A few steps ahead, I spotted others gathered near the war room door.
Huh?
I almost faltered, but my queen-stride held—heels lethal, spine straight—even while my gut cringed.
Who is this?
A woman lounged in a leather armchair that definitely had not been in the hallway last night. And she sat in it right across from the war room door like it was her throne.
Fuck. . .is that. . .her?
Her belly swelled beneath a blush-pink silk wrap dress. I guessed she was at least six months along. Maybe more. Her ankles were slightly swollen, though she wore open-toe slippers with pearl straps.
Yep. That was her. The maybe-mother of his twins.
Of course she would be on the island too, safe from any possible harm from his father. I just never considered the fact that I would be bumping into her so soon.
Goddamn it. I was ready to walk into the war room, but I was not ready for this.
And the alleged baby mama was holding court, had a whole audience.
One woman knelt at her feet, carefully filing and painting her toenails a soft coral pink.
Another stood to her left, waving a fan so large it looked like it belonged in an opera about a goddess being adored.
A third stood behind her, holding a porcelain teacup and saucer with the reverence of a priest presenting communion.
But it didn’t stop there.
Two other women stood near the walls—both elegant, dressed in flowing muted pastels. One of them giggled behind her hand when she saw me, eyes darting from my heels to the curve of my hips, like I’d shown up to the wrong kingdom.
Next to them stood a Japanese man in a sharp cream kimono, long hair slicked back, his features soft and beautiful—toobeautiful, almost painted. His nails were glossy and perfectly shaped. His gaze skimmed over me with slow, open curiosity. . .and just the hint of a smirk.
Even more, it all felt. . .choreographed. Designed. Not a performance, but an ambush in blush pink.
They watched me walk like I was entertainment and they were therealroyalty.
And his maybe-baby mama?
She didn’t even look my way. She just sipped her tea with the serenity of someone who believed the war was already over—and I was just some clueless bitch walking into her victory parade.
Tons of thoughts spun in my head.
What the fuck do I do? Nod? Say hello? Wave like an idiot? No. Just walk. You’re a queen. Stay Straight-backed. Keep those eyes forward. You’re not here to play her game. You’re here to win yours.
When I got two feet from the door and was about to address the guards, the maybe-baby mama raised her hand in my direction and then snapped her fingers.
Oh no she didn’t.
I shouldn’t have, but I looked her way just to make sure she wasreallysnapping those fingers atme.
She was.
And even more, she snapped those fingers my way again.
The woman fanning stilled. The woman holding tea tilted slightly in my direction. The rest of the court hit me with wicked smirks.
Then, maybe-baby mama said something sharp in Japanese.
