Page 54 of Royal Bargain

I glare at the TV like it personally betrayed me. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

The screen shows Emilie draped on some older guy’s arm, her dress catching the light like it’s made of glitter and bad decisions. Even through the shitty surveillance footage, there’s no mistaking her.

“This is a disaster,” I mutter, flipping the pancake with more force than necessary. “A full-on PR meltdown.”

Liam leans against the counter. “You think Ingrid saw it yet?”

Before I can answer, my phone starts buzzing across the counter.

I don’t need to look.

I already know who it is.

Liam gives me a look of sympathy. “Brace yourself.”

I press the phone to my ear. “Hello?”

“Don’t speak.” Ingrid’s voice is clipped, icy. “I need to see you. Now. I’ll text you the location. Meet me in twenty minutes.”

“I—”

She hangs up.

I lower the phone slowly. “Well. That was fun.”

Liam raises a brow. “She hang up on you?”

“Before I even said hi.”

He rolls his eyes and pulls the bag out of the trash. “You want to go?”

“I probably should. If Emilie just blew up her reputation, Ingrid’s going to be desperate to salvage what’s left of her client list.” I glance down at my pajamas. “She might be looking to bump someone else into the spotlight.”

Liam’s lips twitch. “Guess it’s your lucky day, princess.”

“More like sacrificial lamb,” I mutter. Then I soften. “Will you be okay with Lily?”

“Go,” he says, already reaching for a burp cloth. “We’ll have daddy-daughter bonding time. She’s very into yelling at me lately.”

I grin despite myself and kiss his cheek before heading to the bedroom to change.

Shane doesn’t say much on the drive, but I can feel the tension radiating off him. I’m dressed down—plain jeans, a hoodie, sunglasses—but I still feel exposed. Vulnerable.

“Think this is going to be a ‘how could this happen’ kind of meltdown?” Shane asks dryly as we pull into the hotel’s underground garage.

I sigh. “Knowing Ingrid? It’s going to be a ‘how do we turn this into a PR weapon’ kind of meeting.”

We arrive at Ingrid’s hotel and head for the penthouse. The elevator glides silently up to the top floor, smooth as silk, but my stomach is in knots. I feel like I’m being delivered to judgment. Shane doesn’t follow me past the penthouse door, just nods and takes up his post outside like a loyal sentry.

I knock once. The door swings open almost immediately. Ingrid doesn’t greet me. She just steps aside.

Ingrid stands there, expression unreadable, dressed in dove-gray slacks and a cream blouse so sharply pressed it could cut glass. Not a hair out of place. No makeup smudge. No sign she spent the night cleaning up her sister’s scandal with a glass of wine and a breakdown.

“Come in,” she says simply, turning without waiting for me to follow.

The TV is on in the corner, muted, looping that same footage—Emilie stumbling out of Club Viridian, then the smashed-up front patio of the jazz club she rammed into minutes later.

I clear my throat. “How’s Emilie?”