The hand squeezed tighter. “You think I wanted this for you? That I wouldn’t give anything to undo it?”
Allegra swiped at her cheeks with the heel of her palm and lifted her head. Her mother’s face wasn’t composed the way it usually was. There were lines there. Deep ones.
“Goddamned Treaty of Feldkirch,” Mathilde muttered. “Bunch of men in powdered wigs decided Valenstadt only gets to exist if we keep producing heirs, like we’re some kind of royal broodmare factory. And here we are, still paying for their brilliance.”
Allegra blinked. Her mother didn’t blaspheme about treaties. She didn’t blaspheme about anything.
“Do you know,” Mathilde went on, her voice tight, “the first thing your grandfather asked when we got back from our honeymoon? Not, ‘How was the weather?’ Not, ‘Did you enjoy yourselves?’” Her mouth twisted. “Are you pregnant yet? I hadn’t even unpacked.”
Allegra swallowed, her throat raw. “So I’m supposed to—what? Marry Julien, pop out a baby, and call it patriotism?”
“I’m not saying it’s fair, Allegra. I’m saying the treaty doesn’t care about feelings.” She leaned in, lowering her voice. “Worst case, this porno thing gets out. The press will use it to say you’re unfit. That the line is unstable. And if that happens…” She let the thought hang.
Allegra leaned back in the chair. “So we burn the stupid treaty.”
Her mother’s mouth curved into something that tried to be a smile but was too weary to make it. “Austria would call it administrative tidying. We’d be absorbed before lunch and forgotten by dinner. You know that as well as I do.”
Allegra huffed, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Okay, great. But why Julien? Why him?”
“Because the man’s a celebrity. And your father’s completely fallen for his charm offensive. He’s convinced that with the right photogenic prince, we can turn Valenstadt into something more than a tax residence for Formula One drivers. A royal tourist destination.”
“Oh. Fantastic. I’ve always wanted to be a commemorative mug.”
Mathilde shot her a look. “Don’t be flippant.”
“I’m not. I’m coping.”
Her mother sighed, but there was no bite to it. “No one’s asking you to pick out a christening gown. Just meet with him. Talk it through. Give him another chance.”
“A chance?” Allegra’s voice sharpened. “You want me to give the man who treated me like arm candy another go?”
“Exactly.” Her mother didn’t waver. “He’s had time to reflect. People change. Your father grew on me eventually, didn’t he?”
Allegra let out a dry laugh. “Right. Because this is totally about personal growth.”
Mathilde didn’t push again. She didn’t have to. Allegra’s mind had already sprinted ahead. Somewhere out there, a man with a telephoto lens was sitting on photographs that could detonate her life.
Not just hers. Nate’s.
The thought of him caught in the crossfire made her chest constrict, like a vise tightening around her ribs.
Reporters would swarm his home, hound his mom, microphones thrust in her face, cameras flashing, hungry for her shock and pain. They’d turn him into a joke. No, worse—a monster. The gold-digging porn star who’d preyed on a naïve princess. And she’d walked him right into it, laughing, lying, pretending she was no one.
Allegra sucked in a breath through her nose, held it, counted to four, then let it out slowly. She turned toward her mother and lifted her chin. “Fine. I’ll meet with Jules. But I’m not promising anything.”
“That’s all we’re asking,” her mother said. She brushed her thumb over Allegra’s temple before pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. Then she was gone.
Allegra slumped in the chair, all structure gone. She dug her knuckles into her sternum and focused on the rhythm. In. Out. It’s just Julien. Just a meeting. Just a man with expensive hair and a superiority complex.
No big deal.
Her pulse disagreed.
Her gaze drifted, unfocused, until something snagged her attention. Beneath the joyless portrait of Albrecht the Resolute IV, where the paneling met the floor, a thin seam cut through the wood. A shadow slid across the crack. Someone was standing too close on the other side.
She knew that passage. The hidden servants’ corridor her father claimed was “sealed for safety reasons.” And she knew the one person in the palace shameless enough to eavesdrop from it.
Allegra rose silently and crossed the room on tiptoe. Her fingers found the concealed catch. She pulled. The door swung open, and Clara tumbled out with a startled gasp, catching herself on the frame just before she hit the floor. For a long, still second, they stared at each other: Allegra with her cheeks burned pink and eyes rimmed red; Clara with her guilty, almost apologetic grin.
