Page 122 of The Thing About My Prince

“Look.” My mother sits up poker straight and takes in a long, slow breath. “How about you call off this silly book idea. And we?—”

“You know aboutthe book?”My eyes must be the size of the equally hideous commemorative plates that sit above the Doulton figurines, but my parents look back at me blankly.

I stomp up to Giles, shoving my hands in my pockets because I’m frightened what I might do with them. “You told me you’d leave it to me to tell them about it myself. And I was about to do just that, you slimy, lying, fucking toad.”

“Of course we know,” my mother says. “Giles informed us the moment he found out. We have a right to know if you’re about to wash the family’s dirty laundry in public and damage all of our reputations.”

“So you lied yesterday at the church?” A spot of my spit lands on the end of Giles’s nose. “You said you’d give me a chance to tell my parents about the book if Lexi left. But obviously that was bullshit because you’d already told them. You just said that to get her to go.”

He pulls a pristine handkerchief from his pocket and dabs his nose with it. “In my position, you do what’s necessary to protect the people you work for, sir.”

Fuck me. I thought his insidious twisted ways couldn’t get any more conniving.

“Never mind all that,” my mother says. “What’s done is done.”

“Never mind?”I stab at my chest. “I very much mind that I was lied to and Lexi was manipulated into leaving because she thought she was doing the right thing for me.”

“Well, if your…friend”—she sniffs—“means anything to you, perhaps you’d be pleased if she got a new job that would make her happy?”

I throw my head back and stare up at the ornate, centuries-old ceiling, and just about temper the scream brewing inside me into a long groan.

It’s obvious where this is going.

When I right my head, all three of them are staring at me.

“So now you’re going to blackmailme?” I ask. “Giles has already used that one on Lexi—told her to go home or there’d be more revolting stories about her in the press. And now you’re going to use her as a tool to make me fold? You’re going to tell me that if I scrap the book, you’ll pull some strings to get her an amazing job? And all of this is because you’re terrified you might look bad in any book I write. Clearly not without reason, because look how fucking hideously you’re all behaving.”

“An old navy friend of mine is on the board of directors ofThe Sentinel,” Dad says. “The SentinelisThe Current’s biggest rival.”

“I know whatThe Sentinelis.”

“Well, they’re almost overtakingThe Currentnow. In reputation as well as revenue.”

“Not hard sinceThe Currentisn’t exactly flush for cash,” Giles mutters.

“Anyway”—my dad flattens the newspaper on his lap—“they’re looking for a fresh face to cover the civil war in Yemen. Do you think your…friend…might like that?”

“Will you all please stop calling her my friend? She’s my girlfriend. She’s the woman I love and want to be with.”

“We all know that was pretend,” my mother snips.

“And you can’t exactly be with her if she’s in Yemen, can you?” Giles adds with a smirk.

“I assume that’s the point.” Everyone’s overwhelming desire for me not to be with Lexi is absurd. “Heaven forfend Ishould end up with anyone who’s not been to a Swiss finishing school.”

“Do you want the woman youloveto have the career of her dreams or not?” my mother asks.

And here I am. A pawn that can’t move without putting itself in checkmate.

I have to give up the memoir. The memoir that’s tied to the documentary. The two things that together make up the only decent shot I have of supporting myself, of redeeming my character, of sharing my side of the story, and of, at last, publicly vindicating my behavior.

If I don’t, Lexi will be left job-hunting and probably several steps back from becoming a war reporter.

I fall back into the chair, a shadow of the person who strode in here a few minutes ago determined to put a rocket up everyone’s arse and show them I meant business.

They’ve woven a web around me, drawn me in, trapped me, and every way out contains a landmine—which is a mixed metaphor that Lexi’s writer side would probably hate.

“There has to be a way to sort this out that isn’t this,” I say without any conviction.