My head is throbbing.

I didn’t sleep a wink last night after Justine left the suite. I still can’t believe she had the gall to show up there after running to him after our fight.

I don’t bother to show up for the morning sessions of Justine’s conference—I’m too angry, and the aspirin the physician gave me doesn’t seem to be helping my headache. But as the time for the keynote luncheon nears, I find myself drawn toward the event facility. I must be a masochist because I have the overwhelming urge to hear what James Camden has to say.

The moment I enter the room, I find myself subconsciously searching for Justine. I wonder what she has to say this morning—no doubt she’ll just continue to make up excuses and lie about her true feelings for her precious James. I can’t believe I was idiotic enough to believe, even for a moment, that she might be developing feelings for me.

“There you are,” comes a familiar, cheerful voice from behind me. I turn to find Sophia, with my brother Nicholas in tow. “We’ve been looking for you all morning.”

“I decided to sleep in,” I lie, straightening my cuffs.

Sophia smiles and winks at me. “No doubt you did.”

I have no idea what she’s on about, but I’m not really in the mood for my sister’s perkiness right now.

“Maybe we should find a seat,” I say. Perhaps somewhere in the back, where fewer people will see me. I still haven’t spotted Justine, and I’m not sure I want to—even though I know she’d put on a good face for her guests, no doubt everyone would be able to sense the tension between us. In spite of everything, a part of me still wants her event to go well.

Because I’m a sentimental fool, obviously, I think. And I know how much this means to her. I guide my sister and brother toward a table in the corner, partially shadowed by one of the large columns along the edge of the room.

“We’ve hardly had a chance to talk to you at all since we arrived,” Sophia says. “I want to hear all about your life here. I can’t believe the palace has an aviary. It’s so beautiful!”

“You should have told me you were coming,” I say. “I would have planned a breakfast or something.”

“You’re married to the event organizer. How were we supposed to know you hadn’t looked at the guest list?” Sophia grins. “Not that I mind. You should have seen your face when I came up to you yesterday. Completely worth it, right, Nick?” She nudges our brother with her elbow.

Nicholas gives a small smile and a shake of his head. “It was mildly entertaining.”

“More than mildly,” Sophia insists, frowning at Nicholas. “You’ve been so serious recently. You’re getting as bad as Andrew.”

“I’m not as bad as Andrew,” our brother replies, his eyebrows snapping together. “Just because I don’t think surprising William is as hilarious as you—”

“And you,” Sophia says, turning back to me. “You’re acting strange, too.”

“Me?”

“Yes. You seem…distracted. And not in the good way.” Her forehead wrinkles in concentration as she studies me. “Something’s wrong.”

I rub the bridge of my nose. “I’ve just got a bit of a headache, that’s all.”

“You’ve never let a headache slow you down,” she says. “I can count on one hand the times in my life I’ve seen you in a bad mood, and this is one of them.”

“I’m fine,” I snap. “Will you just drop it?”

The wide-eyed look of shock my little sister gives me makes me regret the words as soon as they’re out of my mouth. Shame fills me.

“I’m sorry, Sophia,” I say. “It’s just…I didn’t sleep very well last night.”

“Yeah, but that’s all the more reason for you to be in a good mood,” she says. “Unless…” She peers at me. “Didn’t Justine come and find you last night after she left the aviary?”

“Wait—you talked to Justine last night? What did she say?”

Sophia doesn’t get the chance to answer. Applause ripples through the room, and when I turn, I see Justine walking across the stage erected on the far side of the room. People quickly find their seats, still applauding as Justine steps behind the podium with the microphone.

I want to know what Sophia and Justine talked about last night—but I also want to hear what Justine has to say now.

My wife smiles warmly at the gathered crowd, but even from here, I can see the slight tension in her face. When I glance around, though, no one else seems to notice—they’re all looking at her with friendly expectation.

“Welcome,” Justine tells the crowd. “And thank you again for joining us this week. I can’t express what an honor it is to host this conference, to meet people from all over the world who share my passion for protecting and promoting the arts.”

Another round of applause erupts, and Justine smiles and waits for it to die off before continuing. I realize I’m holding my breath. In spite of my anger, I can’t help but stare at her with wonder. She looks so beautiful, so powerful up there, sharing her passion with the world. She might be nervous, but she also has the look of someone who is fully in her element. It’s exquisite.

I married a remarkable woman.

“The arts hold a very special place in this world,” Justine continues after a slight pause. “When we’re surrounded by tragedies and atrocities, when the world seems to be falling apart around us, when we feel surrounded by war, hate, bigotry, and pain…art brings us hope. It’s beauty when we’re surrounded by the ugliness of hatred. It’s light when all the world seems dark. But most importantly of all, it’s truth—not always a happy truth, or an inspiring truth, or even a truth we want to see, but that’s what makes it so powerful. It’s the purest expression of human existence—the good, the bad, and everything in between. And that’s why it’s so important to foster it wherever we are, however we can.”

She pauses, blinking, and for a moment I think she’s forgotten her next line—but then she continues on, warmth filling her face and brightening her eyes.

