Page 19 of Royal Bargain (Royals of the Underworld #3)

ANNIKA

T he pancake sizzles in the pan, but I’m barely paying attention. The news anchor’s voice cuts through the kitchen, and with every word, my stomach knots tighter.

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?”

Ingrid pours herself a glass of water at the bar cart, her back to me. “Fine. Physically, at least. She’s in holding for the next few hours. The lawyers are handling it.”

I hesitate. She doesn’t offer more.

So this is why she called me. I knew it. She needs something. A favor. Leverage. She’s going to ask if the Brannagans can help clean it up. Or if Senator Burns can lean on the right people to make the footage disappear.

I brace myself, already running through how I’ll explain this to Liam—how I’ll word it carefully enough that he doesn’t explode but not so carefully that it sounds like I’m shielding Ingrid.

But instead, Ingrid turns toward me, calm as ice.

“It’s time,” she says.

I blink. “Time for what?”

She picks up a folder from the glass table and opens it with the kind of precision most people reserve for scalpels.

“To take things to the next level,” she says. “You said you were ready. Now we’ll find out if that’s true.”

My breath catches as she slides the folder toward me. A press sheet sits inside—my name at the top, clean and bold. Annika Volkov: Thornville’s Rising Star . The edges blur for a second as my brain scrambles to catch up.

“I—wait, I thought…” I trail off, embarrassed. “I didn’t think this was about me.”

“It wasn’t,” Ingrid says, briskly. “But it is now.”

She nudges the folder toward me again, but I’m too stunned to open it.

“I thought the nightclub performance was just… a trial,” I murmur. “A warm-up act.”

“It was.” She crosses the room, heels clicking against the marble like a metronome. “But that trial was recorded. And that recording has been making the rounds.”

She grabs a tablet from the table, unlocks it, and swipes through something with a flick of her manicured nail. Then she spins it toward me.

I see myself on the screen—standing under the soft stage lights at The White Swan Café, singing the song I thought no one would remember. The one I wrote in secret, in pieces, between locked bedroom doors and half-slept nights.

The video has over two hundred thousand views. Comments flooding in. People asking who I am.

“What—” I blink. “How did this even get out?”

Ingrid doesn’t even look up from her tablet. “I had someone filming it. Of course.”

My eyes widen. “Wait—you planned that?”

“I plan everything, Annika.” Her tone is sharp, but not unkind—more like a teacher scolding a student for underestimating the lesson.

“The moment you stepped on that stage, I knew we had something. I pulled footage from three angles, chose the best clip, and pushed it to my contacts before the night was even over.”

She finally looks at me, a small smile curling at the corner of her mouth. “It’s gone viral. Not by accident. By design. That’s what I do.”

I glance down at the tablet again. My own face stares back at me, mid-chorus, lit up under the stage lights. The crowd in the background looks captivated.

“You gave me a product I could sell,” Ingrid says simply.

“Now it’s time to move.” She smirks before continuing.

“I’m lining up a new slate of performances—small venues at first, then possibly a slot at the Summit Festival.

We’re still early in talks, but the right kind of buzz could secure you a headliner spot. ”

My heart jumps into my throat. The Summit Festival is one of the biggest indie music events on the coast. People launch entire careers off it.

But all I can think about is the sharp crack of a gunshot echoing in my ears two nights ago. Burns collapsing. Liam’s hand tight around mine as he pulled me out the door.

“I—I don’t know,” I say quietly. “After the shooting, it just feels reckless to be out in public like that. I’m still…”

Hunted .

I don’t say it aloud, but the word pulses through my veins.

“This is the business, Annika. It’s never safe. For anyone.” She pauses. “But you told me you wanted this. And right now, you have people’s attention. If we wait, they’ll forget. Or worse—associate your name with someone else’s crash and burn.”

Her voice is cool, calculated. But underneath, I catch the edge of something else. Urgency. Pressure. Maybe even fear.

Not for me, of course. For the brand.

I swallow hard, my eyes still fixed on the screen. The version of me up there looks so polished, so sure. Like she belongs. Like she knows exactly who she is and what she wants.

I wish I felt that certain now.

Ingrid watches me carefully, as if she’s waiting to see which way I’ll tip. I think about the gunshot still echoing in my memory. I should say no. I should ask for time.

But instead, I nod.

“Okay,” I say softly. “You’re right. We should… keep the momentum going.”

