Prince of Secrets

“Oxana is my mother,” Demyan asserted with absolute assurance.

“And you would do anything for her and the man you consider your father, even marry some socially backward American scientist to protect the Yurkovich financial interests.” She said scientist as if it was a dirty word.

Chanel almost smiled. She’d never considered her vocation as beyond the pale before.

“That is enough, Svitlana.” The king’s tone was again harsh, his expression forbidding.

“Oh, so you haven’t told her?” Duke Zaretsky asked snidely, clearly ignoring his king’s evident wrath and this time taking evident pleasure in speaking English. “I could almost feel sorry for her. She gave up hundreds of millions of dollars by marrying you and she doesn’t even know it.”

There could be no doubt the duke was talking about Chanel, but the words made absolutely no sense.

“I didn’t give up anything and gained everything marrying Demyan,” she fiercely asserted.

The duchess looked at her pityingly. “You have no idea, but no matter what kind of prenuptial agreement these two convinced you to sign, until you spoke your vows three hours ago, you were a twenty-percent owner in Yurkovich Tanner.”

“I wasn’t. My great-great-grandfather left his shares to the Volyarussian people.” He’d told her great-grandmother so in a letter still in Chanel’s possession, along with the family Bible.

“And they have been used to finance infrastructure, schools and hospitals since then,” the king assured her.

She smiled at him, holding no grudge for his unwelcoming demeanor. “I know. I did some research when I got the scholarship. Your country is kind of amazing for its progressive stance on the environment and energy conservation.”

“I am glad you think so.”

“That money was yours,” the king’s sister insisted. “Until you married my son.”

The claims were starting to make an awful kind of sense, but Chanel had no intention of allowing the two emotional vultures in front of her to know about the splinters of pain slicing their way through Chanel’s heart.

She simply said, “He’s not your son.”

“Would you like to see your grandfather’s will?” the duke asked, clearly unwilling to give up.

Two things were obvious in that moment. The first was that there had to be some truth to what the duke and his wife were saying. If there wasn’t, Demyan and the king would have categorically denied it.

Also, they were both way too tense now for the claims to be entirely false.

Second, whatever the duke and Princess Svitlana’s motives for telling Chanel, it had nothing to do with helping or protecting anyone. Her least of all.

In fact, she was fairly certain their intention was to hurt the son who had finally made a public alliance with the family who had raised him.

She turned away from the duke and duchess to face Demyan. “Tell me your siblings don’t take after your egg and sperm donors.”

Duplicate sounds of outrage indicated the Zaretskys had heard her just fine.

Demyan didn’t respond, an expression she’d never seen in his eyes. Fear.

She wasn’t sure what he was afraid of. Whether he was afraid she would mess up whatever plan he’d made with King Fedir, or worried she would go ballistic at their very politically attended reception, or something else really didn’t matter.

Whatever Demyan felt for her, Chanel loved him and she wasn’t going to let the two people whose rejection had already caused him a lifetime of pain hurt him anymore.

“I think it’s time we all returned to the reception.” She couldn’t quite dredge up a smile, but she did her best to mask her own hurt.

He spoke then, the words coming out in a strange tone. “We need to talk.”

She didn’t want him showing vulnerability in front of the Zaretskys. Chanel wasn’t giving them the satisfaction of believing they’d succeeded in their petty and vindictive efforts.

She reached up and cupped his face, like he did so often with her, hoping it gave him the same sense of comfort and being cared for it had always done her, no matter how much of a lie it might have been at the time. “Later.”

“You promise?”

“Yes.”

“She is a fool,” the duke said in disgusted Ukrainian.

Chanel looked at him over her shoulder, her expression a perfect reflection of her mother’s favorite one for disdain. “The only fool here is you if you think for one second you have the power to influence my prince’s life for good or ill today, or any time in the future. You simply don’t matter.”

She had also spoken in his native language and enjoyed the shock that produced in the overweening nobleman.