Page 9 of The Unlikely Spare (Unlikely Dilemmas #3)

Chapter Five

Nicholas

Well, isn’t this just spectacularly awkward?

My mother is dabbing at mascara-tinged tears while my new protection officer hovers like some vigilant gargoyle. Of all the people who could have stumbled upon my mother during one of her theatrical breakdowns, it had to be him, naturally.

The gods of family dysfunction have truly excelled with this little tableau.

Mother deploys tears with tactical precision, usually when there’s an audience to witness her suffering. Tonight’s chosen spectator is apparently Officer Eoin O’Connell, who’s looking at me now like I’m a wasp that’s landed in his pint.

To be fair, it isn’t terribly different from his normal expression toward me in the past day since I made his acquaintance.

“Nicholas, my darling.” Mother, of course, now decides it’s time for her Mother of the Year act.

The blonde—Lady Genevieve? Georgina? Honestly, the champagne has blurred the details—shifts uncomfortably beside me, her intuition clearly telling her she’s wandered into a minefield wearing stilettos.

“Your Royal Highness,” she whispers, “perhaps I should?—”

“Yes, perhaps you should,” I say, summoning a false smile.

She slips away, leaving me alone with my mother and O’Connell.

My mother eyes the lipstick on my collar. “You really are becoming more like your father every day.”

The words slither under my skin, finding all the tender spots. O’Connell stands there watching, his granite face betraying the slightest flicker of… Is that judgment?

Perfect.

“Don’t let me hold you from getting your beauty sleep, Mother,” I say.

Her face crumples. Of course it does. Her tears miraculously intensify as she stands and reaches for my arm, fingers trembling just enough to be noticeable.

“You know I only want what’s best for you,” she whispers, loud enough for O’Connell to hear. The calculated break in her voice is a masterclass in emotional manipulation.

Those gray eyes are watching, documenting my mother’s tear-stained face and my disinterested expression, and I suddenly feel like I’m on trial.

I can see the verdict forming in O’Connell’s eyes—spoiled, selfish, cruel.

He doesn’t understand the years of manipulation, the calculated tears, the way she uses grief as a weapon.

All he sees is a son rejecting his tearful mother, and I can practically feel his disgust radiating across the space between us.

“I’ll leave you to your…evening activities,” Mother says. She presses a dry kiss to my cheek, then sweeps past me with the rustle of fabric.

I count silently—one, two, three—and precisely on schedule, she stumbles slightly, one hand braced against the wall as though the weight of my cruelty is too much to bear. O’Connell predictably steps forward, offering his arm, which she declines with a grateful smile before disappearing.

When he turns back to me, the look on O’Connell’s face transforms from professional neutrality to barely concealed contempt.

He goes to move, but suddenly, I can’t bear the weight of another person’s judgment. I’ve had a lifetime of those looks, and something about seeing it on his rugged face makes me lose my composure entirely.

“Do you have something you wish to say to me, Officer O’Connell?” I ask loudly.

He stops and turns to me slowly, raking his gaze up and down. “Do you want to know my opinion?” he asks finally.

“Obviously, otherwise I wouldn’t have asked,” I reply icily.

His spine straightens to its full impressive height, his chin lifting as he looks me square in the eye.

“I think family is the most important thing in the world. And the woman who carried you for nine months, who gave birth to you, who soothed you when you were a child, is currently sobbing because of the way you have treated her. Perhaps making amends would be the decent thing to do.”

Fury rises inside me. It’s thick and corrosive, and the champagne in my system only accelerates the reaction, turning irritation into something wild and dangerous.

“You know nothing about my relationship with my mother,” I spit out. “You’ve known her for what, five minutes? And already you’re an expert on our family dynamics? Please, spare me your provincial moralizing about respecting one’s mother.”

His face hardens, and I claw a hand through my hair, stepping backward until my spine hits the wall. My fists clench at my sides, nails carving crescents into my palms as I struggle to regain my nonchalant mask.

O’Connell stands before me like some ancient Celtic statue, all hard edges and unyielding judgment.

The corridor suddenly feels too narrow, too confined, the air too thin to fill my lungs.

O’Connell takes up too much space, so there is nowhere to look but at him. My pulse kicks up, and my skin prickles, my body betraying me with reactions I immediately reclassify as anger.

“Why am I even bothering to justify myself to you? You’re just the bodyguard,” I say.

The words taste bitter the moment they leave my mouth. Shame flares inside me, sharp and painful.

Something flickers across O’Connell’s face, before his expression goes completely blank.

“You’re right, sir. I’m just your protection officer. I’ll leave you to your evening.”

He turns and leaves.

His storming off is measured and precise, reminding me that only one of us lost control tonight, and it wasn’t him.

I collapse against the wall, the cold stone seeping through my shirt. The rush of anger fades, leaving behind the clammy aftermath of adrenaline and shame.

Bloody hell.

What does O’Connell know about family loyalty anyway? In his world, perhaps mothers actually deserve the devotion their children give them. Perhaps in his world, mothers don’t betray their children.

Did my mother rehearse that performance while dressing for dinner?

Practice that trembling lip in her vanity mirror?

Did she cry like that when she handed Daniel an envelope stuffed with cash, trying to pretend it upset her to discover that her son’s happiness was a negotiable commodity with a specific price tag?

I pull myself to my feet, the room spinning slightly as the champagne reminds me of its presence. I need to get to bed.

Tomorrow’s royal engagements await, with O’Connell shadowing my every move. The thought of spending another day under his judgmental gaze makes my skin itch.

But I have no other choice.