When I hear the soft knock on my door a few minutes later, I figure William must have forgotten to tell me something.

Like maybe Lady Clarissa is already knocked up with a royal baby.

My stomach twists into a hard knot at the thought. She hasn’t been here long enough to actually have a pregnancy test come back positive, but it would at least explain her possessive behavior. And maybe even explain Andrew’s reluctance to do anything about it.

And why haven’t I considered that before now? Andrew has never made any promises to me—he’s never said a word about what we have being exclusive. He may have said something about his moral obligations, but those seem to go out the window when his cock gets hard. And obviously, he was feeding me a line of bullshit when he told me he had chosen me.

What the hell was that for, anyway?

He didn’t stand up for me when Clarissa had come into my room uninvited. He dropped me—literally—instead. I guess the whole situation was so surreal I hadn’t seen it before this moment. I should have been a lot angrier. I shouldn’t have stayed in my room, waiting for Andrew to come back to me like some white knight. I should have barged in on their dinner, told everyone in attendance what an asshole Andrew is, and turned on my heel and left.

I’m seething by the time I reach the door, but at least I won’t be here much longer. This nightmare will be over before I know it and I can go home. And maybe I can figure out what the hell I’m doing with my life, falling for a man who is unobtainable. Having actual fucking feelings for someone as cold and heartless as Andrew.

A sound I don’t recognize comes from my throat—some deep, animal sound from the pit of my gut—and I slam the door closed when I see he’s standing at my doorway.

I march into the bedroom and slam that door closed, too, for good measure.

Every muscle in my body is shaking and my hands clench and unclench, ready to hurl a punch at him if he so much as comes near me.

When my bedroom door opens, I turn to face him. I should walk to him, slap him, and leave. Let him have his precious Lady Clarissa. Let him have every fucking thing he deserves. Maybe let myself have a chance at happiness while I’m at it.

But when I look in his eyes, he isn’t looking back at me. His gaze is turned downward. His shoulders are hunched and he’s holding himself much differently than he usually does. Gone is the regal, almost rigid stance. Instead, he looks as though he might crumple to the floor if he so much as breathes wrong.

Seeing him like this takes some of the wind from my angry sails.

He collapses onto the end of the bed. He almost folds over, his head in his hands. He’s shaking, too, but it doesn’t seem to have anything to do with rage—nothing like what I’m still feeling.

I blow out a long breath and watch him, hoping he’ll at least tell me what the hell is going on here—why he’s here at all now that he’s made his real choice. But he sits there for so long, almost as though he’s unable to move, that I finally sit down next to him—only close enough that he can feel my presence. Definitely not close enough for him to try anything.

I glance at the door when I think about him trying something like he had in our earlier shower. I’m halfway expecting Lady Clarissa to come storming in here again. My closed doors didn’t seem to stop her before, so I’m not sure why they would this time.

Andrew runs his hand through his hair so roughly I’m almost afraid he’s going to pull a large chunk of it out. He rubs the back of his neck—his head is nearly in his lap, he’s bent so far over.

He finally sits upright and looks over at me, but can’t seem to meet my gaze. His chin is quivering in a way I’ve never seen before and I would swear his eyes are wet.

His brow furrows and his eyes fall closed—he looks like he is in physical pain. “Victoria.” He opens his eyes, his gaze still on the floor. His voice is ragged—almost hitching in his chest. “I have no right to ask for such a thing, but…but…”

I swear he’s trying not to sob. Whatever is happening to him, it’s clear he’s suffering. And it’s making my chest ache hearing it in his voice.

I edge myself closer to him. “You can ask me anything, Andrew.” I’m not sure what possesses me, but I reach out and rub his back.

He trembles beneath my touch. He turns, pulling my free hand into his, but still not meeting my gaze. “Do you…do you think it would be possible for us to lie together? I…I…” He lets out a shaky breath. “Of course, I would understand if you were to refuse. I’ve…I’ve treated you so poorly. And I have no excuse. No right to ask for such a thing.”

After everything that’s happened tonight, I should be disgusted at his request. I should want to take my hand away from rubbing his back and punch him in the kidney instead.

But I don’t. I can’t explain it—not even to myself—but something in his voice is so broken. So wrong.

I don’t answer him. Instead, I pull my hand from his and crawl up onto the bed, lying back onto the pillow and I reach out for him, almost beckoning him into my arms.

