The Royal Rogue Page 9

  That is not a good sign.

  “I’m glad you came into see me today,” he says to me in a grave voice, though his mouth is lifted in a soft smile.

  “I’m pregnant. Aren’t I? Aren’t I?”

  He nods and my heart freefalls in my chest. “Never sure whether to express my congratulations or condolences sometimes,” he says gently. “But yes. I’m going to need you to put on the gown so I can perform a vaginal sonogram so we can get a better picture of all of this.”

  “But I’m on the pill!” I blurt out, shaking my head. “And I have endometriosis. Which is why I’m on the pill! I’m not supposed to get pregnant.”

  “Nature has a funny way about her sometimes,” he says. “Now please, put on the gown.”

  He leaves the room and I’m left there, stunned.

  I'm beside myself, having an out of body experience.

  How could this happen?

  How could I be pregnant?

  And how could I feel so wildly different about being pregnant now versus being pregnant with Anya? How can the same biological function cause such different reactions? Utter joy and excitement with Anya, and complete dread and disappointment now.

  That's what's getting me the most of all.

  The disappointment in myself.

  I never let my guard down. I try hard to provide the best life for me and my daughter. I've shunned as much of the royal life as possible so that she can live a normal life, the life I never got to have when growing up. I've been careful. It took me ages to decide to leave my ex-husband, longer than it should have. After all, I discovered he was cheating on me when Anya was four years old and yet I decided to deal with it, ignore it, swallow it down and put on the brave face for her, so she wouldn't have to deal with a split family. I did it until it started to take a toll on me and I stopped being the good mother I tried so desperately to be.

  I tried to do everything right for the both of us, and yet all it took was one smirk from one rogue prince and suddenly I was bending over for him.

  Literally.

  But as much as I want to blame Orlando, I can't. It's not his fault. It's mine. I'm the one who gave into him, I'm the one who traded her carefully controlled life for a couple of good fucks. I'm the one who risked it all for orgasm after orgasm.

  I thought I was protected.

  I wasn't at all.

  And now I have to face the consequences.

  I'm in that same daze throughout the sonogram, when the doctor tells me I'm about three weeks pregnant.

  He tells me my options.

  Says that an abortion would be discreet and painless at this stage.

  It's more than tempting.

  I've always been pro-choice. I'm still pro-choice. I believe in a woman's right to choose what is best for her own body.

  And I know that, on the surface, what's best for my body is probably to terminate. To choose Anya's future. To do it and pretend none of this ever happened. Women do it all the time. They don't regret it. They go on to live the lives they choose to live, doing what's best for them.

  But even knowing that, even with how I always thought I would approach something like this . . . I don't know if that's the answer for me. Not right now, not at this age.

  And yet, if it's not the answer, then it means having this baby.

  Alone.

  If I thought I had been totally screwed before, I'm completely and utterly screwed right now.

  I tell the doctor that I need to think about things and of course he understands. I think he'd understand either way. After all, it's hard enough for a normal single woman to raise a child alone—it's even more scandalous when you're royalty.

  When I get back home, Anya can sense something is off. I ask Margaret to stay and help with dinner and she does so gratefully. She only lives down the street from us. She's in her 70s and used to have a huge family, seven children, though they've all flown the nest a long time ago. I think Anya thinks she's like her grandmother, which I don't mind. It fills the void while her real grandmother is in the hospital, not remembering that she even has a grandchild.

  Margaret senses something is wrong too, but she's respectful enough not to ask me about it. Or maybe she can just read it on my face, that if she does ask, I might turn into a blubbering mess.

  But if I don't talk to Margaret, I don't really have anyone else to talk to. You don't make a lot of real friends as a royal and you never quite know who to trust.

  When dinner is over, I take my phone outside in the backyard, which faces a deep forest, and I give Aksel a call.

  "Stella?" he answers on the third ring, sounding worried already. "You never call."

