Page 2 of Royal Deception (Royals of the Underworld #2)

CLARY

I ’ll never be more than an annoyance in Rory’s eyes.

The thought settles like a heavy weight in my chest as I tidy the stacks of reports on his heavy oak desk. It’s methodical, almost rhythmic, and it soothes the ache in my soul as I put the papers into neat piles.

The office is still quiet during lunch hour, and the hum of voices and the occasional whir of the printer from the main hall are muffled by the heavy door. Rory left not long ago for his meeting with Senator Burns.

I wonder if I’m the only one who notices the tension in his jaw when he thinks no one’s looking. Or if I’m the only one who can hear the subtle shift in his voice when something weighs on him. Not that he’d admit it.

I sigh, smoothing the hem of my skirt as I sit at my desk. My mind replays our conversation from this morning.

“You need to let this go.” His voice had been sharp, dismissive.

He hadn’t even looked up from the papers in front of him, as if my request were nothing more than background noise.

I press my lips together, willing away the sting of rejection. I can handle more. I know I can. I’ve been working in the criminal underworld for three years now. I’ve practically given my life to this business, but Rory doesn’t see it. He doesn’t see me.

My hand settles on my belly, thumb tracing slow circles over the slightly curved bump. A quiet, conflicted breath escapes me. It’s still small enough to hide, but not for much longer.

I thought I had more time.

It took weeks to process it all, to accept that this was real. And once I did, I made a choice—I wouldn’t tell Rory until I had my footing. Until I knew where I stood.

But standing in place feels a lot like sinking.

I shouldn’t still think about that night, but I do. More than I should.

It started at Darcy and Kellan’s vow renewal.

Rory and I had danced, the buzz of champagne and low music making every glance last a second too long.

Each touch lingered. And when we’d slipped away from the crowd, when we’d stumbled into that broom closet—hot, desperate, breathless—I hadn’t wanted it to end.

Neither had he.

A month later, after a long business meeting at The Clover and Thistle, we were the last two left. One drink turned into two, turned into his hands on my waist, my fingers in his hair. I slipped out of his apartment before sunrise.

The last time had been months later, the night that led to this.

The next morning, he had approached me, his tone calm, steady, unreadable. “It can’t happen again.” No explanations. No room for argument. Just a finality that lodged itself in my throat.

I tried to move on, tried to ignore how much it stung. Then the nausea hit. Right in the middle of planning Miranda Voss’s baby shower. The irony wasn’t lost on me. Miranda had suggested I take a test, laughing about how “pregnancy brain” was contagious.

She had no idea the can of worms she was opening.

And now I’m stuck between a rock and a hard place.

If Rory won’t even trust me with more responsibilities at work, how the hell am I supposed to tell him he’s going to be a father?

As I finish tidying Rory’s paperwork, I hear the soft murmur of voices in the hallway. That’s my cue to head back to my own desk.

Just as I sit down, Rory and Senator Burns appear, all jovial smiles and firm handshakes before parting ways.

“I need you to pick up my dry cleaning,” Rory says as he passes, already heading for his office. No please. No thank you. Just another order to follow.

I exhale slowly, brushing imaginary lint off my pencil skirt before pushing to my feet. The carpeted hallway muffles the sound of my platform heels as I make my way out of the building.

Outside, the fresh air is a welcome relief, a cool breeze against my flushed skin. The dry cleaner’s is just a block away, and I stop to grab Rory a coffee on the way back. He can get a little sluggish after lunch. I know he’ll appreciate the pick-me-up, even if he won’t say it.

I’m just stepping out of the dry cleaner’s, carefully balancing the neatly pressed clothing, when my phone buzzes. Juggling the bags, I dig into my purse, my stomach knotting at the sight of Kate’s name on the screen.

She doesn’t do courtesy calls.

Bracing myself, I press the phone to my ear. “Hi, Kate.” I keep my tone polite.

“Clary,” she says, sharp as ever. “I was just wondering if you’d forgotten about the rent. It’s due, you know.”

My grip tightens on the phone. “It’s not due until tomorrow.”

There’s a pause, long enough to make it clear she’s annoyed. “Well, I was hoping you’d pay it today. I have bills of my own, you know. And you’re lucky I don’t charge you extra for being late last month.”

I wasn’t late. I sent the payment at 11:58 p.m. on the first. But there’s no point in correcting her. It won’t change anything.

“I’ll send it as soon as I get back to my desk,” I say, forcing my voice into something steady.

Another pause. Then, in a clipped tone, “I hope so. You wouldn’t want to make this a habit, Clary. I’m doing you a favor, letting you stay in the apartment. You could show a little more gratitude.”

My jaw clenches so hard it aches. “Of course. Thank you, Kate.”

“Good. I’ll check my account later.”

The call disconnects without a goodbye.

I let out a slow, shaky breath, my fingers trembling as I slide my phone back into my bag.

The coffee shop door swings open, and the scents of roasted beans and warm pastries wash over me. For a second, I consider skipping Rory’s coffee altogether. Let him notice. Let him wonder why I’m not scrambling to meet his every demand.

But I don’t.

Because this is what I do—smooth things over, stay useful, keep everyone happy… even if it means losing pieces of myself along the way.

As I step up to the counter, I pass an overcrowded corkboard pinned with dog-walking offers, language tutors, programming lessons, and flyers for upcoming events. I barely glance at it until something snags my attention.

Do you feel like you’ve completely lost control of your life?

I freeze, staring at the flyer in front of me.

Is this some kind of sign from the universe?

A small, breathy laugh escapes me as I reach out, brushing my fingers over the glossy paper.

Learn to take control of your life through guided meditation and yoga.

The words are so absurdly well-timed, I can’t help but smile.

