Page 25 of Royal Bargain (Royals of the Underworld #3)

ANNIKA

I wake to the soft rhythm of Liam’s breathing against the back of my neck, his arm slung low across my waist, anchoring me in place.

The sheets are twisted around our legs, our bodies tangled like we didn’t want to let go even in sleep.

For a blissful second, I let myself enjoy it. The quiet. The warmth. The safety.

Then I remember.

Sasha’s message hits me like cold water. “You should be asking why Burns needed to be shot, not who shot him.”

My eyes snap open.

The words echo in my mind, louder than Liam’s heartbeat against my back. I shift slightly, careful not to wake him, and stare at the ceiling. My heart starts to race even as the rest of me lies still, trapped under the weight of his arm and the weight of what her words could mean.

Why would Burns need to be shot?

I close my eyes again, but the peace I felt a minute ago is gone. Every possibility spirals through my mind—political gain, manipulation, a distraction from something bigger. Was it orchestrated? Faked? Or… did someone want to silence him?

I stay curled in Liam’s arms long after I wake, staring at the ceiling and letting Sasha’s words gnaw at me.

I can’t talk to Liam about this—not yet.

He’s too wound up, too emotionally raw. The way he looked after the shooting, like he was ready to burn the whole city down to protect me…

I know what this kind of suspicion could do to him.

And Aleksey? No. Not right now. I don’t even know where we stand. He’s too close to everything—and everyone—I’m trying to keep my distance from.

There’s only one person who might have answers, one person who’s been three steps ahead of all of us from the start.

Miranda.

She was the first one who helped me slip through the cracks of my father’s empire. She’s careful. Smart. Ruthless when she needs to be. If anyone would understand the why behind a political hit, it’s her.

I wait until Liam stirs behind me, mumbling something against my shoulder. I twist just enough to press a kiss to his temple.

“Hey,” I whisper. “I need a favor.”

He blinks himself halfway awake, rubbing at his eyes. “Mmm? What kind of favor?”

“I want to see Miranda.”

That wakes him up.

He props himself up on one elbow, frowning. “Why?”

“I just need to talk to her. Career stuff.” The lie slips out too smooth. I hate that I’ve gotten used to it.

Liam watches me a second longer than I want him to. Then he sighs, dragging a hand through his hair.

“Fine. But Shane’s going with you. One hour, Ana. That’s it. No wandering, no errands. You talk to her, then you come back. Deal?”

“Deal,” I say, placing a hand on his chest. He still looks unsure, but leans in and kisses my forehead before climbing out of bed.

I exhale slow.

If Sasha’s right, I need answers. I need to be ready.

The scent of bergamot hits before she speaks. Miranda pours the tea like it’s a ritual, each movement clean and practiced.

Her office is the same—sharp, modern, impossible to read. Floor-to-ceiling windows pour light across white leather and glossy floors, turning everything soft at the edges.

She hands me a China cup, her smile faint. “You look more rested than last time, darling. I assume the Irishman’s apartment agrees with you?”

I take the cup. “It’s… something.”

Miranda raises a brow, graceful in that way only she can be. Cream blouse, tailored navy trousers. Like serenity with bite.

“That’s not very descriptive,” she says.

“It’s a lot of noise,” I admit, wrapping my fingers around the warm porcelain. “Liam doesn’t shut drawers. Or doors. Or his mouth, apparently. But he means well.”

She chuckles. “Men often do. It rarely helps.”

Despite myself, I laugh, and for a moment it’s easy to pretend this is just tea with a mentor. But it’s not. There’s an edge to this, a purpose behind my visit—and she knows it.

Miranda sips her tea and regards me over the rim of her cup. “So. To what do I owe the pleasure? I’m guessing this isn’t just a check-in.”

I hesitate, then set the cup down gently on the saucer. “I need to ask you something. Off the record. Not as my manager. As the woman who helped me walk away when I thought I couldn’t.”

Miranda’s eyes sharpen, the warmth fading into something colder. More precise.

“I’m listening.”

I reach into my coat pocket and slide my phone across the table, the screen lit with the last message from Sasha. Miranda barely glances down at it before returning her gaze to me.

“You should be asking why Burns needed to be shot, not who shot him,” I read aloud.

Miranda doesn’t react at first. Just picks up her teacup again, taking a small, measured sip.

“Well,” she says finally, her voice clipped, “that’s cryptic.”

“You don’t think she might know something?” I press. “Or that someone else might?”

Miranda’s jaw tightens just slightly. “I think some people have far too much time on their hands and a bad habit of stirring up drama where there is none.” She sets the cup down with a gentle clink. “Your sister always did hate not being the center of attention.”

It’s a deflection, and we both know it.

“But—”

“It’s a good thing,” she says sharply, cutting me off, “that Senator Burns is finally taking a stance. This city’s been overrun for years. Crime bosses, smugglers, arms dealers—old men clinging to their little empires, poisoning everything they touch.”

I swallow hard. The unspoken words hang thick in the air. My family.

“And if some of those old men happen to be your father and his associates,” Miranda continues coolly, “well, I suppose everyone has skeletons. But you, darling—you have a future. A daughter. You should be grateful someone’s willing to clean things up so she can have a real chance.”

Her gaze flicks toward me, all softness gone. “Unless you’d prefer Lily grow up in the same world you did. Surrounded by men like Anatoly.”

I go still.

She smiles again, serene. “Didn’t think so.”

The room feels suddenly colder. I nod, numb, and mumble something about needing to get back. Miranda rises to walk me out, ever the gracious hostess, but my thoughts spin too fast to hold on to anything she says.

Even once I’m back in the car with Shane, the words replay over and over in my head.

