The Duke and Princess Victoria are with child.

 

The words dig into Matt's mind like some sort of virus. It grabs at his ears and his brain and won't let go. They become an obsession of sorts because he cannot help but feel it's a lie.

 

Victoria had never been with another man before Matt. There was absolutely no doubt about that. It was the blood, the way she held herself, and it was probably the one truth she told the entire time they were together.

 

And the Duke, he's halfway across the world, back in Vertsea. He's across the ocean and far out of reach. There's no way Victoria's carrying his child.

 

There's absolutely no way.

 

And those words, they stir up his mind like nothing else can. It's a haunting sort of thing, knowing you're someone's father. The responsibility, even though it's currently non-existent, is haunting. It invades his mind, follows him even when he's dreaming.

 

The bar no longer serves as a safe haven. Meg's gaze is firm and judging. The club is starting to get concerned.

 

“You're distracted,” says Ozzy. “And not in a good way, Matt. You going to tell us what's going on?”

 

Matt shrugs in answer and grunts out some half-hearted excuse that no one believes. He comes and goes from the bar as before, only this time he wilts a little beneath Meg's eyes. The news always seems to be playing something about the royal family. Vertsea isn't a big country, but everyone's thrilled to be reporting something aside from a mass shooting or a field of horses that's just been illegally euthanized.

 

Four days after the original announcement, Meg corners Matt in the men's bathroom of the bar. She folds her arms over her chest, narrows her eyes, and challenges, “Are you going to man up or what?”

 

“I don't know what you're talking about.” Matt tucks himself back into his jeans. It's not the first time that the barkeep's been in here, trying to get an answer to some question she doesn't really need to get involved in.

 

“Yes, you do. Don't play games with me, Matt. I know you. I know what that look meant.”

 

“What look?”

 

“The one on your face when you saw her up there, when you realized who she was. It's the same look you had on the day you came in and told me about Emily.”

 

“Bullshit.”

 

“I'm not lying,” insists Meg. “You know I'm not. So are you going to man up and talk to her or what?”

 

“Why the hell would I do that?” Matt snorts and runs a hand through his eternally messy hair. “She's a fucking princess. There's no way she's going to want to see me knocking on her doors.”

 

“Since when did that stop you?”

 

“Meg,” says Matt. “I don't think you understand—”

 

“I do,” says Meg. “And you do, too.”

 

# # #

 

On the other side of town, there's a beat-up garage. It's owned by Killian Samuels. The man has a reputation as being the best mechanic around, but he's also known for ridiculously high prices, a sour attitude, and not knowing when to keep his mouth shut.

 

And, in a much smaller circle, he's known for being the guy that swept Emily Jacobs off her feet. The two are set to be wed in three months. They've already picked out the venue, already tried on the gown and tuxedo. For the most part, things are set.

 

Tonight, Killian sends his coworkers home early. His fiancée is out with a group of friends, no doubt barhopping from one place to the next. Emily isn't the perfect image of a bride. She drinks too much and sleeps around every chance she gets, spreading her legs for any man that looks at her twice.

 

It had been painfully easy for Killian to sweep her up and away from Matt. The woman was just itching for someone who would line her pockets a bit better, would treat her a little nicer in the sack. And Killian, he is all about treating his ladies nice, as long as he is getting something out of it in return.

 

And this? Oh, he's getting a lot out of this.

 

Unlike some of his other companions, Killian's never been much of a beer man. He prefers the harder stuff —dark, honey flavored whiskey. He uses an old mason jar in favor of a mug and fills it up almost full to the brim. The liquor is dark and burning.

 

He clicks on the television that hangs in the upper left corner of the garage. It's six o'clock. The news is on. It's another article on the royal family. They're four states up, at a party some senator is throwing.

 

It's a baby shower.

 

Victoria is standing next to the soon-to-be mother. Only one of them is smiling, and that's just absolutely perfect.

 

“Soon,” he says, even though there's no one around to hear it. “Soon, everything is going to play out just as it's supposed to.”