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‘Good.’ He loved it loose like this.

She rolled her eyes, then laughed. ‘It’s amazing what not giving a damn any more does for a person. I don’t have to please anyone.’

‘Least of all me, but just so you know, I’m floored. You’re always beautiful, but this is…’

‘Not convent-appropriate.’ She grinned.

‘You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.’

‘Laying it on too thick, Alex.’ But she flushed.

And he was devastated. Beautiful Tilly, who’d been a pawn her entire life—who was still one—looked like a queen. She should be treasured as one, should be one.

Never.

Just because she could—that she would be amazing—didn’t mean he could keep her here. She wanted safety, freedom, time for herself. Who wouldn’t after the horrendous judgement she’d endured?

Pink tinged her cheeks. Slowly her gaze drifted down to the scarlet sash crossing his chest. She pressed a hand to smooth over the ribbon across his heart. Could she feel it racing? He stepped back before he crushed her to him. Before he told her everything too soon. Before he was unforgivably selfish and begged. He wasn’t doing that. He would protect her now, then let her go.

‘Would you like to wear this?’ He lifted the box he’d set on the table. ‘A princess shouldn’t be without a tiara.’

She backed up a pace. ‘I don’t want anything from the vault.’

‘It isn’t from the vault,’ he said. ‘It’s not an heirloom. It’s new. I had it flown from Paris.’

‘Can you just buy tiaras off the shelf in Paris?’ she asked sceptically.

He opened the box.

‘Alex. I can’t wear that.’ She flushed and her eyes glittered as green as the emeralds studding the intricate diadem. ‘Where did you get it from, really?’

He definitely wasn’t telling her he’d custom ordered it for her twenty-first birthday. He’d figured his father wouldn’t have bothered despite his public pretence at being a generous stepfather. And he hadn’t. But Alex hadn’t given it to her. Realised in time that it wasn’t appropriate. Thought maybe he’d give it to Erik to give to Antonella, only he hadn’t been able to do that either. So he’d lived with a tiara in his dressing room for years. It was actually pathetic. And yet now, this one night, these last few hours—he could pretend.

‘The world thinks you’re my wife. It’s for the pictures. Just for tonight.’ He tried to make light of it—buying into the pretence and burying the bitterness that had shrivelled his heart so long ago. ‘You can have it broken up when you’re gone.’

‘I would never do that. I’ll leave it here.’

‘I’ll never give it to anyone else.’

Her gaze clung to his. So much for making light—he’d sounded lost in yearning for the impossible. Someone knocked on the door and saved him.

‘Two minutes.’ He didn’t take his focus from her radiance. ‘Will you wear it?’

‘Will you help me put it on?’

Well, he loved nothing more than touching her hair. He took his time ensuring it was secure.

‘Heavier than it looks,’ she murmured. ‘Is it okay?’

‘Uh-huh.’ His brain was wool.

She smiled then.

Polished footmen lined the corridors every five paces. His father liked a dramatic show. So did the public. Alex offered his arm, she placed her hand on it and lifted her chin.

‘How do you think he’ll react?’ she whispered.

‘He wants to save face. He’ll act approving and proud.’