Aurora was openly crying now, her hand gripping Aretha’s like a lifeline. “Aretha...”
“I want to make it up to you.” Aretha squeezed back, letting her voice drop to something soft and earnest. “I want us to be real sisters. The kind who love each other, who support each other. And that’s why...” She paused, as if steeling herself. “That’s why I’ve decided to ask Mik’hail to dissolve our betrothal.”
Aurora went white. “No, Aretha, you can’t—”
“I saw you.” Aretha kept her voice gentle. Wounded. “Before the accident. I saw the way he looked at you, the way you looked at him. I tried to pretend I didn’t notice, tried to tell myself it was nothing, but...” She shook her head sadly. “He wants you, Aurora. He’s always wanted you. And I can’t stand in the way of that. Not anymore.”
“You’re wrong.” Aurora’s voice was high. Desperate. “It was nothing. It was just—it was just infatuation on my part. The sheikh only humored me because he felt sorry for me. He never wanted me, not really. You’re the one he’s supposed to marry. You’re the one he wants. So please...” Her voice cracked. “Be happy with him.”
Aretha looked at her solemnly. “There’s no need to lie. You’re my sister. I know you two are in love with each other.”
Aurora paled. “Aretha...”
“It’s fine.” Aretha made herself smile, soft and sad and understanding. “I’m not mad. I understand why he’d choose you over me.”
The words nearly choked her. As if any man in his right mind would choose mousy little Aurora over her. But she forced them out anyway, let them hang in the air like a gift.
“Oh, Aretha.” Aurora’s face crumpled. “You don’t understand. Even if—even if what you say is true, it doesn’t matter. I can’t be with him.”
Aretha tilted her head, playing at confusion. “Why ever not?”
“Because if I insist on staying, Mik’hail will have to put his kingdom at risk.” Aurora’s words came out in a rush, tumbling over each other. “The envoys from Suneria—they came this morning. They’re threatening sanctions, tariffs, all of it. And it’s because of me.” Her voice broke. “I’m not—I’m not Father’s real daughter. I have no Desmonde blood. I can’t fulfill the treaty, and if Mik’hail chooses me anyway, Layla will suffer for it.”
Well, well, well.
She had always known, of course. Had known since she was twelve years old and had overheard their parents arguing late one night. Mother’s indiscretion. Father’s cold forgiveness. The bastard child they had agreed to raise as their own, never speaking of it again.
Aretha had kept that secret close to her chest for years, a weapon waiting to be used.
And now it seemed she didn’t even need to use it. Aurora had handed her the ammunition all on her own.
Good thing the idiot still had an insanely tender conscience.
“I know how much he loves Layla,” Aurora was saying, her voice thick with tears. “I know how much he loves his people. I can’t be the reason they suffer. I won’t.”
Aretha reached for her sister’s hand, her expression soft with sympathy. “I’m so sorry, Aurora.”
“Please don’t be.” Aurora shook her head, wiping at her eyes. “It’s my fault. All of it. But I pray...” She drew a shaky breath. “I pray he’ll be happy with you.”
Aretha squeezed her hand. “The thing is...”
Aurora looked up. “What is it?”
Idiot, Aretha thought, even as she let her own eyes fill with tears again. Even as she sniffed and drew a shaky breath, her free hand pressing to her chest as if the words she was about to speak caused her physical pain.
“I fear,” she whispered, “this is the only way the sheikh and I can ever be happy...”