Why did Burns need to be shot?

And if Miranda does know the answer…

She’s not telling me.

The café’s only a few blocks from Liam’s place, wedged between a florist and a dry cleaner. Ivy crawls up the red brick, and the patio’s cluttered with mismatched chairs and chipped tables. It smells like espresso and fresh pastries. For once, I don’t feel like I’m being watched—except by Shane.

He’s posted up by a lamppost, arms crossed, aviators on, scanning the street like it’s second nature. Always alert. Always waiting for something to go wrong.

Ingrid shows up five minutes late. Not like her.

She doesn’t bother with a greeting. No air-kiss. No snide comment about my outfit. Just drops into the seat across from me and pulls off her sunglasses in one sharp move.

“You look tired,” she says. Not unkind, but not warm either. Just matter-of-fact.

“Thanks,” I reply dryly. “You, uh… don’t.”

She doesn’t smile. Instead, she signals the server for tea without glancing at the menu.

Something’s off.

“You okay?” I ask cautiously.

Ingrid exhales through her nose, a little too sharply. “My sister’s been making headlines again,” she mutters, barely loud enough to hear.

I tilt my head. “Emilie?”

She waves a hand like she regrets even bringing it up. “It’s nothing. Just… she has a gift for creating chaos at the worst possible moment.”

Then, just as quickly, Ingrid’s tone shifts. She straightens, smoothing down the front of her cream blazer.

“But we’ll talk about that another time. Right now, we need to discuss you. We need to quickly capitalize on the waves you’ve been making after your last two appearances.”

My heart leaps a little, but there’s something in her expression that keeps me from smiling. Her eyes are sharp, calculating.

“Okay,” I say slowly. “So what now?”

Ingrid doesn’t waste time. “Next step,” she says, pulling a folder from her bag and sliding it across the table, “is building your brand.”

I blink. “I thought we were. With music.”

She gives me a patient, polished look. “Music is the product. You are the brand.”

I open the folder and skim the contents—a short contract, a media plan, some talking points. A glossy mock-up of an Instagram post featuring me holding a pastel green bottle with bold block letters across the bottom. Cleanse. Reset. Thrive .

“Detox tea?” I ask, making a face.

“They have a massive following,” Ingrid says, a sharp look in her eyes.

“They’re looking for a fresh face, and I made sure they got one.

You’ll do a few soft-launch posts, talk about how you’re balancing motherhood and chasing your dreams. You’ll be compensated, of course, and it’ll raise your profile outside of just music circles. ”

I frown. “I’m not an influencer. I’m a musician.”

Ingrid’s eyes cool. “And you’re a smart young woman who agreed to play the game.” She taps the folder. “This is the game.”

I want to argue more, but I can already see the way she’s looking at me—the warning beneath the smile. I’m in her world now. I asked for this.

Still, my voice comes out small. “Won’t it… cheapen things? I mean, people are already going to say I didn’t earn anything, that I’m just some spoiled Mob princess playing pretend?—”

“You’re giving people something to talk about,” Ingrid says, with a dismissive flick of her hand. “That means you’re doing something right.”

The words feel hollow, but I sign the contract anyway.

It’s just a few posts, I tell myself. Just a few pictures, some captions, maybe a video if I have to. It’s not like I’m selling my soul. It’s just detox tea.

But as I hand the folder back and Ingrid gives a crisp nod of approval, my stomach turns.

I gather the folder and slip it into my bag, standing as Shane approaches from his post nearby. Ingrid remains seated, smoothing her napkin over her knee, casual and poised.

As I turn to leave, she speaks—lightly, almost like a throwaway reassurance.

“Relax, Annika. You’re doing great. And Miranda?” Ingrid gives a little smile—not quite kind. “She has a way of making sure people get exactly what they want… even if they didn’t know they wanted it.”

I freeze mid-turn, fingers tightening on my bag strap.

When I glance back, she’s already looking at her phone, like she didn’t just drop a grenade and walk away.

Outside, the wind cuts across my skin. I try to breathe. Shake it off. But the words cling like smoke.

By the time I make it home, the sky’s gone heavy and gray, thick with the promise of rain. Shane trails behind me up the steps, quiet as ever. He gives me a nod, then disappears toward his usual post by the side entrance.

My fingers fumble with the key.

The second I step inside, my phone buzzes.

Sasha: You need to stay out of the spotlight for a few days. Seriously. Keep your head down.

No context. No follow-up. Just dread pooling low in my gut, cold and tight. Like I missed something big. Like something’s already in motion and I’m too late to stop it.

I take the stairs two at a time.

Liam’s on the rug with Lily in his lap, guiding her little hands through the air like he’s helping her conduct an orchestra. She shrieks with laughter. Some cartoon hums softly in the background.

For a split second, I just stand there. Watching them. Letting it hold me still.

A perfect moment—one I’m terrified won’t last.

He glances up when he sees me. “Hey, you’re back. How’d it go?”

I open my mouth. The words are there—Sasha texted me again. She said I need to stay hidden. Something’s coming.

But I don’t say any of it.

Instead, I smile, tight and false. “Fine. Just talked about next steps.”

He watches me for a beat longer than he needs to, like he knows something’s off but doesn’t want to push. “You hungry? I was gonna order something in.”

“I’m okay,” I murmur, crossing the room and kneeling beside them. I press a kiss to Lily’s forehead and wrap an arm around her squirmy little body, trying to ground myself in her warmth.

I tell myself I’m not saying anything because Liam already has enough on his plate—because I don’t want to add to the stress, to the tension we’ve only just started learning to live with.

But deep down, I know that’s not the whole truth. I know that deep down, part of me is starting to wonder if I can really trust anyone.

Even him.