“Our keynote speaker today is the man who taught me that,” she says. “Under his teaching, for the first time in my life, I learned the true power of art—not just as a tool of personal expression, but as a tool for changing the world.”

Even from all the way back here, I can see that every word she speaks is true—whatever James Camden did to her, she still deeply admires and respects his work. Which is probably why she had no qualms about going to his room last night, despite the way he treated her in the past. My jealousy has awakened again, and I realize I’m gripping the goblet of ice water on the table in front of me so tight my hand is starting to ache.

“Our keynote speaker is a professor of poetry at Harvard University in the United States,” Justine is saying. “He’s also a former U.S. Poet Laureate, and won the Pulitzer Prize for his collection, Under the Endless Stairs. Please help me welcome Dr. James Camden to the stage.”

The crowd breaks into applause again, some going so far as to stand as they clap. Justine smiles and steps back from the podium as James Camden takes the stage. He waves to the crowd, then strides over to Justine and takes her hand. He pulls her close, leaning in and kissing her cheek. His mouth lingers far longer than socially necessary.

Suddenly, pain shoots through my hand—followed by the sharp, cold shock of ice water. With a start, I realize I’ve gripped my glass so tightly that the bowl has snapped right off the stem. The glass seems to have punctured my skin, judging by the dark streak of blood running down my palm, but after that initial shock of pain, I feel nothing but numbness.

I need to get out of here. Why the hell did I think I could sit through this? Or watch my wife fawn over her bastard of an ex-lover in front of a crowd of strangers? A little voice in the back of my mind reminds me that James Camden might not be such an ex-lover after all, but that certainly doesn’t help matters.

Abruptly, I stand. Sophia and Nicholas both look over at me in surprise, and Nicholas is the first to notice the blood running down my wrist.

He starts to rise, too. “Your hand—”

“Will be fine,” I say curtly. “Just an accident. You two stay here.”

Sophia starts to object, but Nicholas knows better. He rests a hand on her arm, silencing her, and I leave the table, staying against the wall of the room as I head toward the door.

Meanwhile, James Camden has begun smugly thanking the crowd for their welcome. Just the sound of his voice sends ripples of rage through me, but I try to drown it out. I won’t even let myself look his way.

Just make it to the door, I tell myself. Just get out of here.

And I nearly do. I’ve almost made my escape when some of the bastard’s words make it through my defenses, reaching my ears.

“…Justine was always one of my prized students. From the very beginning, she showed such promise, such beauty…and under me, her poetry blossomed into such a profound thing…”

I spin around, unable to control myself. The stage is still most of the way across the room, but my movement catches the eye of Justine, who’s taken a seat at the edge of the stage. She starts when our eyes meet—I can’t imagine she expected me to show up today.

James is still droning on. “I cannot express the honor of having such a gifted student to mold. She accessed such depths of truth through her words, and I hope it’s not too bold to say my guidance and hands-on attention helped her evolve into something truly exquisite…”

My rage burns white hot, drowning out everything else. My hand has started to throb, but it seems to pulse in time with the beat of the anger coursing through me. My emotion must be clear on my face, even from a distance, because something flashes on Justine’s eyes. She jerks—almost as if she means to rise, then thinks better of it at the last minute—and I’d swear her eyes are almost pleading with me.

But I won’t stand here and let this man talk about how my wife “bloomed” under his “careful attention.” If the smug bastard thinks he can insult the princess of Rosvalia at her own conference, he deserves what he gets.

There’s a fire alarm mounted on the wall right next to the door. The moment my eyes fall on it, I know what I need to do. Without another look at Justine, I march over to the alarm, lift the cover, and pull the lever.

Immediately, an ear-splitting siren begins blaring, drowning out the bastard on stage. People cry out in surprise and alarm, a few even jumping to their feet.

But that’s when the fun really begins. After a few seconds, sprinklers descend from the ceiling, switching on and spraying water down on all the guests below.

Everyone is on their feet now. Some people are panicking, others desperately throwing their hands over their heads, trying—in vain—not to get wet. And suddenly, there’s a mad rush to the door.

The alarm siren is still blaring, but its harsh tones are interspersed with robotic directions in alternating languages to walk slowly and calmly to the nearest exit. As the people run to the door near me, I press my back against the wall, right in front of the fire alarm, letting them pass. My eyes move back to Justine.

She’s on her feet, but otherwise she hasn’t moved from her corner of the stage. Her eyes are locked on mine, and though it’s hard to see her expression through the showers raining down from the ceiling, I can feel the energy of it from here. She’s pissed.

A touch of shame reignites in my belly, but I push it down. Instead, I turn and look at James Camden. He looks torn between staying behind the podium—as if he can bring back his devoted audience by sheer force of will—and running panicked toward the nearest exit. After a moment, his panic seems to win out. He practically leaps off the stage, then shoves his way through the crowd. I can hear his sharp shouts of “Excuse me!” and “Let me through!” even from here.

Smiling to myself, I look back at Justine. She still hasn’t moved, and I know she won’t be moving—not until everyone else has gone. Not until she and I are the only ones left in this bloody room.

Good, I think, staring her down. We have much to discuss, Princess.