He never even looks up, never makes eye contact at all. He crawls up onto the bed and starts to lie next to me. I expect him to lie on his side—to pull me into his arms, pressing my back to his chest—the way we’ve always been together.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he wraps his arms around my waist and lays his head on my chest as though he’s listening to my heartbeat.

I wrap my arms around him, curling one hand into his hair while the other rubs his back slowly, up and down and back up again.

It seems like it might be a million years that we lie there. His breathing finally slows, evening out into something more regular than the shallow, ragged breaths that seemed like they were barely holding back his sobs. And he sleeps, his ear pressed to my heart, for the rest of the night.

I must drift off to sleep at some point, because I’m awakened by a loud knock on the door to my suite.

Andrew stirs and sits up. He makes eye contact with me for the first time since he arrived in my room last night. But he says nothing.

The knock sounds against the door again and Andrew slides off the bed and strides over to answer it.

I follow after him, almost having to run to keep up. A sense of dread washes over me when I think about who might be on the other side of the door. Clarissa? The king? William?

If it’s Clarissa, at least we aren’t naked this time.

The deep aching in my chest starts again at my thoughts of that woman. I suppose I could have asked Andrew about it last night—I could have made that a condition of allowing him into bed with me, but it didn’t seem right. Or necessary. Whatever happened between Andrew and Clarissa, it’s pretty clear it’s causing him more suffering than I can possibly understand.

And isn’t that what he’s been telling me all along? That I could never understand his devotion to his country? I still don’t completely get it, but if he was actually able to make a decision like that—to choose to marry a woman who is so obviously a terrible match for him—his dedication to his country must run deeper than I can ever imagine.

I suppose that’s the point—I can’t imagine. I understand being devoted. I’ve been a devoted employee for the past five years. That is the sort of dedication I can understand. But I’ve always had a choice. No one had me chained to my desk—I wasn’t born to work at some job. He’s never had a choice. He’s never had an ounce of freedom to do what he wants.

Why haven’t I seen that before?

The stout man is at the door when Andrew opens it—I think his name is Stephan.

He lets out a small shriek when he sees Andrew and covers his mouth with his hand as he gives Andrew a shallow bow. He stares at Andrew for a second, dropping his hand to his side before he turns his gaze to mine. “Ms. Simpson. You are to collect your things and I am to escort you from the palace to await your transportation back to the United States.”

I nod. “That’s fine. I haven’t unpacked since I arrived yesterday, so it should only take me a second to get my stuff.” I stare at Andrew’s back for a moment and my voice lowers. “I thought I had another day. When William came to deliver the messages last night—”

Stephan interrupts. “His Majesty reconsidered his initial assessment and decided it would be far better for you to leave at once, even if you are required some additional travel time. In fact, the Lady Clarissa insisted—”

Andrew cuts him off this time. “Oh, fuck Lady Clarissa and her histrionics.” He turns around and looks into my eyes before he turns back to the man at the door. “You may give my father a message, Stephan.”

Stephan bows his head.

“Tell him there has been a change of plans.”

The man looks up at him. “A…change? But…but, Your Highness. His Majesty has already decided—”

Andrew interrupts with something that sounds like a growl. “And that is precisely the problem. He has decided my fate. And you may let him know that I have now decided my fate. Or rather, fate has decided for me. And my decision is clear.”

Stephan’s brows draw together. “Your…decision, Your Highness?” He clears his throat. “And what may I tell His Majesty your decision is?”

Andrew turns back to me and flashes me a small smile before turning back to Stephan. “You may tell him that I have chosen Victoria. And that if it means I must abdicate my role as heir to his throne, so be it.”

Stephan’s face immediately turns four shades of purple at the news, but he gives Andrew a shallow bow and walks back into the hallway.

He closes the door and turns back to me. “I hope that doesn’t shock you, Victoria. And I hope you understand I do not intend to frighten you in any way. I merely needed to get the message across to my father in terms I know he will understand.”

“He’s never going to let you abdicate the throne, though. We both know that—”

The smallest of smiles plays at the corners of his lips. “Then he’ll have to change his rules. Allow me to make my own decisions. And Victoria, I know we already discussed this, and regardless of what my father might want, I’ve already made my choice. I’ve already chosen you.”