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“Thank you,” I reply, giving him a tight smile.

We’re waved quickly through, but not before I see him pick up a walkie-talkie.

Sy coughs a laugh into his fist. “Fuck, Ver. You’re kind of a big deal around here, huh?” He snorts. “‘Your Highness.’ I thought he was going to shit his pants.”

I groan, slumping in the seat. “I assure you, I’mnota big deal. If anything, I just broke a million rules by showing up unannounced.” And I’m about to enter a room filled with members of my Court, who hate me, while also completely blindsiding my Prince. “But again, thanks for bringing me.”

Sy pulls into the motor court, and my door is quickly opened. “You need a ride home?” he asks, “Or I can pick you up at the boundary line.”

“Maybe.” My stomach flutters with nerves. “I’ll let you know.”

I take the hand of the attendant, accepting his help out of the car. With one last nod, Sy revs his engine and wastes no time peeling out of the portico. The guard clearly let everyone know I was coming, because, on the way in, everyone seems to recognize me.

“Princess,” the attendant greets, and then the doorman, and then a smartly dressed woman who ushers me down the hall. I never get a chance to touch a doorknob or ask for directions. It’s as if they hand me off, one by one, in some twisted Royal relay.

According to Adeline, the Mother’s Day tea party is a long-standing tradition in East End. Pregnant Princesses aren’t graced with an invitation unless they’re past the twenty-week mark, which is an indicator of a healthy fetus. That, or they’re attending with their own mothers. It’s not just women, though. Sons are included as a way to show off the young men of East End, as well as providing an opportunity for matchmaking.

None of those reasons are why Wicker is here.

He’s a diamond, flashy and bright, used to make one or more of these women feel special.

The room is crowded and a little warm, a group of women by the door gossiping about the cake table. “Twenty-four karat gold flakes on some of the petit fours,” one is saying. Another offers, “I heard she paid the patisserie an extra five grand to cut in front of a Senator whose daughter is having a sweet sixteen.” A third gushes, “She’s really outdone herself. Last year’s cakes were half the cost, and already the talk of the town.”

I recognize more people than I expect, probably a sign of how long I’ve been in East End. The women in my Court are scattered throughout the room. No tennis skirts and crop tops today. Everyone has on their Sunday finest, floral-print dresses that come at least to the knee, if not the ankle. I see Kira, her belly even bigger than before. One of the women fawning over the cakes bears the same features and flawless brown skin as Lakshmi; she has to be her mother. Near the dining room doors is a short, squat woman with a rope of pearls around her neck, and two feet away, looking uncomfortable and bitter, is her daughter, Heather.

But I’m not here to see my Court. Those cunts can all go fuck themselves.

I spot my target right by the absurd dessert display, past one of the enormous flower arches. They’re roses, obviously, but not the white shade of purity I’ve grown resentfully accustomed to. These are a subtle shade of blush pink; a maternal color.

He’s in a pale blue suit, looking as if he just walked off the pages of a spring menswear catalog. He is, as expected, surrounded by women. The event may be a tea, but he’s holding a flute of champagne in his hand. I recognize the woman on his arm from the fundraiser: Trudie Stein.

I observe nervously as she leans into him, touching his shoulder. Taking a deep breath and straightening my shoulders, I approach the circle and squeeze in next to him. “There you are,” I say, pushing up on my tiptoes to press a kiss on his cheek. “Sorry for being so late.”

I wobble at the height difference, but almost as if he’s expecting it, his arm circles around my waist to balance me. The only hint of surprise Wicker allows is the smallest lift of his brow. He’s too good, otherwise. Good at faking it. We’re practiced from the shows on campus.

The women around him are less adept. There’s a ripple of horror spreading through them. I don’t belong here, and with the way Trudie is staring daggers at my hand on Wicker’s arm, she’s making it clear I don’t belong nearhim, specifically.

Wrong, bitch.

“Princess,” he says, casually scanning the room. “I was starting to worry about you.”

I take his stiff hand and pry open his fingers, flattening them over my belly. “Turns out none of my dresses fit anymore, so I had to go out and get something for this special event.”

“Well, you look breathtaking,” he says, taking in the pale green wraparound dress I bought on a last-minute trip to Forsyth Center.Shit. Did I take off the tag?

“Princess,” Trudie says, lips pressed into a coldly polite smile. “I wasn’t aware you’d passed the twenty-week mark.”

“Not quite,” I admit, rubbing my palm over Wicker’s knuckles, “but when I found out about the tea, I just couldn’t resist making an appearance in support of all the mothers in Forsyth.” I glance around dramatically. “Are you here with your own children? I’d love to meet them.”

The other women watch our exchange like volleys over a net.

Trudie doesn’t give an inch, still shoulder-to-shoulder with Wicker. “Sadly, they couldn’t be here. My daughter Brooklyn is finishing up her coursework in Scotland, and Armand is in Asia.”

“Oh,” I ask, feigning interest. “Also studying?”

There’s a soft snort from one of the women, who quickly covers it up with a cough into her handkerchief. Trudie shoots her a glare.

“Armand is on a journey of self-exploration. I’m sure he’ll return soon.” She smiles at Wicker, reaching up to straighten his collar. “I’m grateful Mr. Ashby has volunteered to be my escort in their absence.”