Page 134 of Bitter Prince

I had to see him one more time. I needed to talk to him one more time.

The party invitation burned my fingers as I handed it to the bouncer. I felt like a fraud, but I was determined. He couldn’t avoid me forever. He owed me an explanation.

In my heart, I knew what we shared wasn’t a lie. All of it had been real. I felt it in the marrow of my bones, in my every breath and every heartbeat.

Once inside, I forced myself to take calming breaths as I drifted around the open terrace.

A black lacquered bar with gold accents spanned the whole eastern side of the venue’s open space. It was filled with top-shelf liquor bottles. Servers circulated the space with trays of gin and tonics, champagne, and wine-filled glasses.

Soft laughter filled every corner of the terrace. Plush seating scattered throughout the area, surrounding the dance floor. There was a corner with card players and dealers lording over the tables. People danced and laughed, their happiness mocking my misery.

The night sky projected breathtaking constellations, showing a blood moon. While I contemplated whether that was a good or bad sign, the soft murmuring of the crowd got louder as everyone’s heads turned to the man who’d so effortlessly stolen my heart. He was still breathtakingly beautiful. It still hurt to look at his face, the unmoving mask that didn’t smile.

My heart thumped hard and its ache made my eyes burn. I moved on autopilot. I had to get to him. I had to tell him, and then if he didn’t want anything to do with me—with us—I would disappear and he’d never hear from me again.

Together.He said we’d deal with it together.

“You shouldn’t be here.” A soft voice pulled my attention, and I found a petite woman in a beautiful kimono standing in front of me. I didn’t have to wonder who it was. I’d seen her once before.

Amon’s mother. Similar features. Same beautiful hair. Same colored eyes.

Except hers looked cold.

I forced a smile on. “You must be Mrs.…” Unsure what to call her, I added, “Amon’s mother.”

She nodded. “I am.” Disapproval stared back at me and I wrapped my hands around myself, almost like a shield to protect me from it. Her stony expression set her apart from Amon. “You shouldn’t be here.”

My eyes flicked to the other side of the terrace, to Amon. To the boy who always saved me. Except this time, the bad feeling in my chest warned there’d be no saving me. Not from his mother. Not from himself.

“I’m not staying,” I said, straightening my shoulders and tilting my chin up. “I just have to talk to Amon.”

“Who is this?” a familiar voice came from behind me and I whirled around, coming face-to-face with Amon’s father. Angelo Leone. He was as scary as I remembered him. He leered at me, causing me to take a step back and put distance between us. Suddenly, he threw his head back and laughed. “No need to wonder anymore. Reina Romero. You’re the spitting image of your mother.”

The man gave me the creeps. Without acknowledging him, I made my way to the opposite side of the terrace. I felt Mr. Leone’s eyes burning a hole in my back, but all I focused on was the familiar dark figure before me.

One step. Two steps.

He was too far, not far enough. My pulse raced and I forced myself to move. A familiar song drifted on the summer breeze and my steps faltered.

Lana Del Rey’s “Cinnamon Girl.”

My breath caught, unable to draw air in properly. Or enough of it. I tried so hard to regain my composure, but the images of sweet, brooding Amon played in my mind. Our first Japanese dinner together. Eating ice cream. Lanterns. My birthday.

That was our song drifting across the open floor while the stars flickered in the dark sky. It was mine and his—nobody else should ever dance to it. At least not with him.

My gaze found Amon’s, but in those eyes I loved so much, there was nothing. He just stared stonily back at me, telling me to go. Telling me I was not wanted. For a moment, he didn’t move a muscle, staring stubbornly at me.

“Amon…” His name was a soundless whisper, a painful scratch against my throat.

It took all my effort not to cry, the knowledge that he had erased all we shared and left nothing behind stealing my breath.

I loved him; he didn’t love me back. Maybe he never did. Maybe it was all a game to him. I gave him everything. He gave me… what? Heartache.

My mother’s words carried in the wind, whispering,I gave up everything for him. And he gave me nothing. You hear me, Reina? He gave us nothing!

Maybe it was heartache that killed Mamma, just as it was slowly killing me.

I swallowed hard as I forced myself to take another step. I had to tell him. Just three little words:I. Am. Pregnant. He could accept them or deny them; I’d worry about the rest afterward.