Page 46 of Royal Bargain (Royals of the Underworld #3)

T he bathroom lights are too bright.

I lean forward, gripping the marble counter like it’s the only thing keeping me upright. My reflection stares back at me—wide green eyes, smudged eyeliner, lips parted like I’m seconds away from gasping for air.

And maybe I am.

Because in my hand, trembling like a leaf in a hurricane, is a pregnancy test.

Positive.

Very, very positive.

Behind me, the flat-screen TV in my bedroom drones on.

“ Governor-elect Burns has vowed to clean up Thornville’s streets, launching a new initiative to eliminate organized crime. With the Russian syndicate destabilized and the Volkovs fractured, sources speculate the Irish may be his next target .”

I barely hear it.

I should care. The whole city should be panicking. But all I can think is,

What the fuck am I going to do?

This wasn’t the plan.

I sink onto the edge of the tub, the cold porcelain biting against the back of my thighs. Somewhere beneath the haze, I remember a voice—raspy, off-key, crooning in my ear backstage while I laughed too loud, drank too much, danced like the world would never catch up to me.

His name doesn’t matter. Not really.

What matters is that I was stupid. Careless. And now there’s a second heartbeat growing inside me.

I’m not ready for this.

I don’t even know how to take care of myself half the time.

And it’s not like I can tell Ingrid. She’d spin it into a PR stunt or bury it, depending on which way the wind is blowing.

The TV continues its monologue of doom.

“ Burns’s administration has also hinted at tighter regulations on nightlife establishments, citing rising concerns over safety and criminal infiltration .”

Great. So he’s coming for the clubs next.

My clubs. My scene. My life .

I swallow hard, pressing the back of my hand to my mouth.

I don’t cry. I don’t do crying.

But tonight, the cracks are showing.

I grab my phone again, this time with a different kind of desperation.

Scroll. Tap. Open Messages.

Ingrid

what would happen

if like

hypothetically

I was like

pregnant?

It takes her less than ten seconds to reply.

Hypothetically?

You’d be on the first plane to Switzerland

and you wouldn’t come back for at least nine months.

I let out a breath that’s almost a laugh. Almost.

lol

just kidding

Three dots appear. Then disappear. Then nothing.

I drop the phone onto the counter like it’s suddenly too heavy to hold.

“Just kidding,” I mumble to myself. “Hilarious.”

I close my eyes. Try to breathe. Big, deep, movie-star-worthy breaths. In through the nose. Out through the mouth.

In. Out. In.

This isn’t working.

I look around the bathroom like the answers are written on the walls in designer labels and perfume residue.

There’s a glittery red dress slung over the chair. A champagne bottle still sweating in its ice bucket by the tub. Lipstick kisses on the mirror from the last party I threw.

All the glitter in the world can’t cover this up.

I have no plan. No backup.

No clue what the hell I’m going to do.

All the glitter in the world can’t cover this up.

I turn slowly, eyes scanning the countertop again, until something catches the corner of my vision.

A cream-colored envelope. Gold-foil lettering. A smug little seal stamped in wax.

Annika Volkov & Liam Brannagan

You are cordially invited

I snatch it up, the paper crinkling in my grip.

Right. That.

I wasn’t invited. Obviously.

Sasha made that crystal clear when I jokingly mentioned it over drinks last week.

“You ruin everything you touch, Emilie.”

The words sting a little more tonight.

But I did steal the extra invitation Ingrid had tacked to her fridge. And I do know the date. And the time. And the location.

I stare at it for a beat too long, something sharp and reckless unfurling in my chest.

Then I smile.

“Screw it,” I mutter.

I toss the pregnancy test in the trash, slap on a fresh layer of crimson lipstick, and reach for the black satin dress I’d been saving for New Year’s.

Because if I’m going to be uninvited, judged, whispered about?

I may as well give them a show worth whispering about.

The reception is already in full swing when I arrive.

String lights twinkle overhead, soft jazz spilling from a live band tucked into the corner. Everything is tasteful, expensive, disgustingly perfect.

I glide past the check-in table without slowing down, heels clicking against the stone path like applause just for me.

No one stops me. Of course they don’t. Confidence is the best kind of camouflage.

Inside the tent, the crowd is buzzing—men in tailored suits, women in flowing gowns, champagne glasses glinting like stardust. I spot the bar and make a beeline.

The bartender eyes me for half a second before handing over a flute of champagne. Smart man.

I take a long sip, let the bubbles settle on my tongue, then turn to face the room with a smile like a loaded gun.

Let the games begin.

A few heads turn. A few more stare. But I don’t flinch. I toss my hair back, toe off my shoes, and step straight onto the dance floor—alone, glowing, untouchable.

Because if I’m going down, I’m going down in rhinestones and rhythm.

I spin once, twice, laughing like I’ve never heard the word consequences.

And then I see her.

Ingrid.

Standing near the cake, pale as death, a flute of champagne frozen in her hand like she’s just seen a ghost.

Or worse, me.

Next to her, Sasha’s jaw drops. Her face turns red, then purple, then that exact shade of furious she gets when someone else dares to break the rules she’s curated like a Pinterest board. Her lips move—I think I see the words, You have got to be kidding me .

But they don’t stop me. None of them do.

Because just a few feet away, under a canopy of fairy lights, the bride and groom are wrapped in each other’s arms.

Annika is glowing. Liam is grinning.

They don’t even notice me.

