She’d been angry. Injured. She was sentimental. And despite his claims to be anything but, he didn’t take pleasure in hurting others. If things were different...
Wistfulness was a useless emotion. He steeled himself against futile if onlys. “Let’s get started.”
As promised, Trella protected her abundant interests with pointed questions and clear language. The details were hammered out with very little fuss until the attorney asked, “And the dissolution of the marriage? Midnight, December thirty-first?”
“That’s fine. But if I lose the baby, the marriage ends immediately.”
Her statement was jarring. Xavier swung his head to regard her, disturbed.
“There would be no reason to draw it out,” she said stiffly. White tension ringed her mouth.
A strange void opened in him. Why? She was right. What else was there between them besides the baby?
You don’t know what that’s like, do you?
Her disturbing accusation last night kept ambushing him, but his parents had been disruptive forces in his life, dividing his loyalty, creating nothing but turmoil and disappointment. If that was love, he didn’t need it.
His grandmother’s levelheaded reason and clear outline of what was expected from a future monarch had been a welcomed relief. Taking responsibility meant taking control.
Like love, Trella was an unpredictable influence. Too much was at stake to indulge any latent desires for either. She was right. Without the baby, they had nothing holding them in their union .
He lifted a finger, indicating the attorney should record that their marriage would end if the pregnancy did. He ignored the grate in the pit of his stomach.
* * *
They signed the contract a few days later, once the DNA results had been confirmed. Afterward, Trella hurried to greet her mother, who had arrived for the ceremony that would be held in the palace chapel.
“We agreed on a private ceremony,” Xavier said when she informed him her mother would attend.
“She’s giving me away.” Trella hadn’t mentioned her sister had cried over missing the ceremony. “All of my family wanted to be here, but neither of us is getting the wedding we wanted, are we? Well, I guess you are. Later.”
His expression had hardened as he looked away.
She wasn’t trying to be “combative,” just stating fact. She had hoped she and Xavier would have something to build a family upon, but they didn’t.
That made her sad, but all her soul-searching had been done in the months of keeping her pregnancy under wraps. Xavier had given her a chance at motherhood that she had believed was out of reach. For that, she would always be grateful.
But he saw her as, at best, one of the many staff who would tend to his offspring so he wouldn’t have to. They might marry, but she wouldn’t be his wife.
He didn’t want her.
She had to ignore how spurned that made her feel. She already had people who loved her, after all.
“Mi niña hermosa,” her mother exclaimed as she finished buttoning the gown and Trella turned to face her. “Truly, this is your pièce de résistance.”
Trella had been working on the gown in secret, not even showing it to her mother or Gili. It was understated, like her makeup, with a high waist to cover her bump and a simple bodice with cap sleeves. The seed pearls and crystals had been the time-consuming work and she was proud of how it had turned out.
Her hair was in a loose chignon. Her mother placed a bridal comb over her ear in lieu of a veil. The brushed silver flowers with pearls and diamonds was a family heirloom, not ostentatious, just right for a small afternoon wedding.
They followed the ever-efficient Mario to the palace chapel.
Xavier was already there, speaking to the bishop. He wore a bone colored tunic-style jacket with dark gold epaulettes and gold leaf embroidery at the cuffs and hem. His royal red sash sat across it, decorated with a number of pins, including a key and a family shield. A sword hung off his hip.
My prince, she thought, and ached inside.
He wasn’t, and he never would be.
* * *
Xavier turned and splendor kicked him in the stomach.
Her dress was white, which somehow wasn’t ironic despite being a maternity gown. Perhaps it was the fact her bump was still modest, or the way the gown drew his eye to the beading at her neckline and across her shoulders. The detailing resembled angel wings but also projected strength. Delicate armor.
The rest of her was incandescent. Her skin held the warm glow he had noticed the night they’d met, as if firelight reflected off a creamy nude. She was both waif and warrior. Goddess and maid. Infinitely fascinating.
She came forward, expression guarded as she introduced her mother.
Elisa Sauveterre was a tall, elegant woman of Spanish ancestry with sensual features and a single streak of white in her black hair.