Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 88960 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88960 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
I want to see his almost-smile. The one where the corner of his mouth twitches and his eyes crinkle just slightly and he looks at me like I’ve surprised him. Like I’m a puzzle he wasn’t expecting to enjoy solving.
I want to make him laugh again. That real laugh, the one from the blanket incident, the one that transformed his whole face and made my heart do something completely irresponsible.
So I throw myself into being the best queen I can be.
I learn the staff’s names. Not just Mrs. Lyme, but everyone. Thomas the gardener, who has three grandchildren and grows prize-winning dahlias. Arlene the cook, whose chocolate torte recipe has been in her family for four generations. Connie and Josie, the maids who always work together and finish each other’s sentences.
I ask about their lives. Their families. Their hobbies. I remember the details and ask follow-up questions the next day.
And slowly, the distance closes.
The staff start seeking me out instead of avoiding me. Their shoulders relax when I enter a room. Their smiles come quicker, easier—the kind that crinkle at the corners and reach all the way up.
Mrs. Lyme brings me tea without being asked. Thomas waves when I walk past his roses. Arlene—formidable, terrifying Arlene who previously acknowledged my existence with nothing more than a curt nod—actually winks when she hands me my torte.
Winks. Arlene.
I spend a full thirty seconds convinced I hallucinated it.
“The staff are talking,” Mrs. Lyme tells me over breakfast on day three. Her voice is warm in a way I’ve never heard before. “About what you did at the party.”
“What I did?”
“Held your head high. Smiled through the wine incident. Laughed off the pronunciation mistake.” She pauses. “Made friends with Lady Celine, who has been singing your praises to anyone who will listen.”
I think of Celine—her bright eyes, her cheerful confidence, her utter lack of filter. Of course she’s been telling everyone. Celine probably has a newsletter by now. A podcast. Possibly a documentary in the works.
“She’s also been telling everyone about the three kings.” The corner of Mrs. Lyme’s mouth curves. “How they watched over you all night. How Devyn called them personally before he left.”
My cheeks flush. “She told people about that?”
“She told everyone about that. The maids have been swooning for days.” Mrs. Lyme’s almost-smile deepens. “Apparently, it’s ‘the most romantic thing they’ve ever heard.’”
I press my hands to my burning face. Great. Wonderful. The entire territory is swooning over my husband’s overprotective tendencies and I’m going to die of embarrassment before he even gets home.
But also...he’s going to be so proud.
Right?
I imagine telling him. Imagine his almost-smile. Imagine him pulling me close and murmuring something possessive and French against my hair while I pretend to be annoyed and secretly melt into a puddle of feelings.
I’ve been rehearsing what I’ll say when he walks through the door. Something casual. Breezy. “Oh, hello, I’ve just been running your household and winning hearts and being generally magnificent, no big deal.”
Okay, maybe not that. But something good. Something that makes him do the almost-smile.
Day four. I call him.
He answers on the third ring. His voice is clipped. Professional.
“How is everything?”
“Good.” I curl up on the window seat in our bedroom and tell him about the chocolate torte. About Arlene’s wink. About Celine’s apparent PR campaign.
Silence.
“You’re popular,” he says. His voice is strange. Flat.
“Apparently.” I laugh a little, waiting for the warmth. The almost-smile I can hear in his voice. “Mrs. Lyme says the territory is talking about—about what you did. With the kings.”
More silence.
“Devyn?”
“I have to go.” His voice is curt now. Closed. “I’ll be home soon.”
The line goes dead.
I stare at the phone.
Did I say something wrong?
I try calling back that evening. He doesn’t answer.
I try again the next morning. Straight to voicemail.
He’s busy, I tell myself. He’s investigating a murder. He’s dealing with territory business. He’s—
My stomach cramps.
It’s a familiar feeling. The same twist of dread I used to get when Heart’s office door would close and her voice would go quiet. The same sick certainty that something bad was coming and I couldn’t stop it.
No. Stop it, Bailey. He’s just busy. This isn’t like before.
But my stomach doesn’t believe me.
Day five.
I hear the commotion first—doors opening, footsteps, the low murmur of voices in the hall.
He’s home.
My heart leaps. I’m out of bed before I’ve fully processed what I’m doing, throwing on a robe, running my fingers through my hair. The cramp in my stomach loosens. See? Everything is fine. He’s home. I’ll tell him about the torte and the wink and he’ll do the almost-smile and—
Mrs. Lyme appears in my doorway.
Her face is wrong. Pinched. The pleasant mask she always wears has cracked, and underneath is something that looks like dread.
“Your Majesty.” She pauses. “The king has requested your presence in the library.”