Sunita closed her eyes as the flow of words washed over her in an onslaught of truth. Because that was what they were—words of truth. Otherwise known as facts. Facts that she seemed to have forgotten in the past weeks, somehow. She didn’t know how she’d started to look at her marriage through rose-tinted glasses. How she had started to believe the fairy tale.
Fact: the sole reason for this marriage was Amil. Fact: Frederick’s ideal bride would have been Lady Kaitlin or a woman of her ilk. Fact: fairy tales did not exist.
This must be what her mother had done—convinced herself that a handsome, charming English holidaymaker was her Prince, who would take her off into the sunset and a happy-ever-after. Perhaps that was what her father had done too—convinced himself that he could right past wrongs, that his family would welcome in his bastard child and everyone would live happily ever after.
Carefully she moved away from the door, leaving the folder on the desk, then picked up her sketchbook, and made her way out of the office, back along the marble floors, past the tapestry-laden walls, the heirlooms and antiquities collected over centuries, and back to her apartments.
She took a deep breath and composed her expression—this was a special day for Frederick and Amil and she would not spoil it.
Nor would she whinge and whine—there was no blame to be cast anywhere except at herself. Somehow she’d lost sight of the facts, but she wouldn’t make that mistake again.
Entering the room, she halted on the threshold. Frederick sat on an armchair, Amil on his lap, looking down at a book of farm animals with intense concentration as Frederick read the simple sentences, and made all the noises with a gusto that caused Amil to chuckle with delight.
The book finished, Amil looked up and beamed at her and her heart constricted. Amil was the most important factor.
‘Hey, guys. Looks like I’m back just in time.’ Hard as she tried, she got it wrong—her voice was over-bright and a touch shaky, and Frederick’s hazel eyes scanned her face in question.
‘You OK?’
‘I’m fine.’ Walking over, she picked Amil up, hid her face under the pretext of a hug. ‘How did tea and bath go?’
‘Well, I have spaghetti down my shirt and bubbles in my hair, but we had fun, didn’t we?’
‘Abaadaaaaada!’ Amil smiled and then yawned.
‘I’ll put him to bed.’ Frederick rose and took Amil into his arms. Amil grizzled, but Frederick held on. ‘Daddy’s putting you to bed tonight, little fella. It’ll be fine.’
And it was.
Fifteen minutes later Frederick emerged from Amil’s bedroom, a smile on his face, headed to the drinks cabinet and pulled out a bottle of red wine.
Once they both had a glass in hand, he raised his. ‘Thank you for today. You were right—I was afraid. Afraid I couldn’t be a good parent...afraid I’d hurt him the way my parents hurt me. I thought doing nothing would be better than getting it wrong. Now I really hope that I can be a better parent than mine were, and can create a real bond with my son.’
The words made her happy—truly happy—and she wanted to step forward, to get close and tell him that, show him that happiness. But she didn’t. Because close was dangerous—close had landed her in this scenario where she had distorted the facts with perilous consequence.
Perhaps it had been that magical physical intimacy in Goa, or maybe it had been a mistake to confide in him, to share her background and her fears and dreams. Whatever. No point in dwelling on the mistakes. Now it was vital not to repeat them.
So instead she stepped backwards and raised her glass. ‘I’ll drink to that. I’m so very pleased for you and Amil.’
And she was. But to her own horror, mixed into that pleasure was a thread of misery that she recognised as selfish. Because his love for Amil had never been in doubt—it had simply needed a shift in the dynamic of their relationship. A shift that had highlighted exactly what Sunita was—a by-product, a hanger-on, exactly as she been in her father’s family. There only by default, by an accident of birth.
Well, she was damned if she would sit around here for the rest of her life being a by-product.
‘Earth to Sunita?’
His voice pulled her out of her thoughts and she manufactured a smile, floundered for a topic of conversation. Her gaze fell on a folder—her plans for the state apartments.
‘Would you mind having a look at this? I wanted your opinion before I went ahead.’
She picked up the file, opened it and pulled out the pictures, gazed down at them and winced. Every detail that she’d pored over so carefully screamed happy families—she’d done some of the sketches in 3D and, so help her, she’d actually imagined the three of them skipping around the place in some family perfect scene.
For their bedroom she’d chosen a colour scheme that mixed aquamarine blue with splashes of red. The double bed was a luxurious invitation that might as well have bliss written all over it.
She had to face it—her vision had included steamy nights with Frederick and lazy Sunday mornings with a brood of kids bouncing up and down. What had happened to her? This was a room designed with love.
This was a disaster. Love. She’d fallen in love.
Idiot, idiot, idiot.