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The room erupts into shocked murmurs and instinctive yelps as the whip hits again.

“I should have killed you,” Lex says, eyes fixed to the screen. He looks sick, like he’s about to vomit all over his shiny shoes.

My God, revenge is delicious and sweet.

It’s the final lash that does it, though I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s the sound he makes through the speakers, low and pained, a whimper that seems to snap him into action.

He barrels at me, clamping my wrist in a vicious grip. “I should have killed you like I wanted to. I told them to! You fucking bitch!” His eyes are an inferno, but within them, I see a depthless hopelessness.

I grin back at him, showing my teeth. “Good. I’d rather be dead than create anything with you. Do you really think I ever wanted any of you twisted psychos to be the father of an innocent child?”

The insult, the truth of what I’m saying, lands. All those times I begged them to put a child in me…

It was nothing but lies.

A performance.

He lunges for me, catching me around the throat and squeezing. Gasping for air, I manage to drop the last of my arsenal. “You kill me now, and you’ll also kill the baby.”

There’s a stretch of time where it feels like everyone in the room must be being strangled the same as me. There are no sounds, no breaths.

His amber eyes explode in alarm, grip tightening. “What did you say?”

I don’t fight, wondering for a moment what it’d be like to let him squeeze the life out of me. If it was just me, I’d let him, but it’s no longer just me.

“I’m pregnant.”

Immediately, he insists, “You’re lying.”

I answer by clawing at my clutch, dipping a frantic hand inside to grab the plastic. I hold it up, head throbbing as I struggle to breathe. Lex’s gaze snaps to it–the two bars indicating a positive test–and fixes there, dazed on it.

It’s only a few seconds later that he’s wrenched away, the action jarring and violent, causing me to sputter and stumble.

“You will not harm her,” comes a snarled, frosty hiss. “No one will harm her!” King Ashby stands between me and Lex, his disconcerting gaze swinging to me. “Is this real?” he asks in an urgent, demanding voice. “You’re with child?”

Grasping my throat, I nod, handing him the test. My voice emerges strained and uneven. “I took it yesterday. Ten of them, just to be certain. My handmaiden helped me.”

Ashby clutches the test with wide, frantic eyes, reading the bars. “You’re pregnant,” he states, his crazed eyes meeting mine. “Their seed has taken root?”

Suddenly terrified, I nod, seeing Wicker in the distance, pushing through the bodies between us.

“This is it,” Ashby breathes, glancing between me and the test. “You’re carrying the heir to East End.”

“Who cares?” Lex spits, murder still burning in his eyes. “She’s a fucking fraud! A liar and traitor! We should throw her into the dungeon!”

Whirling on him, Ashby barks, “She’s the Princess!”

Gaping, Lex flings a hand toward me. “She’s a fucking hostage!”

But then Ashby roars, the rawness of it striking the entire ballroom into stunned silence. “She’smy biological daughter!”

It reverberates like a gunshot, and the bullet finds a home in the middle of my chest when I realize this isn’t meant symbolically. I can see it in the eyes of my Princes, heads snapping back in shock.

It’s a lie.

It has to be.

There’s no way that Rufus Ashby, King of East End, is my father. My father is a nameless DKS frat boy who left Forsyth before I was born. My mother told me this, time and time again.

Except…

My clutch tumbles to the floor, banging onto the marble with athud.

Ashby turns to me, his crazed eyes as bright as spotlights. “You’re my daughter, Verity. And you’re carrying my grandchild.” I’m useless to do more than stand here, still and stiff as a statue as he reaches out, palms framing my flat belly. “Through your womb, my legacy will endure.”

He stares at it–my stomach, which will surely be swelling soon–and sinks to his knees, his expression all at once drawn and full of awe. “You don’t just carry the heir to East End. You’re carrying the heir to my crown.”