‘Excellent.’ Marie consulted her elegant gold wristwatch. ‘I’ve taken up too much of your time.’
‘That’s fine. It’s not like I have anything else scheduled.’
‘Actually—’ Marie tapped the side of her phone efficiently ‘—someone from protocol has been waiting to meet with you. We’ll leave you to it.’
‘Someone from protocol’ happened to be an incredibly intimidating man in his sixties who seemed to carry an encyclopaedic knowledge of Castilona, the royal family, the rituals, histories, priorities and requirements. He spent an hour going through what he deemed to be the most vital—mainly surrounding her etiquette whilst engaging in public duties. ‘This is only a photoshoot,’ he said with a wave of his hand. ‘There’ll only be a few people in attendance, so it’s a good opportunity to practise.’
By then, Phoebe was feeling woozy with everything she would have to convey. Her walk, her expressions, how to hold her hands and position her feet and legs—it was all so much to hold in her mind, she felt like she might explode.
It was a relief when the time for the photoshoot finally approached and a staff member could lead her from the apartment, through the palace, out of a side door and down a wide set of stone steps that led to an elegant courtyard overgrown with vines. Dressed in a loose silk blouse with puffy sleeves, and a pair of slim trousers, her belly was barely noticeable, though her breasts felt enormous.
She looked around and saw a photographer was already set up, surrounded by a few assistants who were busy managing the set up and checking lighting levels. Phoebe stared at them, her heart in her throat. She was so engrossed in their activity that she missed the moment Octavio strode out from an entrance to their left, fixing one of his cuff-links in place.
She missed the way his eyes landed on her and stayed there, heavy on her frame, as if he couldn’t possibly look away. She missed the way admiration softened his features a moment, parting his lips, and she missed the way he fought to regain his equilibrium. She saw only cynicism on his features when he approached her and she realised he was there.
Phoebe shivered at the expression.
‘Ready?’ he asked, one brow lifted.
‘As I’ll ever be.’
‘It’s a photoshoot, not a form of torture.’
‘It’s what the photoshoot represents.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘The beginning of the lie.’
‘I thought you’d be more than comfortable with lying by now? After all, six weeks of keeping your pregnancy from me should have made you practised in deceit.’
She wanted to shove him.
Before she could respond, he reached into his pocket. ‘Here, put this on.’
She glanced down at his hand expecting—strangely enough—something like a microphone. Instead, he held a small black velvet box. Phoebe made no attempt to take it, so a moment later, Octavio impatiently opened the box and turned it around for her to see. Inside was a beautiful ring, a large solitaire diamond in the middle of a circlet of black diamonds.
‘It’s…so lovely,’ she said honestly, and frustratingly, tears sparkled on her lashes. ‘God, I’m going to ruin my make-up.’
He was quiet, his lips pushed together. She reached for the ring, her fingers shaking a little.
‘I don’t trust myself not to drop it,’ she murmured.
With a sound of something like impatience, Octavio removed the ring and took hold of her hand. The moment their flesh connected she felt it—the same thousand little sparks from their first meeting flew through her arm and exploded into a cacophony of fireworks inside her body.
‘It was my mother’s, and my grandmother’s before her.’
‘Oh.’ Her heart twisted. It shouldn’t have made a difference, but somehow it did. Just imagining herself wearing something that was so personally significant felt wrong, given what they meant to each other. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘But it’s obviously very special to you—’
‘And my wife, therefore, should have it.’
‘But I’m not really—’
‘From now on, for all intents and purposes, you are.’ He compressed his lips, glanced across at the photographers then back to Phoebe. He drew her closer, close enough that only she could hear his raspy whisper. ‘Stop acting like a deer in headlights and remember that in a week’s time, you’ll be Queen.’
