Page 36 of Coronation (Royally Forbidden #1)

Twenty-One

Zelda

Mom: Are you on set? I’ve called four times.

Sterling: Any actual credibility to this King story?

Dad: PR team is en route now. Jet lands in two hours.

Sybil: OMFG. ARE YOU BANGING A KING?

Dad: Also consulting in-house counsel.

Cal: What did we get on those burritos when you were in town? They had pineapple or some shit. 10/10 would repeat bang, but can’t remember.

Dad: Send me whatever statement they come up with before you put it out.

Cal: Baby sis. This is fucking urgent. WHAT WAS ON THE BURRITOS???

I knew I didn’t exactly come from a clan of calm, down-to-earth human beings, but the fifty-four text messages I received in the three hours since the story broke are really illustrating how deep the crazy goes.

Trying to keep up with my family’s questions is almost always impossible, because the moment you answer one, they’ll come up with about a dozen more. As there are five of them and one of me, the situation tends to get out of hand pretty quickly.

Not that I can blame them for being concerned. This isn’t the first time I’ve found myself the recipient of unexpected and unwelcome media attention.

It isn’t a comfortable feeling to not just suspect, but to know people are talking about you, lying about you, laughing about you.

Suddenly, your social media accounts are going to be full of strangers asking questions they never would to your face or tagging you in videos that are vapid at best and cruel at worst. You’re getting requests for interviews to “set the record straight,” and reporters are camped outside your door.

You’re not a person anymore, you’re the entertainment for the day, and fighting back only makes it worse.

The only silver lining here—and it’s a pretty thin one—is that at least I know it’s only a matter of time before it gets a whole lot worse.

Davina, the woman who got me into this mess to begin with, seems to agree.

“Oh, shit.” She turns the white, plastic stick upside down, as if the aggressively clear plus sign is going to change form if she looks at it from a different angle.

It doesn’t. I tried.

“Yeah.” I watch my friend set the test down on the table, obviously doing her best not to look horrified. Don’t freak out , might as well be scrolling across her eyeballs like a teleprompter.

Which is good, considering I’m horrified enough for both of us. Actually, am I? Staring at the kitchen wall, I examine my own feelings and find myself curiously absent of any at all.

Shock.

This is shock.

Which, I guess, is to be expected. Considering.

Davina collapses into the chair across from mine, her eyes round. “So, that would mean it’s…” She trails off, glancing toward the local newspaper she brought with her when she came knocking on my door, only to find me teary-eyed and clutching a positive pregnancy test.

Positive.

Pregnant.

I’m pregnant.

I’m pregnant, and because King Benedict the Worst couldn’t keep his eyeballs to himself, the entire world will know—or at least suspect—exactly who the father is.

If I was famous before, it seems that one ill-timed photograph has brought my notoriety to unprecedented levels. This is so much bigger than anything I’ve ever had to face before, and I don’t know what to do.

Even if I were to deny it, my being pregnant and giving birth eight months after this story—possibly to a scowling, dark-eyed baby—wouldn’t exactly go unnoticed.

Every single person in the world is going to think I got knocked up by the King of Stelland, including the King of Stelland, and they’ll be right.

Which means I’ll need to tell him.

Nope. I can’t think about that right now. If I’d had even an inkling this was coming, if I’d thought there was an actual chance I could be pregnant, maybe I would have been a little more prepared to get that positive test. I wasn’t, though. Not even a little.

Last night, I went to bed, attempting to convince myself it was all a horrible nightmare. Then—because being blindsided once wasn’t enough for a single twenty-four-hour period—I woke up, checked my phone, and was smacked by another unwelcome surprise, courtesy of the same man.

Damnit, Ben.

“Are you going to keep it?” Davina asks tentatively, a worried crease between her eyebrows as she gives up on waiting for me to break the silence.

All the air seems to go out of me, as yet another worry is added to my rapidly mounting list. It’s a valid question, and honestly, probably the most responsible solution to the problem at hand.

I’m not even a little bit prepared for motherhood, and when I pictured myself— eventually —starting a family, I was happily married with an adoring, dutiful husband at my side.

“I don’t know,” I tell her, my voice hollow. More than anything, I just want to crawl back into bed and sleep until I can wake up without having to clean up this epic, disastrous mess that I didn’t even make .

Davina’s expression softens, offering me an encouraging smile. “You’d be an awesome mom if that’s what you wanted to do. I mean it, Z. You’d be taking that kid to baby yoga and getting all intense about food brands and stuff. He or she would be lucky to have you.”

My vision blurs with tears, and I have to press my lips together to keep myself from sobbing out loud. What she’s saying is sweet, but considering the choices I’ve been making lately, I really might not be fit for the job.

On the table before me, my phone vibrates, and I barely glance at the name on the caller ID—my father’s this time—before I silence it.

I don’t have any answers for him, or anyone else, for that matter.

