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I blink, trying to process what he’s saying. “Oh.” And then, “Oh. I… I understand.”

“Excellent.” Father smiles. “Her red hair.”

“Sir?”

His eyes have gone a little glassy, I’m now realizing. He must be on his third drink by now–maybe even his fourth. “Her red hair with your amber eyes,” he says, watching me with an expression that makes me want to squirm.

I think it’s wistfulness.

And I don’t know what the ever-loving fuck to do with it.

Father isn’t wistful. Sure, he runs on ritual and routine, but he doesn’t sentimentalize, and if he ever did, it wouldn’t be about us.

He visibly shakes it off, putting down his glass and pushing it away. “Well, I’ll have the handmaiden deliver her to the clinic. You can perform the examination, and if everything is all clear, you may make your first deposit.”

“Tonight?” I stiffly ask. It’s a dumb question. Yesterday was Wick’s responsibility and today is mine.

He waits a beat. “Is that a problem?”

The piles of homework, the paper that needs to get written, and every other obligation hanging over my head comes to the forefront of my mind. I needsleep.

I shake my head. “No, sir.”

“Thank you, son. I can always count on you.”

I recognize the look he gives me is one of dismissal, and I stand, adding, “I’ll go directly to the clinic and get everything ready for the Princess.”

“One last thing,” he says, triggering a tremor up my spine. Father always has the last word. “When I said earlier that failure is not an option, that wasn’t an idle threat. Verity Sinclaire will be with child, one ofyourchildren, at the end of three months.”

I nod, well aware of the consequences of not meeting Father’s expectations, except even I can sense the difference here. He wants an heir. Demands it. And will get it by any means necessary.

That’s what scares the fuck out of me.

7

Verity

At the endof the day, it takes me twenty minutes to find the way back to my room.

I’m exhausted and confused by the corridors, trying desperately to remember if the portrait I passed this morning was a man with a beard or a man with a powdered wig. It doesn’t actually matter. I only find portraits of a man in a military uniform, landscapes with white roses, bland still lifes, and cherubs. God, the cherubs. Pale, pink-cheeked, creepy as hell babies can be found on any floor and in any hallway.

I’d spent most of the day out in the cold, twiggy gardens, hiding from people who probably didn’t even need to be hidden from. From the looks of the place when I came in for dinner to an empty table in an empty room, the Princes and their King were gone the whole time. Now I regret not using the opportunity to explore.

I take a left at Military Man, and then a right at Religiously Grumpy Cherub, and then–

Yes, there it is.

Powdered Wig Dude.

I give him a sour glance as I retrace my steps from this morning, finally finding myself in front of a large, gilded door. Remy was right about that much. Everything in this place is covered in a thin veneer of gold, and this door in particular stands out, heavy and ornately carved. It takes me a long moment to work past the dread roiling in my stomach, but when I do, I push it open, revealing the yawning suite. It’s already all lit up, the chandelier gleaming, and the first thing my gaze seeks out is the bed beneath it.

The big, lush, gloriouslyemptybed.

The knot of tension in my belly slowly unwinds. Tonight, there’s also a fire in the fireplace, burning low, as if I’d been expected much, much earlier than nine-o-clock.

“You’re late.”

That’s a clue, too.