  "I always call," I remind him. "You just never answer. How are the girls? How are the twins?"

  "Good, good," he says quickly, and then let's a pause hang in the air. "How are you?"

  Hold it together. Don't cry on the phone.

  I take in a sharp breath and blurt out. "Do you think Anya and I could come visit this weekend?"

  "Yes. Of course. Why?"

  "I have some news . . . "

  A deeper pause. His voice lowers. "What? Is it mother? Is it you? Anya?"

  Before he can get carried away, I say, reassuringly, "Everything is fine. Really. They're all good. I just . . . I need to see you and Aurora. I need someone to talk to. I need some advice . . . I need my family."

  "Then I'll arrange the jet for you. We'll be waiting."

  * * *

  The weekend comes slowly. Normally I would just head right on down but since Anya has a couple of riding lessons this week (her first time doing cross country), I don't want to pull her away from it.

  It does remind me though that if I choose to go through with the pregnancy, it's going to completely disrupt the life I have with Anya here. I don't want to be pulled away from her, I don't want to give her any less attention, I don't want her to resent me or the baby.

  If you have the baby, I remind myself as the limo pulls up outside the Amalienborg Palace. Don't make any decisions until you've talked it through.

  Henrik greets me and Anya, surprised to see me again so soon, and then we're whisked inside.

  It feels totally different here now that I'm not the royal regent. In a way, I have a chance to just relax, even though the secret I'm carrying with me does nothing to put me at ease.

  It also doesn't help that as the two of us walk down the hall to the living room, we keep passing by places that remind me of Orlando.

  Orlando. How does he even play into all of this? What do I tell him, if anything? Yet another thing to figure out.

  "Anya!" Freja and Clara cry out the moment we step into the room. They leave their father's side and run over to us, both of them grabbing Anya's hands and pulling her in different directions.

  "Let's go dress up Snarf Snarf!" Clara tells her.

  "Let's go make paper dolls," Freja says.

  "Clara, leave the pig alone," Aksel chides her.

  "Why don't you three play with paper dolls," I tell them, patting the girls on the head. "Have a contest, who can make the craziest dress."

  "I'll obviously win that one," Clara says, with a roll of her eyes, completely serious, before the three of them run off down the hall.

  "Oh and it's nice to see you girls!" I yell after them sarcastically. "So much love for your dear aunt."

  "Sorry about that," Aksel says, coming over to me and giving me a quick kiss on the cheek. "They've been wild lately. I think the weather has been too hot here, it's been melting their brains."

  "It's doing the same to Anya," I admit. "She won't stop bugging me about getting a cat."

  "Well, let's just hope the girls don't become an enabler," he says, smiling softly. "If they can come back with a baby pig in their backpack, they can surely come back with a cat."

  "Let's hope not," I say, and then look him up and down. Though I just saw him last month after they finally came back from vacation, he looks even more tan and sun-kissed. "Do you
have any royal duties at all, or do you just lounge around in the sun all day?"

  He grins and his teeth are bright white against his skin. "Blame Aurora. She says the sun does me good. Something about my mood."

  "Where is she anyway?" I ask.

  "Upstairs with the twins," he says. "She'll be down in a minute."

  "You know that's what a nanny is for," I remind him.

  Another smile from him. "What do you think Aurora is? Just because we're married and she's the queen, doesn't mean I ever relieved her of her position."

  "Very cute," I tell him.

  His smile starts to fade as he peers at me closely. "So now you're here. Are you okay?"

  I shake my head slightly, eyes dropping to the ornate pattern on the blue carpet. "No."

  "Do you want it to be between you and me or . . ."

  I give him a quick glance. "No. Aurora too. She's my sister now and if anything, it's her advice I might need more."

  He raises his brow. "Okay." He takes my hand and gives it a squeeze and then gestures to the couches. "Let's sit down then."

  I take my seat and he goes to his bar and pulls out a bottle of scotch, even though it's about two in the afternoon.

