Page 41 of Coronation (Royally Forbidden #1)

Twenty-Five

Zelda

A pparently, there is a very big difference between movie-star famous and possibly-dating-a-royal famous.

Before the image of Ben looking at me went public, I could live my life somewhat normally, especially when I was in Los Angeles.

Now, only a few days since I went on my first fake date with a king, I’m getting calls from hotel management to inform me additional security is needed to escort my trash directly to the compactor in the basement, so it isn’t “intercepted.”

Is that something I should be apologizing for?

I wasn’t sure, so I did anyway, sending the poor woman a very expensive tray of cookies to mitigate some of the ill will she must be feeling toward me by now.

I certainly wouldn’t appreciate it if I were in her shoes and there was a horde of camera-wielding paparazzi camped outside my workplace, picking through the trash and trying to bribe the maids.

Apart from the hotel manager, though, everyone seems pleased about this arrangement.

My agent has a stack of scripts for me to look through, my family members are already capitalizing on the added attention—all of whom seemed satisfied with my vague explanation of it being a “casual thing”—the palace reported a modest improvement in Ben’s approval ratings, and the anticipation is intense for the movie that supposedly kick-started our romance.

I should be happy, these are good things for me as well, but it’s kind of difficult to focus on the big picture when the small picture—spending time with a man I developed a whole lot of feelings for in a very short period of time before being unintentionally impregnated, and then dumped—is such a pressing problem.

We’ve been on three more dates since, and our next is scheduled for tonight.

As a result, I’ve been off all day. Work was a disaster.

When I wasn’t dropping things and forgetting lines I knew by heart only a few days ago, I was fielding questions from curious coworkers or jabbing myself in the eye with a mascara wand.

Then, there’s the nausea, which was the first real symptom of my pregnancy and has been growing from a passing inconvenience to a constant battle to stave off vomiting.

“This is actually wild. You’re the most famous woman in the world right now,” Davina tells me under her breath when we finally get to the end of another seemingly endless workday and are seated side by side on the transport van.

With only a month to go until the project wraps, and more eyes on it than ever before, George has been working us to the bone to make up for the time we lost to the summer’s many storms.

“I am not,” I hiss, pressing a clammy hand to my chest in an attempt to steady the racing of my pulse that this comment elicited. “Don’t even say that.”

Dav seems to realize she’s stepped into a minefield, because she backs off, shooting me a reassuring smile. “Okay, you’re not. The press isn’t bad, though. People like you , Z. ”

She isn’t wrong. Almost everything I’ve read—which isn’t a lot, for the sake of my sanity—seems to be very positive. If anything, people are wondering what I see in the “Ice King.”

It’s not comfortable to realize the answer to that is a lot . Once he relaxes a little, Ben is always a perfect gentleman on fake dates, and the hours we spend together never fail to provide an unsettling reminder of what drew us together in the first place.

For two people who couldn’t be more different, or come from such different walks of life, we seem to connect with alarming ease. I like him just as much as I always have, maybe even more now that we’ve been spending time together with our clothes on.

All the more reason to keep them on .

I’m determined to keep my heart out of this and not allow my judgement to be clouded by the king’s unintentional charms. After everything that’s happened and spending so much more time together, I’m not so confident that Ben set out to intentionally manipulate or use me. Not anymore.

That uncertainty doesn’t erase the hurt or the fear, though.

I can handle it; I put myself in this situation, after all. What’s important is remembering that it isn’t just me or my feelings that I have to worry about being broken now.

My baby didn’t ask for any of this, and my heart aches whenever I dwell on all the horrible things they will inevitably hear about their unconventional parentage.

People can be so cruel, and being born out of wedlock to a freaking king will be hard enough.

I refuse to subject them to a father who may or may not be an icy, hurtful jerk on top of it.

“When are you going out again?” Davina asks, pulling me from my preoccupation with a nudge of her elbow. The van is almost at the hotel, and I can see the swarm of photographers waiting outside, milling around on the sidewalk, clearly waiting for their paycheck to arrive.

My hands twist in my lap. “Tonight.”

