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I stare at him for a moment. “Have you tried anything else?”

“I’ve sent her flowers,” he growls, the vein in his temple popping. “Dozens upon fucking dozens of flowers. I bought her one of those diamond-studded coffee mugs that are impossible to find, a necklace that’s worth more than my car, and her favorite designer shoe in every color and sheen.”

“And nothing?”

“Not anything!” He throws his hands in the air. “No ‘thank you’. No ‘I missed you’.Nothing.”

I blink. “Tommy… that’s fucking amazing!”

“Amazing?” His eyes bug out. “I just saw her flirting with some fucking LDZ at the sorority mixer last weekend! She’s moving on. Or worse—rebounding. How is that amazing?”

It’s all I can do not to laugh. “It means she doesn’t want to be bought off.”

His expression scrunches in confusion. “She’s East End. Theyallwant to be bought off.”

God, he’s so dumb. Are all men this dumb? I speak slowly. “Heather may like shiny things—you’re right, most of us do—but when you fuck up by coming on some other girl’s face with glee,it may require a little bit more. Especially when she wants you to prove you actually care about her.”

“What are you talking about?”

Leaning forward, I fix him with a firm look. “I’m going to do you a favor here, Tommy, and help you get Heather back.” I inhale sharply. “And in return, we’re burying this feud.”

His mouth turns down into a small pout. “You don’t know anything about her.”

“I know she’s a woman. More importantly, I know she’s a Forsyth woman.” His eyebrow lifts. “You have to speak the language of Forsyth.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you find that LDZ who was flirting with her,” I say simply, “and you beat him to a pulp.”

He scoffs. “That’s something a DKS would do.”

“Exactly.” I grin, explaining, “The Dukes may be a little rough around the edges and have no use for crystal stemware or caviar, but they understand fighting for what’s important. Is she?” I wonder. “Is she important to you?”

He answers aggressively. “Yes.”

Nodding, I continue, “Then trust me. Heather’s waiting to find out if she’s worth fighting for.” I look around the room, at the guys hesitantly milling around the room, unsure of their future. “And for what it’s worth, they’re waiting to find out if you think PNZ is worth fighting for, too.”

He glances around, finding Pace scowling at him from across the room. “They’re mutts,” he mumbles. “They shouldn’t have even been eligible to become Princes.”

“Well, they did,” I argue, trying not to snap. “And whether you want to believe it or not, no one in this room has earned the position more.”

Arms crossed, he sinks further in his chair. “I would have been a better Prince.”

It’s impossible to look at this imposing, ornery,mopingfigure before me and see anything more than an angry little boy. In fact, the more I look around me, I see it in most of them. Matt Kramus looks harried and uncomfortable, tugging at his collar. Loeffler hasn’t even glanced up from his phone since he sat down. I even see it in my own men, Wicker fidgeting with a fork so hard that he accidentally flings it into his champagne flute, the glass shattering.

Without missing a beat, he covers the mess with his napkin.

All this time, I’ve struggled between the dueling instincts to wear my role of Princess like a Duchess or an Ashby, but the truth has been staring me in the face the whole time.

These men don’t need a King.

They don’t need a Princess.

They need a mother.

“Theodore Loeffler!” I bark, watching the man in question flinch with his whole body. When his gaze jolts to mine, I command, “Put that phone away or I’m going to take it.”

His jaw drops. “But?—!”