Prince Albert(80)

“Says the girl who’s pointedly ignoring the bodyguard she clearly has a thing for?”

Alex crosses her arms over her chest. “It’s not the same thing.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So you’re just going to let her run off with her crappy ex,” Alex whispers.

“I’m not letting her do anything,” I say, my tone low. “Belle is capable of making her own decisions.”

“You’re so stubborn.”

“Go talk to Max.”

“Fuck off, big brother.”

“Love you, little sister.”

I walk away as Alex flips me off while pretending to scratch the side of her face. Outside of the ballroom, I walk down the hallway, fully intending to go straight to my room.

I should just let it go. I know I should.

That would be the appropriate thing to do.

It would be the royal thing to do. We’re taught, from the very beginning, to do what’s appropriate, to maintain bearing above all.

Our name is all we have. That’s what my father would say.

I can think of few things that are worse ways of ruining my family’s name, or my father’s legacy, than falling for my stepsister.

Belle is her own person. She should make her own decision. And if that decision happens to involve getting back together with the jackass who was stupid enough to cheat on her, then so be it.

The rational part of me knows that letting it go would be the mature thing to do.

I stand in the middle of the hallway for a long minute.

Maybe I’m not that mature after all.





CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Belle



“I know I screwed up, Isabella.” Derek stands in front of me with his hands in his pockets. And he shrugs.

He fucking shrugs.

Nonchalantly, like it’s no big deal.

“You screwed up,” I say. “I’m pretty sure that fucking my maid of honor – not once, but repeatedly – doesn’t count as screwing up. Screwing up is forgetting my birthday, or –“

He interrupts. “It was an accident, Isabella,” he says. “I didn’t mean to –“

“Ohhhhh,” I say, my tone exaggerated. “Well, you see, I didn’t realize it was an accident. In that case, since you only accidentally put your penis in Adriana over and over and over for two years, obviously I’d have to forgive you.”

“I knew you’d see reason,” Derek says.

“That was sarcasm, you idiot,” I say, my voice coming out louder than I intend.

We’re inside one of the drawing rooms, a civilized place surrounded by priceless antiques. And I have to clasp my hands in front of me to keep from picking up one of the porcelain pieces of art on a nearby table and throwing it at Derek’s stupid head.

Because that would be inappropriate. And soon-to-be princesses are never inappropriate.

“You were gone for two years, Isabella,” he says. “How was I supposed to last for two years? Besides, it was just sex. It meant nothing to me. She meant nothing to me.”

“You could have just said you wanted to break up,” I hiss, my hands on my hips. I’m dangerously close to reaching for the porcelain figurine nearby. It’s a horse, rearing back with its legs in the air. I wonder how much it’s worth.

I wonder what it would look like bouncing off of Derek’s forehead.

“But I didn’t want to break up,” Derek says. “And, you know, being European royalty will be a real asset when you’re part of my campaign someday. Think of it. You could be the wife of a Governor. President, even.”

I stare at him in disbelief, mentally congratulating myself on having not slugged him yet. He looks at me with the kind of earnest self-righteousness that can only come from being both stupid and spoiled.

“You mean that I could still be your wife?” I ask, my voice rising an octave. “You’ll have me, even after all of this?”

“We could be a team,” he says. “You and I. With your beauty and my brains, we’d be unstoppable.”

I stare at him, his words echoing in my head. Was he always this much of a tool, or did he actually get dumber in the past two years?

“You’re a moron.”

“Don’t make this mistake, Isabella,” he says. “Do you really want to give up all of this?”

“All of what? You?” I ask. “Don’t make me retch.”

Derek’s face changes, his expression no longer contrite. Now he just looks at me sneering. “You always did think you were too good for me,” he says. “With all of your saving the world crap.”

“I am too good for you, Derek.”

“You stupid cunt,” he says, his face screwed up, inner ugliness transforming his appearance. He brushes past me, knocking into my shoulder as he walks by.