[Hunter’s POV]
The dining room feels like a battlefield dressed in crystal and candlelight. I take my seat across from Vivienne, maintaining the mask I've worn since childhood. Smile when expected. Nod at appropriate intervals. Pretend I'm still the loyal son who never questions anything.
Mother presides at the head of the table, her composure restored after weeks of chaos. That's never a good sign. Composed Maryanna means scheming Maryanna. I learned that lesson before I could walk.
"I have excellent news," she announces, lifting her wine glass with practiced elegance. "The Montclairs have found a solution to our Christina problem."
My stomach turns at the casual cruelty in her voice. Our Christina problem. Like she's discussing pest control rather than the woman I spent two years pretending to love while actually loving.
That realization arrived too late, of course. Story of my pathetic life.
"A minor noble has come forward," Mother continues, her smile sharpening. "Lord Ashford—distant cousin to the royal line. He's prepared to testify that he was secretly betrothed to Princess Clara before her death."
I keep my expression neutral while my mind races through implications. My fork moves mechanically. Chew. Swallow. Don't react.
"Betrothed?" Vivienne leans forward, eyes bright with malicious delight. "That would mean Christina's claim is—"
"Complicated." Mother's satisfaction is barely concealed. "If Clara was promised to another man, questions arise about Christina's legitimacy. Was she born within or outside that arrangement? Did Clara break the betrothal? These proceedings take months. Years, possibly."
Time. That's what they're buying. Enough procedural chaos to delay the coronation indefinitely.
"The documentation is being prepared as we speak," Mother adds. "Letters. Witnesses. Lord Ashford remembers conveniently specific details about his romance with the princess."
I reach for my wine, buying a moment to compose my face. "Convenient indeed."
"Isn't it?" Vivienne practically glows with anticipation. "I've already drafted a social media strategy. Subtle at first—just questions. Then we amplify through sympathetic accounts. By week's end, everyone will be wondering about the mysterious Lord Ashford and his tragic lost love."
She lives for this. The cruelty she channels into social warfare is her art form, her masterpiece in progress. I used to admire her ruthlessness. Now it makes me physically ill.
"The Montclairs are coordinating the parliamentary angle," Mother says. "We handle public perception. Catherine will ensure the palace receives maximum pressure from both directions simultaneously."
Catherine. My supposed fiancée. The woman whose name I announced while Christina stood in borrowed pearls, believing I might actually love her.
"Questions?" Mother's gaze pins me like a butterfly to a board.
"None." I force lightness into my voice. "Sounds thoroughly thought through."
"It is." She studies me with those sharp eyes that miss nothing. "You've been quiet lately, Hunter. Distracted. Should I be concerned?"
"Processing. It's been an eventful month."
Vivienne snorts elegantly. "That's one word for discovering your ex-fiancée is secretly royalty."
"Among other revelations, yes."
"You'll need to be more present going forward," Mother says. "This requires the whole family's commitment."
"Of course, Mother. Always."
I excuse myself before dessert, claiming exhaustion. Mother's gaze follows me out—suspicious but not yet certain. I have perhaps hours before she starts questioning my loyalty openly. The clock is ticking.
In my room, I pull out the burner phone I purchased three weeks ago. The message goes out through channels Mother doesn't know exist.
Fabricated betrothal claim incoming. Lord Ashford. Expect forged documentation. Montclairs coordinating parliamentary pressure. Vivienne handling social media campaign.
I add every detail I memorized. Names of the lawyers involved. The timeline Vivienne outlined with such enthusiasm. Everything captured while pretending to be the obedient son.
The response comes within minutes. Received. Thank you.
Three words. Impersonal. Professional. But they're from Christina, and something in my chest loosens at the confirmation that she's still fighting.
I set the phone aside and move to the window. The gardens stretch below, moonlit and peaceful. Deceptively so. Nothing about this situation is peaceful.
My thoughts drift to Christina. Our last meeting. The way she held herself in that private room—different somehow. Something has shifted in her recently that I can't quite name.
I close my eyes, remembering every detail. The subtle changes I noticed but didn't examine.
A new vulnerability beneath her armor. A softness to her features that wasn't there before. The way she moves now—careful, protective, one hand occasionally drifting toward her stomach before she catches herself.
The realization hits like ice water poured down my spine.
I've spent years learning her body. Her moods. The way she carries herself when she's tired versus stressed versus afraid. I know her rhythms better than I know my own heartbeat.
She's pregnant.
The timeline unfolds in my mind with brutal clarity. Eleven, maybe twelve weeks, based on when we last shared a bed. When I still believed I could have everything without choosing anything.
Mine. The child is mine.
I grip the windowsill until my knuckles go white. My heart pounds against my ribs with something between terror and wonder. The room spins slightly.
I'm going to be a father.
The woman carrying my child is fighting for her throne while my family plots her destruction. While my mother fabricates claims to delegitimize her. While my sister gleefully plans social media attacks designed to make her miserable.
And I've been helping from the shadows like a coward. Passing information through burner phones instead of standing beside her openly. Protecting myself while she faces the wolves alone.
I want to go to her. Right now. Tonight. Demand answers. Offer—what, exactly?
My support? She has Daniel Cromwell for that now. My protection? I can barely protect myself from my own mother's schemes. My love?
I gave up any right to offer that when I announced Catherine's name. When I chose political advantage over the woman who trusted me with her heart. When I proved myself exactly the coward she always suspected I was.
But the knowledge burns in my chest like a brand that won't fade.
My child. Growing inside her while she dismantles the family that stole her birthright. My child, who will inherit a throne I helped secure through cowardly information drops and secret meetings.
Does she know I've figured it out? She must know she's pregnant—the doctor would have confirmed it by now. Is she terrified? Relieved? Furious that of all the complications life could throw at her, it chose this particular disaster?
I press my forehead against the cold glass. The moon hangs full and indifferent over gardens my family tends with stolen money.
Christina is carrying my child. And I have absolutely no right to claim either of them.
I gave those rights away. Publicly. Spectacularly. In front of everyone who mattered. In front of her.
The irony is exquisite in its cruelty. Hunter Valdren, who announced his engagement to Catherine Montclair for political advantage, now watches from the shadows while the woman he actually loves builds a future without him.
With his child.
The burning in my chest spreads. Not quite pain. Something rawer. Ownership without rights. Longing without permission. A father's claim he forfeited before he knew it existed.
My child. My Christina.
Neither of them mine anymore.
I stay at the window until the moon set, consumed by knowledge I cannot share and choices I cannot unmake.
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