We’re about two hundred yards from the hotel marquee, stopped at the nearest intersection, when a few of the photographers notice the van, lifting their cameras in anticipation.

“Here.” Dav reaches over to fiddle with my hair, draping a few strands artfully over my shoulder and offering me an encouraging smile. “You’ve got this, Z.”

I reach out to take her hand, squeezing it in silent thanks.

It’s moments like this I wish I could tell someone, anyone , the truth about this arrangement I have with Benedict.

As far as my friend is aware, this dating thing we’re doing is genuine, and I’m just trying to work up the courage to tell him I’m pregnant.

Like it or not, though, I can’t tell anyone.

I’m on my own.

The van stops and we get to our feet, filing out onto the sidewalk.

The flashes started even before I stepped outside, and I duck my head down, pushing through the crowd with the help of two of the palace security guards, who appeared out of nowhere.

I’m peppered with questions as I go, everything from whether I will be attending the coronation to whether Ben has met my family.

I breathe a sigh of relief when we finally make it inside and find the lobby empty.

Davina and I both pause as the door shuts behind us, muffling the roar of voices from out on the street.

We look at each other, exchanging looks of shock and alarm.

“There’s more than there was yesterday,” she comments, still looking a little worried as we start moving again, heading to the elevator.

We’ve only made it halfway there, however, when a familiar voice stops me in my tracks. “Zelda.”

I whip around, staring in amazement at the king himself, who is strolling into the lobby from an open doorway, as stern and unsmiling as ever when we’re in company.

My heart flips. I ignore it.

“What are you doing here?” I ask as he approaches, aware of Davina almost vibrating with excitement beside me. “I thought we were meeting at six.”

“Change of plans, I’m afraid.” He stops before us, inclining his head toward Davina in greeting. “A pleasure to see you again, Miss Lovette.”

“A pleasure, Your Highness,” she echoes, beaming at him. “I’m going to head upstairs to clean up. I’ll leave you two to your evening.”

The moment she’s out of earshot, I look back to Ben. “Is everything okay?”

He glances past me toward the hotel desk, where a single concierge is pretending not to notice us as she polishes a bronze bookend, and shakes his head discreetly.

“Not here.” In a gesture I’m still not used to, he reaches out, settling his hand on the base of my spine to guide me toward the elevator.

My body warms instantly at the tiny amount of physical contact, but I keep my expression impassive as we follow Davina’s path in silence.

Ben draws closer to me as we wait, watching the number above the gleaming twin doors descend.

Once we’ve stepped inside and are moving upward toward my floor, safely ensconced in the small space, Ben offers me an apologetic grimace.

“I’m sorry to turn up here like this. We have a bit of an issue, I’m afraid. ”

My pulse stutters. “An issue?”

“In the form of my ex-wife.” He reaches up, raking a hand through his hair, but his next words are interrupted by the gentle chime of the elevator as it reaches my floor.

Offering him a hesitant smile, I lead the way out and down the carpeted hall, stopping only when we’ve reached the door to dig through my bag for the keycard.

Once we’re inside, Ben drops into one of the kitchen chairs with a disgruntled huff, looking more irritated than usual.

It’s weird to see him here, in the space I’ve lived for months, like two worlds colliding.

“Your ex-wife is why you’re here?” I ask, watching him carefully.

The question makes a nerve in Ben’s neck twitch. “She owns several art galleries in Wyngate and is in the process of opening a new one,” he clarifies, shaking his head in obvious disgust. “We’ve been invited to a show there, two weeks from Friday.”

“Oh.” I hover beside the small kitchenette, staring at him. “Are you two on good terms?”

Ben scoffs. “We were never on good terms. I have no doubt she’s hoping to capitalize on the publicity surrounding our relationship for her own gain.”

“Why go, then?”

“Perception.” He looks as though he’s just taken a sip of spoiled milk.

“At the time of the divorce, the palace had to exercise quite a bit of pull to keep the media from sinking its teeth into the story. Now, they’re concerned that our failure to attend would send a strong enough message to drum up renewed interest. Especially in light of this new fascination with my romantic life.

