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I fight the urge to spit in their faces.
“Today, I reign. Not with fear. Not with influence. But with blood and spirit. This isn’t just a coronation—it’s a promise met. Renewal and hope, but most of all, legacy.”
My eyes scan the room furtively, preparing myself for whatever new hell they’re going to put me through. That’s the difference between the girl I used to be and the woman I am now.
I see now how womanhood is gained in Forsyth. It’s not about age or biology or losing one’s virginity. It’s about pain.
“You will not pervert this glorious event.” It’s a struggle to restrain my own scoff. Every part of being a Princess is rooted in perversion.
Grace. The word churns in my mind. An undeserved favor that cannot be earned, only given. At this moment, I understand the meaning behind it. These men—these rapists—they do not have my forgiveness. Nor my respect. But as my Princes, as the potential father of the heir, I can give them my grace.
This is it? This is what every Princess endures pain and torture to get? Her coronation, the ring, three gorgeous men kneeling before her, and not even a vague promise as to her own future? It’s a joke, is what it is.
“No, you don’t think. You don’t need to because here’s what’s going to happen.” She bears down, eyes sparking with threat. “My daughter moves home with us—her real family. She’ll return here for doctor appointments—supervised—and return to West End immediately. Any union with your Princes will be dissolved. I will have full access to my daughter and her child as she wishes.” Her final words emerge through gritted teeth. “And when the child is born, we will retain custody.”
MAMA
Everyone, that is, except me. But I’ve known, for a long time now, no one cares about what I want. I’m just a pawn in a larger game. A vessel to carry an heir.
Mostly, though, there’s this sick feeling in the pit of my stomach that I can’t shake. I think it might be misery.
“We know,” I say, offering him a cold smile. “Who do you think outbid him?” Remy takes this in with a delighted snort. “Being outplayed by the King of East End. And he calls me the family embarrassment.” I’d be disappointed by his amusement—so hard to get a rise out of this one—but I don’t expect any different. If there’s one thing the Royals have in spades, it’s daddy issues.
“How long is all of this going to take?” “As long as it takes for two opposing Forsyth factions to sort out possession of a pregnant Royal woman,”
“That’s the thing about our girls, you see. They’re red and purple, born to fight.” Remy leans over, slamming his palms on the armrests. “All we gotta do is give them the weapons.”
Verity steps out next, and I rip my eyes away. That’s the hard part. Just looking at her is enough to cause an avalanche of infuriatingly overwhelming want.
Father. She’s the one thing we could never be. His blood.
“Remember what King Payne said, okay, baby? You have power here. If someone hurts you,” she glances directly at me, “you can stab them.”
“Tomorrow? What happens tomorrow?” “Tomorrow,” Mama B says, leveling an unimpressed stare at Wicker, “my little girl is coming home where she can be protected and pampered by men who know how to take care of a woman.”
That’s right Mama B YOU TELL THEM 👏🏽
I hate Verity Sinclaire. But the woman in front of me, all female, ripe, and fertilized… My body wants her on a primal, biological level that doesn’t comprehend things like deception. It just wants. Wants to invade her. Wants to grab her soft hips. Wants to keep breeding her.
People think Wicker is the manipulative one, but they’re wrong. Pace is the one who makes this happen.
“I feel how much you’re mine now.”
Like he’s part alien combined with an ethereal angel—both lacking the grace of humanity. Whitaker Kayes wasn’t made for human consumption, which is why I’m pretty sure he doesn’t know how to truly act civilized.
How can someone care about one girl while abusing another?
Lex would sink into her softness. Wicker would seek out the toughness. But I want it all.
I had my choice, it’d be the Duchess or Baroness—women who adorn their Royal men because they want to, not because of the prestige of the position.
You Royals must be shitting yourselves. They’ve got the Lucia heir and the Ashby heir in West End.
I’m not your thirteen-year-old intern anymore, Charlie. I’m your boss. I’m your president. I’m motherfucking god as far as you’re concerned, so you’d better start praying.”
“Verity Sinclaire is the best woman in Forsyth. Wanna know why?” He flinches as I lean in, my stare hard. “Because she’s mine.”
Effie’s voice softens. “Gentle, gentle.” I stroke distracted fingers along her back. “Yeah, that’s our girl.”
They still think this is a punishment, something we’re enduring. But for me, nothing has ever felt more right. Or more mine.
Verity Sinclaire might not like belonging to me. But she’s about to find out that belonging to Lex is so much worse.
I would never admit it aloud, but I miss my solarium. My solarium? When did it become mine?
I can't even enjoy finally being back home. Possibly because it isn’t. Home, that is. But if this isn’t home—and the palace sure as hell isn’t, either—then where is it?
“Family is about more than DNA and zip codes. Eventually, they’ll remember that.”
I wonder more than ever: what the hell have I gotten myself into?
They’re pawns in this game just as much as I am. We’re all serving our Royalty in one way or another. The difference between me and them is that I know it.
Kings don’t let go of their daughters easily—even if they don’t see our value.”
in the end, it’s him. Don’t you see?” “You mean King Ashby?” Lavinia asks. “If East End has a sickness,” I nod, “then you can consider him patient zero.”
The Princes don’t think of East End as theirs. It’s an obligation. A duty. No, their power is entirely internal.
Their soft intensity is what I always thought being a house girl would entail, with the passion, pleasure, and intimacy. But I never got that.
hate this man. He hates me. We’re bound by nothing but an archaic, deranged obligation.
I am entirely unable to find one Prince out of three to give a shit about me, and Ballsack is stuck caring about two different women. It makes me wonder why Forsyth is like that sometimes. One extreme or another. Never anything gray.
I can’t control this, but I can control what I give them, what they see, and how to use it for my benefit.
Perilini pulls a face, holding the garment bag out like it might be infectious. “I’m not your fucking dog groomer. If you want to dress her up in pearls, then do it yourself.”
“So, this is your plan, huh? Cage her up, cover her in gold, and pretend it’s real. Is it always this fake with the Princes and their Princess, or are the three of you just especially talented at ruining good things?”
We eat dinner together. “As a family,” Father had said. It’s a fucking joke.
I gave Verity Sinclaire more dicking-downs than any other girl in Forsyth. And what did I get for it? Contractual obligations and her knife in my back.
He’s salivating for her. Unfortunately for him, she’s not in the mood to sleep with her stalker.
If I hear another word about the benefit of folate, I’ll shove one of those parenting books down his throat.
She’s toxic—the kind of poison that’ll get a guy killed.
“You don’t just fuck someone like Verity Ashby. She fucks you because she has all the power. You should know that by now.”
