warmth. "I'm beginning to think you enjoy these clandestine encounters."
"I enjoy breathing. These meetings help ensure I continue doing so."
She doesn't smile, but something flickers in her expression. Almost amusement. I'll take almost. It's more than I deserve.
"What do you have for me?"
I gesture to the chair across from mine. She takes it, maintaining careful distance. Smart. I wouldn't trust me either. Hell, I barely trust myself these days.
"The Montclairs are moving faster than I expected." I pull documents from my jacket—copies I made at considerable personal risk. "Three law firms retained. All working simultaneously on different angles to challenge your claim."
Christina takes the papers, scanning them with focused intensity. She always read everything. Absorbed information like breathing. I used to find it endearing. Now it's a weapon pointed at my family.
Poetic justice, I suppose. Though poetry was never my strong suit.
"Procedural challenges," she murmurs. "Arguing the validity of deathbed declarations."
"Among other things. They're also recruiting nobles to publicly question your legitimacy. Ashworth. Harrington. Anyone with enough influence to make noise in Parliament."
Her jaw tightens. "Harrington was at my first council meeting. He smiled at me."
"Politicians smile while planning your destruction. It's practically a job requirement." I pause. "Present company included, historically speaking."
"You'd know something about that."
The words land like a blade between ribs. Deserved. Entirely deserved.
"I would," I admit. "Which is why I'm here, playing informant in my great-grandfather's disapproving presence."
Christina sets the documents aside, studying me with those storm-grey eyes that see too much. I shift in my chair. Even the ancestors on the walls seem to lean in, waiting for my explanation. Judging.
"The coronation," I continue. "They're planning to delay it indefinitely. Death by a thousand procedural cuts. Every challenge requires response. Every response requires time. Eventually, uncertainty becomes its own weapon."
The information hangs between us, heavy with implication.
“Huh. You know, your timing is just spectacular. I mean, the engagement with Catherine…” She actually huffs.
My supposed fiancée. The woman whose name I announced while Christina stood in borrowed pearls.
"Is not by choice. Not anymore. Though I realize 'I announced her name in front of three hundred people' somewhat undermines that claim."
"Somewhat."
I deserve that. I deserve all of it.
"I was an idiot. A coward. A man who listened to whispers instead of his own heart." I lean forward, needing her to understand even if she never forgives. "But the Montclairs are driving everything now. My mother is desperate. Catherine is calculating. Together, they're dangerous."
Christina is quiet for a long moment. The fire crackles. Somewhere in the building, a clock chimes four. The witching hour for political betrayal, apparently. How fitting.
"Why do you keep doing this?" Her voice softens slightly. Curious rather than accusatory. "You've given me useful information twice now. You're betraying your family. Your mother. The woman you publicly chose over me. You’ve stated your reasoning, but that still doesn’t really make sense."
The question I've been asking myself for weeks. The answer I've been avoiding because it makes me sound exactly as pathetic as I am.
"Because watching my mother scheme against you made me physically ill." The words come out rougher than intended.
"I sat in that dining room listening to her discuss your 'removal' like you were an inconvenient scheduling conflict. Catherine smiled while talking about eliminating you. Actually smiled."
Christina's expression doesn't change, but her fingers tighten on the chair's arm.
"I was engaged to you for two years," I continue. "Two years of sharing your bed, your time, your trust. And not once did I defend you against my family's cruelty. Not once did I tell Vivienne to stop. Not once did I choose you over their approval."
"You didn't."
"No. I didn't." I run a hand through my hair, disrupting whatever composure I had left. "The guilt is eating me alive. This is the only way I know to quiet it. Giving you information. Warning you. Trying to be something other than the coward who threw you away. I want to be better. And not be a part of their narrative anymore."
The silence stretches between us. Christina studies me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. I can't read her expression. Can't tell if she believes me or thinks this is another manipulation.
"I'm not asking for forgiveness," I add quietly. "I haven't earned that. May never earn it. But if my guilt can be useful—then at least something good comes from what I destroyed."
Christina rises from her chair. For a moment, I think she's leaving without response. That I've finally exhausted whatever tolerance she had for my presence.
Instead, she moves to the window. Looks out at the grey afternoon. Her profile catches the light, and I see echoes of the girl I fell in love with beneath the queen she's becoming.
"Your information will be useful," she says finally. "The legal challenges. The nobles being recruited. I can prepare countermeasures."
It's not forgiveness. Not absolution. But it's acknowledgment. Recognition that I've done something right for once.
"Thank you."
She turns, meeting my eyes. "Don't thank me. You're useful. That's different from trusted."
"I know the difference."
"Do you?" Something almost like respect flickers in her expression. "Maybe you're finally learning."
She leaves without farewell. The door closes behind her with quiet finality.
I sit alone among my ancestors, surrounded by portraits of men who never questioned their place in the world. Men who took what they wanted and called it duty.
I'm not like them. Maybe I never was.
The guilt doesn't disappear. It never will. But for the first time in weeks, I can breathe without the weight crushing my chest. I've done something right. Something real. Something that might actually matter.
Christina didn't forgive me. Didn't offer warmth or reconciliation.
But she listened. She'll use what I gave her.
That's enough. For now, that's enough.
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