What do they even want from me? I didn’t ask for any of this, and I have enough to freaking deal with, without—It starts vibrating again.

Letting out a frustrated little shriek, I snatch the device up, hitting accept without even checking to see who is on the other line.

“What?” I snarl, warring with the impulse to hurl the stupid thing across the room. “How can I, the person going through some shit , help you, the person not going through some shit? ”

At the kitchen table, Davina watches me with round eyes, obviously not used to me acting like a full-blown lunatic.

“Zelda, sweetie...” I recognize the voice of my agent, Cindy, who has clearly adopted the practiced, placating tone she typically uses for clients a lot more difficult than I am.

I grit my teeth to stop myself from snapping at her as I slump back in my seat, holding the phone to my ear and bitterly regretting picking up in the first place. “It’s really not a great time, Cindy.”

In the background, I can hear the sound of her keyboard clacking noisily.

“This will only take a moment. I just got off the phone with the press people at Ashwell Palace.” All the air seems to have been sucked from my lungs.

Davina mouths “what,” but all I can do is shake my head, staring at her through dry eyes as Cindy continues.

“They invited us in for a meeting tomorrow to discuss next steps. I think they’re trying to capitalize on the situation, and we should hear them out.

If you’re up for it, I’ll be on the next flight. ”

“Capitalize on it? How would they even do that?” Admittedly, I’m not at my best right now, but I can’t imagine how Ashwell Palace could be interested in anything other than damage control.

“If I were to guess?” Cindy hums. “I would say they’re going to ask to keep it going, let you two be seen together, stir the dating rumors. They have quite the cold fish on their hands, and something like this could do a lot to change public perception.”

Cold fish.

I wince, unsettled by the flicker of illogical protectiveness that rears inside me for the man who got me into this mess. “Can I call you back?”

“Sure, sweetie. We need to move fast on this, though. The press is circling, hoping for another Grace or Meghan moment.”

I hang up, staring over at Davina, my already battered mind blown to a million pieces.

“The palace requested a meeting. I would have thought they’d want to distance themselves, but…

” I trail off, pressing my hands to my face as another wave of nausea arrives, bringing with it the unnecessary reminder of how much messier this situation is about to get.

God, I’m cursed. I let loose one time, and this happens. Parents should use me as a cautionary tale to scare their teenagers out of having sex.

On the table, my phone starts vibrating all over again.

I watch through my fingers as Davina reaches over to take it and turns it off with a grim smile.

“Okay.” She leans forward with an aura of determined reasonability.

“I know you don’t want to talk about what happened between you and the king.

Message received. But something happened, and if you decide to go through with this pregnancy, given who you are, and who he is, it’s going to be a little difficult to hide whose baby this is. ”

“I know.” My miserable retort is muffled by my hands, but I can’t bring myself to lower them just yet.

Allowing my head to drop back, I look up at the ceiling, mind racing like an animal trapped in a cage, searching for a way out of all this, and becoming increasingly frantic as every turn proves as hopeless as the one before .

“Meet with the palace people. See what they have to say. You need all the information before you can make a decision.”

That’s good advice. Sensible. I bob my head. “Okay.”

Davina sighs. “I have to call in for some podcast interview in like fifteen minutes. Are you going to be okay by yourself? I can cancel.”

“No.” I let my hands fall back to my lap and lift my head, offering her a smile that probably isn’t even a little reassuring. “You should go. I think I’m going to go back to bed for a while.”

We both stand, and she pulls me into a tight hug, rubbing my back reassuringly. “Everything is going to turn out okay. I have a good feeling.”

I appreciate her optimism, but from my position, things are looking pretty bleak.

“Thanks,” I whisper, following her to the door and opening it, half expecting to be blinded by flashes from cameras waiting just outside.

There’s no one, though, and the hall is quiet as Davina heads back toward the elevators.

The sound of the door closing echoes through my empty suite as I come back inside, hovering in the little entry hall. The positive pregnancy test is sitting on the table, along with the newspaper Davina brought with her, with King Benedict’s decidedly not icy expression right on the front page.

I don’t want to look at either of them right now. The last thing I need is a visual reminder of how deeply I fucked up. So, I walk past them, dragging my heavy limbs into the bedroom, and collapsing onto the unmade bed.

There is probably a swarm of reporters down on the street, and voicemails building up on my phone, and big, life-changing decisions to be made. All of that needs to be handled, but I just can’t.

My eyes burn as I drag the stiff, white cotton comforter over myself, wishing desperately I was home in the little apartment I rent in California, surrounded by my stuff and listening to the familiar rumble of traffic outside on the street.

There is a coffee shop across the road, and there is a barista who works there named Meredith, who is always really nice to me.

My mom lives half an hour away, and my dad’s office is right around the corner.

The surfboard I rarely use is hanging on special hooks above the couch, and there is a pair of sneakers in the closet that I meant to bring here but forgot.

As I lie curled on my side, my tears soak the pillow, and I think about how nothing sounds better than home.