Before I can second-guess myself, I dig into my bag, pull out my phone, and snap a picture of the details. The class is in a couple of days, right after work, at a studio just around the corner. Convenient.

A sliver of hope flickers in my chest as I slip my phone back into my bag and step up to order. There’s a lightness in my step as I make my way back to the office, dry cleaning in one arm, coffee in the other.

Rory barely looks up when I step into his office, giving a grunt of thanks as I hang his dry cleaning on the back of the door and set his coffee on his desk. It’s not a barked command or a snapped insult, so I count it as a win.

Back at my desk, I pull open the bottom drawer, shifting a few files aside in search of a fresh legal pad. My fingers brush something cool and metallic, and I pause.

A flicker of recognition sparks through me as I pull the object free, a warm, giddy smile curling at my lips.

My sketchbook.

I’d forgotten I even left it here.

Thumbing through the pages, I take in the sketches—clean lines, intricate designs, ideas I’d once dreamed of bringing to life. I brought this with me when I first started working for Rory, thinking I’d fill its pages during slow moments. But Rory never allowed slow moments.

I trail a fingertip over one of the designs, chewing my lip. It couldn’t hurt to take it home, maybe finally sketch something new tonight.

Impulse wins out, and I slip the sketchbook into my bag, my excitement bubbling to the surface. For the first time in a long time, I feel an itch of anticipation for the hours ahead.

By the time I finish my last task for the day, I’m practically vibrating with energy. I drop a stack of documents onto Rory’s desk and slip out before he can utter a word, eager to get home and start sketching before Kate gets back.

The apartment where I’d grown up, the place my father bought for my mother when they first got married, had once been a sanctuary for me. A home.

But now, when I look around, all I see is how thoroughly Kate has taken over.

Now that my parents are gone, this space no longer feels like mine.

Gone are the soft, pastel-colored walls and cheerful art, replaced by dark red hues, purple furniture, and imposing black, floor-to-ceiling bookcases.

Ugly sculptural art lines the shelves, along with Kate’s collection of vintage hats—each one more obnoxious than the last.

I throw myself onto the velvet sofa, its fabric a loud contrast against the cheetah-print pillow I lean on. Kicking off my heels, I slip my feet into fluffy white slippers with pink bows, sighing in relief. I tuck my shoes neatly by the door, the only act of order in this chaotic place.

Racing upstairs to my loft bedroom, I shut the door behind me like it can block out the world—Kate’s world. This room is the only space that feels like mine, still untouched by her overwhelming presence.

Lace curtains frame the window, and beneath them, a loveseat with overstuffed pink cushions invites me to sink into its softness. My bed—pink and white, somewhat girlish but in a sweet, understated way—feels like the only thing that hasn’t been tainted.

I place my sketchbook on the desk in the corner, the one I found at a flea market last year and painstakingly painted cream to match the rest of the room. It’s not much, but it’s mine.

Slipping into the familiar rhythm, I sketch the outline of a lithe model, focusing on angular lines and a rough silhouette. Slowly, I begin to bring the image to life, my pencil dancing across the page as I trace a sweeping skirt, a structured bodice, and a flowing sleeve.

I’m nearly done with the sketch when sharp footfalls come up the stairs, too fast and too heavy to be anyone but her. My heart lurches in my chest. I slam the book shut and shove it under the computer stand, the familiar panic rising in my throat.

Kate barges into the room, her sour expression already telling me she’s not here for a pleasant chat. Her platinum-blonde hair is styled in a perfect coif, and her pale beige sheath dress contrasts sharply with the dark brown, smoky eye makeup she’s sporting.

“What in the world are you doing up here?” she demands, her tone sharp and impatient. “Dinner isn’t ready, and the house is a mess! You know you’re supposed to take care of these things if you’re going to live here. Honestly, you’re damned lucky I let you stay.” She shakes her head in disgust.

Her eyes scan the room, and of course, they land on the desk. The sketchbook.

I stiffen as she strides over and grabs it from beneath the computer stand. “What’s this?” she asks, arching one pale blonde eyebrow. She flips through the pages, a smirk spreading across her lips.

“Oh, my God, this is hilarious, Clara,” she sneers, amusement dancing in her eyes. “You’re still trying to do that fashion design bullshit?”

I swallow, my throat tight. I want to retort, to tell her she’s wrong, but the words die in my chest.

“You'd better not expect me to pay for you to go to fashion school,” she continues, her nose wrinkling in disgust as she stops on my latest design. “Then again, I won’t even have to worry about it. With designs like these, there’s no way in hell you have a shot.”

The words land like blows. She drops the book on the desk, and I flinch. As she heads out, laughing to herself all the way down the stairs, I feel the sting of her words settling deep within me.

Once the house is silent, I open the sketchbook to the design she mocked and stare at it for a moment before tearing the page out and crumpling it in my hands.

I throw it into the bin, the paper landing with a small, final thud.

Then I shove the book under my bed, my throat tight as tears prick at the corners of my eyes.

Her words keep echoing in my head. She’s the most fashionable person I know, even if her decorating style is a nightmare. If anyone knows fashion, it’s Kate, so hearing her belittle my designs only plants seeds of doubt in my mind.

Later, when the house is quiet and Kate has gone to bed, I creep back to my room. I pull the sketchbook from beneath the bed, the pages a little crumpled from my earlier frustration. I flip through them carefully, trying to ignore the faint sting of her words.

I always let Kate taunt me, always let her get in my head. But not tonight. I know I’m good enough. I know I have what it takes. I won’t let her crush me anymore.

I pull out my phone, open the website for the yoga class flier, and start typing in the registration page. This is it. I’m signing up. I’m going to take control of my life.