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Volunteer, my ass. Wicker hasn’t moved his hand from my stomach, and he’s gone strangely quiet. Okay, maybe not strangely. I’ve placed him in the middle of a rock and a hard place. Chances are, he’s not overly fond of either of us.

Up front, the orchestra wraps up their song.

“That’s the signal for us to head to the dining room for the tea serving,” Trudie announces. Everyone starts toward the double doors that lead to the adjacent room. From here, I see dozens of circular tables, laden with fine china and centerpieces. Trudie lingers, casting me a sympathetic smile. “I apologize, Princess, but you weren’t on the list, so you’ll be unable to sit at my table. I can squeeze you in the back if you’d like.” A hand flutters at her chest. “Oh, I hope you won’t take offense if you’re not offered a petit four. They were custom ordered and exquisitely designed for only those who RSVPed.” She looks at my Prince. “Whitaker, are you ready?”

“I need a moment to speak to the Princess,” he says, sliding his fingers off my belly and down to my hand. “Go ahead without me.”

I’d like to say Trudie’s displeasure was obvious, but the Botox injections make expressive cues impossible to read. Her anger only comes through when she steps up to him and flattens her hands over his lapels. “Don’t make me look foolish,” she quietly says, leaning in to kiss his cheek. “Today, you belong to me.” I don’t miss the icy look she shoots me, nor the scorching fury it ignites in my chest.

“I’m so sorry,” I cut in, matching her tense, frigid smile. “But Wicker belongs to me first and foremost, especially on an occasion meant to honor the mother of his child.” Raising my eyebrows, I adopt an innocent, guileless look. “But I can always call my father and double-check. He certainly wouldn’t want any misunderstandings as to the priority of his Prince.”

She turns the full force of her stare on me. “Maybe you’re mistaken, Princess, because much like the catering, I paid five figures to have something pretty on my arm today.” The smile might still be plastered on her face, but the words she speaks are gritted through clenched teeth.

So are mine. “Then maybe you should have bought a watch.”

Her eyes spark, a vein in her forehead popping, and for a split second, I really think Trudie might throw down.

And then Wicker steps between us, whisking me away as he calls out, “I’ll find you shortly, Trudie.”

I’m fuming the whole time he leads me out into the corridor, mostly because I can’t believe she had the fucking nerve, but also because I’m a daughter of West End. I was learning punches and grapple holds at the age of nine. I could rearrange the plastic in her goddamn face.

But I’m pregnant.

And I can’t fuckingfight.

It’s only when we reach the middle of the hallway that Wicker whirls on me, face pinched as he hisses, “Are you fucking serious?”

“Me?!” I shriek, gaping at him in outrage. “That woman deserves a heel in her eye socket!”

His eyes widen in disbelief. “Why? Because she made a deal with my Father that forces me to pretend I’m a doting lover to her in public?”

“Yes!”

He snaps straight, blue eyes pinning me. “So only you’re allowed to do that.”

“Yes!” The answer is instinctive, but as his response sinks into my brain, I add, “No!” And then, “Wait—what? That’s not the same!”

But for a moment, I’m not so sure. There’s this thing I’ve noticed about Wicker when we’re performing as happy Royals on campus. He always touches me—fingers entwined with mine, a hand on the small of my back, or sometimes, even a kiss—and he’s good at it. Practiced, fluid, just like he is on the ice.

But his eyes, as beautiful as they are, are always fixed somewhere in the distance.

Just like they were with Trudie.

The realization grips my chest like a fist.

“What are you doing here, Red?” he asks, sounding tired. “This isn’t the kind of party you breakinto.”

“It’s…” I swallow, trying to shake the sick feeling from my stomach. “It’s Mother’s Day, and you’re my—well,one ofmybaby’s daddies. I know you may not want to spend the day with me, but you sure as fuck shouldn’t spend it with that predator.”

“Still, after all this time, you think I have a choice.” His chuckle is devoid of any humor, barbed and jarring as he advances on me. “You come waltzing in here like you own me, but the truth is, you can’t pay the price. So if you want to piss on my leg because you’re jealous—”

“I didn’t come here because I’m jealous!” I squawk, leaning away. “I came here to apologize. And to rescue you.”

“Rescue me?” he scoffs, lip curling snidely. “Because I need rescuing.”

“Because you’re more than this!”

The snarl on his face deepens. “Don’t you dare tell me what I am. You think the way you’re whoring yourself out is more righteous than mine because it makes a baby?”