  "Am I going to need this?" he asks me, holding it in the air.

  "You might."

  He pours himself a glass. "Will you?"

  I can't help but give him a sour smile. "That's part of the problem. I wish I could."

  And that's all I needed to say. He freezes in place, glass of scotch in his hand, just as Aurora comes in the room.

  "Stelllllaaaaaaaaaaa," she cries out dramatically, doing her best impression of Marlon Brando in Street Car Named Desire, by way of Elaine Beniz from Seinfeld. Her Australian accent has not been softened by Denmark or by her newfound royalty.

  I still manage to smile at her impression, even though she literally does it every time she sees me, sometimes more elaborate than others. But Aksel is still motionless, quiet, stunned.

  "What?" Aurora asks him as she walks over to us. She then stops and looks back and forth between us. "What happened? Did that stop being funny?"

  I shake my head. "It's always funny," I assure her. "I just have some news and I think Aksel already knows what it is."

  "My god," he finally says, voice quiet and hushed. "You're serious."

  "What?" Aurora asks him, louder. She plops down on the couch beside me and twists to face me, a deep line between her groomed brows. "What is it? Are you okay?"

  "I'm not sure," I say slowly. I close my eyes for a second and take a deep breath. I keep my eyes closed while I say, "I'm pregnant."

  "Oh my god!" Aurora cries out. "That's huge! That's amazing! Congrats!"

  I open my eyes to see her beaming at me in shock.

  "I'm not sure congratulations are in order," Aksel says quietly, then he gives me an apologetic look. "Unless Stella says otherwise."

  I sigh again and shrug. "Honestly, I don’t know. I'm confused. So fucking confused. I need someone to talk to. I don't know . . . I don't really know what to do, what to think. What to feel. I'm just so scared."

  "Oh," Aurora says, and then grabs my hand. "It's okay. That's what we're here for."

  "Who is the father?" Aksel asks stiffly, as if he's going all protective big brother. "Your ex?"

  I make a face. "No. What kind of person do you think I am?"

  "Well, this is quite the surprise," he comments.

  I suck on my teeth for a moment, knowing that he probably won't be happy about the answer. He's not a fan of that royal family and, after spending too many days with them, now I know why.

  "It's Prince Orlando."

  "What?" Aksel practically spits out. "The Royal Rogue?"

  "Oh my god," says Aurora, hand at her chest. But she's smiling. "Damn girl, he is fucking fine."

  "Aurora," Aksel says sharply. "Come on. This is my sister here and this isn't funny."

  "I didn't say it was funny," she says to him, fire sparking in her eyes. "I said he was fucking fine. As in hot. As in good for her, getting laid by that guy." She grins at me. "I know this is a big deal, but I just think you needed to get laid." She throws her hands up in the air innocently. "That's all."

  "How could you?" Aksel asks me, and then a look of recognition comes over his eyes. "Stella, what the hell? You had sex here, didn't you?"

  I can feel my cheeks going red. They shouldn't. I'm thirty-four years old, a mom, I shouldn't blush at something like this, but sometimes those sibling relationships really send you back a few years.

  "Don't worry, we didn't use your bed," I tell him.

  "I can't believe you're pregnant," Aurora says. "When did you find out?"

  "Last week," I tell her. "I was feeling sick, missed my period. Went to the doctor and he confirmed it."

  "What are you going to do?" Aksel asks quietly, before taking a sip of his drink and sitting down across from me. I'm grateful he didn't automatically assume I'd get an abortion.

  "I don't know," I say slowly.

  "I suppose you do have some time to think about it, don't you?" Aurora asks. "And you know whatever you decide, we'll support it."

  "You've always been very pro-choice," Aksel points out. "I remember you being very vocal about it growing up."

  "I still am."

  "Good."

  "But I'm not sure what to do. I think . . . I always thought that if I found myself in this position, I'd get rid of the problem. But something in me has changed. Maybe it's because I have Anya. I can't really explain it."