Ingrid’s expression doesn’t change, but something in her shoulders eases.

“I’ll have your next two appearances confirmed by the end of the day,” she says.

“We’ll keep them invite-only for now, mostly industry eyes.

The Summit Festival is still being finalized, but this—” she taps the tablet, “—this is exactly the kind of spark they want. Stay visible. Stay consistent. And I can sell you as the phoenix rising from the Volkov name.”

I manage a faint smile. “Thank you. For everything.”

“You’re welcome,” she says, eyes already back on her tablet. “Just don’t make me regret it.”

The door clicks shut behind me, and I clutch the folder tighter like it might disappear if I let go. Shane glances up from his phone but doesn’t say anything. Just nods once, like he knows better than to ask.

I stare down at the elevator floor as we ride, every flicker of movement in the chrome making my stomach churn.

This is what you wanted. This is what you asked for.

So why does it feel like I just made a mistake I can’t take back?

The car ride home is quiet. Shane drives like always—steady, eyes forward—but there’s tension in the air. He doesn’t ask what happened. I don’t offer. My fingers stay wrapped around the folder the whole time like it might fly open and spill everything.

I thought I’d feel proud. Relieved. Excited, even.

Instead, I feel like I just said yes to something that’s gonna cost more than I can afford.

When we pull into the garage, Shane finally glances over. “You alright?”

I nod, but it’s automatic. “Yeah. Thanks.”

He taps the steering wheel twice and stays in the car. Doesn’t follow.

The apartment’s dim when I walk in. The low hum of the TV drifts in from the living room. I pause in the entryway, folder clutched like a shield, and take one breath before stepping inside.

Liam looks up from the couch where he’s sitting with Lily asleep on his chest. He gives me a once-over—eyes flicking over my face, my posture, my silence—but doesn’t say anything right away.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey.” He lowers the volume and gently shifts Lily into the crook of his arm. “How’d it go?”

I hesitate. “She wants me to start performing more. A few new venues. Possibly a festival.”

He nods, slow and unreadable.

I wait. No sigh. No sarcastic remark. No Are you kidding me, Annika, it’s not safe right now. Just… silence.

“You’re not going to argue?” I ask softly.

He shakes his head. “I don’t have the energy to argue today.”

Something about the way he says it makes the hairs on my arms rise.

“What happened?”

Liam exhales, eyes drifting toward the dark TV screen as if he’s seeing something far away. “They found the shooter.”

My heart skips. “Already?”

He nods. “Police tracked him down this morning. Said he was holed up in some warehouse in East Thornville. There was a standoff.”

“And?”

Liam’s jaw tightens. “He’s dead.”

The silence stretches between us.

“They didn’t even try to arrest him?” I ask.

“Said he fired first.” Liam’s voice is flat. “But what’s weird is… I didn’t even see any cops at the gala until after Burns was already taken away. It all happened so fast. And now, just like that—it’s tied up with a bow.”

I sink slowly into the armchair across from him, the folder still clutched in my lap.

He glances at me. “Doesn’t that seem off to you?”

I don’t answer right away.

Because it does.

And I hate how the first thought that creeps into my mind isn’t about the police, or Burns, or even the campaign.

It’s about my father.

He wouldn’t have sent someone to kill Burns in public… would he?

But if he did, and the man failed—wouldn’t he make sure the loose end was tied up before anyone could talk?

A cold weight settles deep in my stomach, heavy and hard.

“I don’t know what to think,” I whisper.

Liam watches me, but doesn’t press.

And for the first time since the shooting, I’m not sure who I’m more afraid of—my father… or the silence that follows when you realize he might be protecting you in the worst way possible.

The silence hangs between us like smoke—thick, cloying, impossible to ignore.

“We need a release,” I murmur.

He goes still. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” I press a kiss between his shoulder blades. “Something fun. Something stupid. Something that doesn’t make me feel like I’m being hunted, or handled, or watched.”

He turns in my arms, brow arching. “Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”

I look up at him and smile, slow and wicked. “I’m saying I have a disguise in the closet and some pent-up energy to burn.”

His eyes darken immediately. “God, yes. Please tell me we’re doing another roleplay.”

I trail a hand down his chest. “How does that sound, baby? Some fun, kinky time together?”

He leans in, brushing his mouth against mine. “Only if I get to make you sing for me.”