Every time she sat down to draft an email in which she quit, her fingers froze. On the rare occasion she drummed up the courage to speak to him directly, the words dried on her tongue. No matter how agonising the torment of knowing her feelings were unreturned—and most likely always would be—she simply could not give him up. She was an addict who craved a regular fix. She was her own worst enemy, and there didn’t seem to be a thing she could do about it.
Her only comfort was knowing she’d always concealed how she felt about him. Her career required her to project confidence and calm, even when on the inside she was anything but, and she’d developed a poker face that had failed her not once in a decade.
Right now, with Ivo’s astonishing pronouncement hanging between them over the vast mahogany partners desk, with the only sound in the room the heavy tick of the grandfather clock behind her and the thundering of her blood in her ears, she’d never appreciated it more.
Outwardly, she barely moved a muscle, but beneath the surface, shock ricocheted through her. Her head spun and it was taking every drop of strength she possessed to remain upright. She’d heard on the grapevine that Princess Amalia had left lunch early, and it was understandable if he therefore bordered on desperate, but had he gone completely and utterly mad?
‘Are you feeling quite well?’ she said in the cool even tone that came to her as naturally as breathing. ‘Should I send for the physician?’
‘I’ve never felt better.’
‘You cannot be serious.’
Ivo’s eyebrows shot up. A muscle jumped in his jaw. He was unaccustomed to being challenged, and honestly, she couldn’t recall the last time she’d had cause to do so. But if ever a situation needed questioning, this was it.
‘It’s hardly something I’d joke about,’ he said flatly. ‘I am in urgent need of a wife, and I choose you.’
Sofia stared at him. Her mouth dried. Her pulse raced. He meant it, she realised, noting his resolve as her stomach gave a ridiculous little leap. He actually meant it. ‘Why?’
‘Because you fulfil my every requirement. You share my values. The monarchy seems to mean almost as much to you as it does to me. You’re level-headed and dedicated. Pragmatic and a realist. Nothing rattles you. We get on well. We make a good team. The skills you possess will be a useful asset when it comes to facing the public and the press. In short, you’re the perfect candidate for the job.’
Ah.
Of course.
Be still her beating heart.
‘And when did this epiphany strike?’ she asked, thinking that he was wrong. Dead wrong. He rattled her all the time, and never more so that at this precise moment.
‘Two minutes ago. When you came in and sat down.’
In other words, when he was all out of options and clutching at straws. ‘I see.’
‘Excellent.’ He nodded briefly and flashed her a smile. ‘I’ll inform the team so they can get things moving.’
Excellent?It wasn’t excellent in the slightest. It was deranged, and she was the biggest fool in the world for imagining, even for ananosecond, that he might feel the same way about her as she did him.
Marrying the King was something Sofia had often fantasised about over the last twelve months or so. Alone at night in her bland rented city centre flat, she regularly closed her eyes and drifted off into various scenes in which he swept her into his arms and declared that he couldn’t live without her. She’d never imagined those dreams becoming reality. And if she had, reality certainly wouldn’t have looked like this. A marriage of convenience that suited him alone? Because time was running out and she was available? No, thank you very much. She might be in love with him, but she did havesomesense of self-preservation.
‘I’m honoured by your proposal, of course,’ she said, before he could reach for the phone, ‘but I’m afraid I’m going to have to respectfully decline.’
He stilled and frowned. His penetrating gaze collided with hers. That muscle ticked harder. ‘Youdecline?’
She nodded. ‘I do.’
‘Why?’
Because this was madness. He wasn’t thinking straight. And even if thiswasan actual proposal, there was no way she’d marry him when her feelings were so obviously unrequited. They’d eat away at her constantly. She’d wind up scrabbling around for crumbs of affection and jettison her dignity in the process. And from there, how long would it be before love and longing turned into bitterness and resentment? She’d managed to hide how she felt about him for over a year but the strain of having to do so up close and personal for decades would likely destroy her.
So the thrills of excitement that were shooting through her like a meteor shower could get lost. As much as she’d been dreading the day he took a wife, at least it would draw a line under her impossible infatuation. At least it would obliterate the absurd hope that he might suddenly, miraculously, see her in a different light. However painful, however much she loved her job, she needed to move on, and she’d marked his wedding day as the moment that would happen. ‘I have other plans.’
‘What other plans?’ he asked, with the innate arrogance that came from being the most powerful man in the land, if not the continent.
‘I’m not sure that’s any of your business.’
He scowled at that. ‘It’s your job to protect the monarchy.’
‘My job, yes, but not my life.’