They suggest we attend to keep the focus on us, rather than my marriage. ”

Unable to help myself, I’d done a bit of late-night internet snooping on Ben’s ex-wife.

There was plenty there, and no shortage of speculation, but nothing very definitive on what rift was responsible for the divorce.

Photographs of the couple were plentiful; however, I couldn’t find a single one where either of them looked even a little happy about being in one another’s presence.

Even images of their wedding showed two people who couldn’t look less in love if they tried.

The official word from the palace was that the split was due to “irreconcilable differences,” but judging by what Ben’ s late brother had to say on the matter, nobody in the royal family was on board with him ending his marriage.

“Okay,” I agree at last, because there doesn’t really seem to be a way around it. “So, we go. No big deal.”

Ben leans forward, staring up at me with his forearms braced on his thighs. “It would be an official, public appearance together, which is outside the scope of our contract. My people were concerned it would be too much.”

I don’t think there is such a big difference between going to an event with the king and being seen canoodling with him all over the country.

The pictures from our first outing confirmed that the infamous look was not an isolated incident, and even without making out in public or even holding hands, our romantic connection is being treated as fact rather than speculation in every piece of media I’ve seen.

“I don’t mind,” I assure him with a weak smile. “We’re in this together, right?”

Looking extremely relieved, Ben nods. “I appreciate that, and all of this, actually. You’ve been, well…” His words falter, and he lets out an uncomfortable laugh. “You’ve handled the situation with a good deal more grace than I have.”

Needing something to do with myself other than look at him, I cross to the cabinet containing the few glasses provided by the hotel.

“Can I get you something to drink? You look like you’ve had a day.

” I take the bottle of wine resting on the countertop and glance back at him, lifting it in wordless question.

I’d been meaning to offer it to Davina, as god knows I won’t be using it for a while, but the grateful look I get from Ben makes me glad I never got around to it. His gaze is heavy on my back as I turn away, busying myself with the corkscrew.

Since the news of our possible relationship took off, and I got the positive pregnancy test, I’ve been doing my best not to think very much about how we got into this mess to begin with.

The memory of how his fingers dug into my waist and the desperate, hungry way he kissed me is a difficult thing to forget, however.

At times like this, when I know his eyes are on my body, it’s even harder. A warm weight drops into my pelvis when I turn back to face him, stepping across the small kitchen area to hand him the wine, and it grows heavier as our fingers brush on the glass.

“Thank you.”

I’m not sure how two perfectly ordinary words can be hot, but Ben manages it. Seeing the need to put some distance between us, I draw back, helping myself to a glass of water.

There’s a vulnerability that always comes in moments like this, when I realize I may not be as entirely in control of my feelings as I’d like, and it’s a tiny bit humiliating that I can’t just turn them off.

The memory of the regret and shame that followed those first few encounters should be enough to put this attraction to rest, and I hate that it isn’t.

Now, with the reality of my resulting pregnancy setting in, I’m paranoid on top of that. As if Ben is going to look at me and know , or go snooping through my bathroom cabinet and find the prenatal vitamins.

“Where are we going tonight?” I ask, eager to break the silence.

Ben lowers his glass, the masculine column of his throat working as he sets down the wine to give me his attention. “There’s an outdoor production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream in the park. I’m told people take picnics and the like. I thought you would enjoy it.”

Wow. That isn’t at all what I was expecting. It’s public, yes, but it’s also surprisingly humble and intimate, and there’s an obvious effort to do something that appeals to me . In fact, this fake date might be better than any real date I’ve ever been on .

I want to ask if it was his idea or if he merely gave a stamp of approval. When no possible good can come from having one’s question answered, however, it seems better not to ask. “That sounds amazing,” I reply at last, taking another sip of water. “Do I need to bring anything?”

The room around us is so quiet, I can hear my breath catch as, slowly, the man before me leans forward.

His stare is so intense that I can barely breathe, and it may take five seconds or five minutes for him to respond.

“I’ll save us some time, and tell you when you’re with me, the answer to that question will always be no . ”