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I frown. “So where does the favor come in?”

Throwing the car into park, he turns to me. “Regina Thorn.”

“Last year’s Baroness?”

He gestures to the building in front of us. “She’s going to be at this thing.”

Slowly, I say, “Oh.”

“We need to know what the Baroness’ initiation is. Maybe there’s some way we can get to her. Just,” he stresses, “to ask her about what happened to her.”

“So you want me to pump Regina for intel,” I wager, shrugging. “No problem.”

His eyes grow intense. “You have to be careful, though. I won’t risk a sister to save a girlfriend. You understand? Plus,” he shifts uncomfortably, “if your Princes find out I even asked you to do this, my nickname would become strictly symbolic.”

My face softens. “I understand.”

“It does make me wonder…” He turns his gaze to the building, grimacing. “I mean, I know it’s not any of my business, but what are you going to do once classes start back up?”

This is easy to answer. “I’m taking the semester off.”

He pins me with a look. “I mean as Princess. The masquerade should be gearing up in the next week. New Princess, new Princes?—”

I cut him off. “We’re not doing that.”

“No?”

“A new Princess isn’t chosen until the birth of the baby. The next masquerade is scheduled for the winter—just like mine.”

“And you’re okay with that? Another Princess? Another coronation?”

The expression on his face tells me he knows well enough what I went through, and what the next woman will go through as well.

“Let me get through this party and the birth of my son.” I open the door. “Then we’ll figure out what to do next.”

It’s beenforty-five minutes since I walked in the doors of the Gilded Rose, and I’ve had my stomach touched, my tits commented on, a pimple pointed out, and my glow discussed, along with how much weight I’ve gained, and one particularly invasive question about my bowel movements.

“What size bra are you up to?” That question is from Kira, who had her baby last month. She’s already proudly told me how she’s back to her pre-baby weight and shared a terrifying story about how at the hospital, after giving birth, they made her wear mesh, paper underpants for three days. “If you go up another size, which it looks like you probably will, you may as well just start getting nursing bras,” she continues. “No reason to waste money on both.”

I muster up a tight smile. “Thanks for the tip.”

“Any time,” she says. “No one told me anything about what the hospital stay would be like. I’ve vowed to share everything I learned.”

Everyone needs a purpose, I suppose.

She continues, “And the sitz bath is your friend once you get home. It’s the best way to get healed up down there.”

I’m the Princess, I want to tell her. I became Princess by sitting on a ceremonial dildo. I know all about healing up an abused pussy. But I don’t. I just nod and exhale in relief when she spots an empty seat across the room.

I wasn’t faking my hesitation about coming to the shower today, but it’s not about the women in my court or a wariness about watching West End Maggie in her tight body-con dress listen intently to Lakshmi as she talks about some new shampoo that makes her hair shine. Or Lavinia, with an empty plate, as she sits next to Kira, patiently looking at photo after photo of her baby. It’s not Story and her herculean effort to make small talk with Regina over by the teacakes with tiny ice-blue booties on top.

It’s not even my mother, Liberty Sinclaire, dressed absolutely nothing like a grandma-to-be in her leopard print dress, or the fact she’s sitting in a tight circle, holding a delicate china tea cup, deep in discussion with Adeline and Mrs. Crane.

It’s whoisn’there.

Laura Walker. Kelsey Livingston. Stella St. James.

Stella would have loved everything about this, from the china pattern to the handmade banner over the door made out of felt and ribbon welcoming ‘Baby Ashby’ to the delicious food and tantalizing gossip.