And for the first time in a very long time, I feel… safe.

Like maybe no one’s going to throw me out. Not yet.

So I raise my glass to the ceiling, twirl again, and whisper to myself,

“Here’s to ruining everything I touch.”

I down the rest of my champagne and head back toward the bar—because if I’m going to make it through this evening, I’m going to need more liquid courage and maybe a small miracle.

That’s when I see him.

Leaning against the bar like he’s bored out of his mind, hands tucked into his pockets, sleeves rolled to his forearms in a way that should be illegal.

Disheveled curls. Crooked smirk. Blue eyes sharp and restless.

He looks like trouble wrapped in a three-piece suit and a bad idea.

My type, obviously.

Our eyes meet, and his brow lifts—just slightly—like he’s trying to figure out where I came from.

I arch a brow right back.

He nods at my empty glass. “Looks like you could use a refill.”

I glance at the bartender, then back at him. “What gave it away? The glass or the emotionally unstable dancing?” That earns me a laugh. Warm. Surprised.

Okay, maybe dangerously cute.

“Both,” he says, signaling the bartender. “But don’t worry—I like a little chaos.”

I tilt my head. “Then you’re in the right place.”

The bartender slides me another glass. He lifts his to mine. “To crashing parties you weren’t invited to,” he says.

I clink his glass with mine. “To being the reason they never forget it.”

For a second, we just stand there. The sounds of clinking glasses and distant laughter wrap around us. His gaze never leaves mine.

“So…” he says, like he’s trying to solve a puzzle, “what’s your story?”

I take another sip. “Let’s just say I’ve got excellent taste in music, bad taste in men, and a talent for being where I shouldn’t be.”

He lets out a low whistle. “Dangerous.”

I wink. “You have no idea.”

He leans in, just a little, voice dropping low. “Dance with me.”

“I thought you looked bored.”

“I was,” he says. “Now I’m not.”

I let him lead me onto the dance floor, champagne still in one hand, the other slipping into his like it was always meant to be there.

He’s good—confident, easy on his feet, and he doesn’t step on my toes even once, which is more than I can say for most men I’ve danced with.

“Question,” I say, spinning under his arm, “Are you ever going to tell me your name, or do I get to keep calling you Tall, Dark, and Bored?”

He chuckles, then leans in like he’s about to whisper a secret. “It’s Lucky.”

I blink. “Sorry—what?”

He grins, full of mischief. “Lucky Brannagan.”

“Oh, that Lucky,” I say, recognition dawning. “Explains the expensive suit and the general air of Catholic guilt.”

He laughs—actually laughs—and it’s a nice sound. Rich. Unforced.

“And you?” he asks, though I can tell he already knows.

I lift my chin. “Emilie Gunnerson.”

“I figured,” he says, spinning me again. “You were on the news last week, weren’t you?”

My smile falters. “Allegedly.”

He gives me a look that’s equal parts amused and intrigued. “Something about a nightclub, a smoke machine, and a city councilman’s wife?”

I wave it off. “Misunderstanding. I was framed. Also, that woman needs to stop following me.”

He raises a brow. “So you’re trouble.”

“Please,” I say, stepping closer. “You’re the one named Lucky. I feel like I’m the one who should be worried.”

He leans in, eyes glinting. “Or maybe you’re the lucky one tonight.”

I grin. “Oh. I definitely am.”

We’re a few songs and two more drinks in when it starts to spiral—in the best way.

He dares me to sneak behind the bar and swap out the bartender’s playlist for a rock cover of “Can’t Help Falling in Love.

” I dare him to tip the waiter with a drink umbrella and tell them it’s “a rare Brannagan family token.” We get them to page one of Rory’s bodyguards to move their car three times.

Somehow, we end up in the wine cellar.

It’s cooler down here. Quiet. Bottles line the walls like a secret stash of forbidden treasure. I run my fingers over the labels, pretending I know what any of it means.

“Do you think if I smash the most expensive bottle, the whole building will self-destruct?” I ask.

He laughs, tugging a dusty bottle off a shelf. “Only one way to find out.”

I steal it from him and bolt.

“Hey!” he shouts, chasing me up the stairs, both of us laughing like idiots. We burst out into the hallway like teenagers sneaking out of prom.

When we slow down, we’re breathless, flushed, and drunk on more than just wine.

We stop at a quiet corner of the reception tent, hidden behind a curtain of ivy and fairy lights. I lean against the wall, and he stands in front of me, close enough that I can feel the heat rolling off his body.

“Okay,” I say, catching my breath. “I’m going to need you to explain something.”

He raises a brow. “What’s that?”

“How the hell did someone like you end up in a family like yours?”

He grins. “Same way you ended up at a wedding you weren’t invited to.”

I smirk. “Fate?”

“Nope,” he says. “Bad decisions.”

We both laugh.

And for a moment, in this tucked-away corner of someone else’s love story, I forget about the test in my trash can. About Ingrid. About everything waiting for me outside this perfect, reckless night.

For now, there’s only him.

He’s still looking at me like I’m a mystery he wants to solve. Like I might burn him if he gets too close—and he’s thinking about stepping into the fire anyway.

I take a slow sip of wine, then tilt my head. “You up for doing something totally crazy?”

Lucky’s grin curves like a challenge. “I’ve been looking to do something crazy.”

I step closer, heart thudding, breath tight with wild energy. “I say we get out of here.”

I pause. My lips quirk upward.

“And elope.”