  "You don't have to explain to anyone," Aurora says. "These are such personal decisions and they're personal for every woman. You don't have to answer to anyone but yourself."

  "And Orlando," Aksel says. "You will tell him, won't you?"

  I slump against the couch and put my head in my hands. "I'd rather not."

  "Stella," Aurora says. "I think you should."

  "I know, I know. It's just . . . things didn't end well between us. He had a girlfriend that whole time."

  Aurora nods. "Right. The hot Russian tennis pro."

  "And judging by the late-night stalking I've been doing on his Instagram, he's still with her."

  "It doesn't matter," Aksel says. "It's as much his problem as yours. You need to tell him, no matter what you end up deciding for yourself, he should at least know."

  He's right.

  My brother, the King, is often right.

  It's just funny how the idea of telling Orlando, a man who was inside me, a man whose child is inside me, a man that I barely even know, might just be the scariest thing of all.

  Chapter 8

  Orlando

  I’m sitting outside on the terrace of my penthouse and smoking a cigarette, watching the super yachts pull in and out of the marina, when my phone rings.

  “Orlando, darling,” Penelope says over the phone. “Are you available for dinner tonight?”

  I sigh internally. Ever since we got back from Denmark, even though it was well over a month ago, she’s become pushier than ever. My stepmother and I have never been that close, but lately it seems she’s really trying.

  Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. I’m not a monster. I know that things have been rocky between us from the start, especially since she came into my life so soon after my mother died. I was young and it happened so fast. I hated her, hated my father, hated God for taking my mother away. It wasn’t until I was out of my teens that I started to see how unfair I was being. I went to university in Milan and there I was with people my own age. They didn’t really care who I was, there were people from all walks of life, people who lost loved ones, who lived through tragedies like me. It made me see everything with new eyes.

  After that, I made an effort to be nicer to Penelope, even though she drives me crazy all the time and I often wonder if she has a sincere bone in her body. But she is a good mother to Matilde and Francis for the most part, and father somehow seems to love her, despite how very obvious it is that she
has several lovers on the side.

  “Orlando?” she repeats herself. “We haven’t seen you all week. I’ll make sure Matilde and Francis will be there. Oh, and bring Zoya.”

  “She’s out of town,” I tell her, taking another drag.

  Truth is, Zoya is behind me inside, sitting on the couch and watching Netflix.

  “Where is she?” Penelope almost sounds accusing.

  “She’s in Paris for a fashion thing,” I say. Which is almost the truth. She’s going tomorrow morning to meet with someone from the Louis Vuitton company in hopes that they’ll pick up her sportswear like they’ve been doing to a lot of brands lately.

  “When is she coming back? We’ll have to do dinner then.”

  “I don’t know.” Probably a week, since Emily will be meeting her there and they’ll hole up in a private estate somewhere.

  “Orlando, is everything okay between you two?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “It just seems like she’s been traveling a lot.”

  “She’s got a career, Penelope,” I remind her. “That’s a lot more than I have. I’m just a professional louse.”

  “Oh you’re not a professional louse, Orlando. You’re the future ruler of this land.” She pauses. “It may not be a lot of land, but it’s something.” She always jokes that she should have married the King of Spain, not because she’s Spanish herself, but because he has a lot of land. Monaco, aside from the Vatican, is the smallest country in the world.

  “Anyway,” she goes on, “I hope things are good between you two because your father and I were talking the other day about the future.”

  This again.

  “And, well, you know you’re not getting any younger and neither is she.”

  “She’s twenty-nine,” I remind her.

  “I had the twins well before that,” she says stiffly. “I know in the real world it’s normal for women to have babies late, but we don’t live in the real world. We’re royals. And she needs to start popping them out soon because you need an heir or . . . well, you know what will happen.”

  Yes. Our country will become a part of France and the 700 years of rule will come to an end and the nationality of the Monégasques will cease to exist.