The stylist Marie had also said something about getting a dress in a week but it hadn’t quite penetrated the fog of Phoebe’s brain. Now she blinked up at Octavio, eyes wide with surprise. ‘Aweek?’
‘The sooner the better,’ he agreed.
‘A week.’ Phoebe struggled to draw in breath. She pressed a hand to her belly, heart pounding. She could do this. Shehadto do this. She’d agreed, for the sake of their baby, and Octavio’s role as King required a certain amount of play-acting. If he wanted her to go out there and sell herself as the doting, lovedup Queen-to-be, so be it. He was right—the time for ‘deer in the headlights’ was over. ‘All right. I’m ready.’
His surprise was obvious, his eyes scanning her face as if looking for vestiges of doubt, but there were none. Phoebe had been terrified a moment ago but now, she was ready. She could do this—she had to.
When he’d first seen Phoebe, he’d been mesmerised by her grace. He remembered thinking that she moved as if she were in a ballet. It turned out, she acted like it, too. He was almost rendered speechless by the way she captivated the photographers, charming them with her casual yet intelligent conversation, moving with fluid grace and beauty, smiling in a way that seemed to channel every star in the heavens.
‘We’ll always share the stars, my darling.’
He pushed his mother’s voice from his mind, not wanting to think about her then. Not wanting to wonder if she’d have approved of the way he’d manoeuvred this marriage or not—because he suspected she wouldn’t have.
‘Your Majesty, we thought we’d try a photograph of the pair of you standing by the trees here. The pink of the oleander will pick up Miss James’s complexion so nicely.’
He glanced across at his bride-to-be and saw what they were saying—her cheeks were sweetly pink, her lips, too. ‘Fine.’ He sounded gruff and impatient—now who needed help playing a part?
As if to remind him, Phoebe reached down and took his hand. But what might have appeared to be a normal thing for a couple to do was actually a tight squeeze from his fiancée, to prompt him into behaving.
Something twisted in his gut. Frustration. Annoyance.Need.
Sleeping on the sofa had been almost unbearable. He’d craved her for more than a month and a half, but he’d put up with it. He hadn’t even known for sure that she was still in Castilona. But now she was in his palace, in his apartment, just one room away, and he wanted her with a ferocity that almost felled him. Yet he’d stayed on the sofa, hadn’t pushed his cause, and he wouldn’t. If they were together again, it would be because she asked him. He wasn’t going to throw himself at her—he wasn’t going to debase himself by risking rejection. Not from Phoebe. He’d known enough rejection in his life, and he’d survived it, but somewhere deep inside he understood that if Phoebe kept pushing him away it would be worse somehow.
In front of the trees, he stood as stiff as a board. Little wonder the renowned portrait photographer frowned. ‘Could you try a different pose? Just relax. Pretend we’re not here,’ she invited with a wry smile.
Phoebe turned around and her own frown echoed the photographer’s. ‘You look miserable,’ she murmured.
‘I’m not.’
‘Then why do you look as though you’re about to walk on a bed of nails?’
He flashed her a look and felt a weird tug on his lips. A half-smile.
‘Better,’ she said, tilting her head, ‘but not quite good enough.’
She stood on tiptoes, whispering into his ear so only he could hear. ‘I am pregnant with your children and in less than six months you’ll have your heirs. Surely that’s enough to make you smile for a few photos? Remember, this was your idea.’ But she tilted her head after she’d spoken and a form of madness overtook him, so instead of just saying he agreed, he angled his own face and caught her mouth with his, kissing her even though he hadn’t meant to and she hadn’t expected it.
Kissing her even though she wore lipstick and they weren’t alone. Kissing her as if he had every right, as if they were a real couple, as if it was the only path for his salvation. Kissing her even when he’d vowed to himself moments earlier that he wouldn’t keep putting himself in a position to be rejected by Phoebe.
He didn’t want to be rejected by her.
He pulled away and managed to control his reactions to her, to his body’s sharp physical need for her, assuming a mask of control. ‘I remember what we’re doing, Phoebe—pretending to be a couple in love. Let’s just get this over with.’ He saw her frown and hated himself as soon as he’d said the words; he saw the hurt in her eyes and wanted to punch something.
He was so angry with her for keeping the pregnancy from him, for what had almost happened. If he hadn’t seen her in the hospital, quite by chance, he would never have known about these babies, and that was a reality he could never accept.
And yet she was here and had agreed to marry him. It wasn’t fair to continually punish her for a decision she’d made, according to herself, out of a desire to do what was right by him.
He opened his mouth to apologise, but she was already stepping back from him. ‘I just need to check my make-up,’ she said with a wave of her hand, gliding away from him as though he were a bomb set to detonate.
In the end, the photos they got were excellent. Only Phoebe could see beyond the poses they’d chosen to imitate a happy couple to the lines of tension around Octavio’s eyes or the slightly too static line of her own smile. The announcements had predictably set off a feeding frenzy. Octavio had been wrong—sharing a couple of images and a press release hadn’t come close to assuaging the interest in their romance. Some staff at thehospital evidently decided it would be more profitable to become royal informants rather than continue working their jobs and had breachedclínicaregulations by professing to be Phoebe’s dearest confidants and having all sorts of inside details on the relationship.
Of course, that was false. There had been no relationship, and what she and Octavio had shared had been kept completely private by Phoebe. She’d had no interest in discussing her personal life with anyone. She’d still been reeling from the breakup with Christopher and had learned not to trust anyone with anything.
Phoebe had left school at sixteen, when her mother had become sick and couldn’t work. She hadn’t really kept in touch with any of those friends and yet a couple of them were also cashing in on their tenuous links to Europe’s new soon-to-be queen. Old school photos surfaced on the internet, as well as silly anecdotes about her teen years. ‘I always knew she was destined for something amazing. Phoebe’s the kind of person who could do anything she wanted in life. She’ll make a wonderful queen.’ That quote had been from her high school English teacher, and it made her smile. Of all the people who’d been interviewed about Phoebe, Mrs Warwick was the one who had actually known her. She’d pushed her to stay in school.
‘You’re too bright to walk away from this, Phoebe. You have such potential.’
There were trolls, too. Everyone had opinions on Phoebe, and apparently, she didn’t live up to what they saw as Octavio’s match. The comments, whether good or bad, were infuriating. She was tempted to throw her phone into the lake that sat perfectly in the south gardens of the palace.
