The Dirty Series 1(113)

Fuck.

There were times during my childhood and early adulthood when I thought it would have been much easier to be Marcus. He had all the things I wanted—praise from my father, the title of crown prince, and an easy confidence about him, always seeming to know what he was supposed to be doing and what was expected from him at any given time. It never seemed that he and my father were at odds. I never saw him let his anger get the better of him.

Except when the two of us went at it.

What have I done?

I should go after Jessica right now.

As I start to follow after her, I catch my father’s eyes watching me. His expression is neutral, and he doesn’t break off from the conversation he’s having, but I know he’s waiting to see what I’ll do.

He’s waiting to see where my true loyalties lie.

He might like Jessica—he’s said as much to me—but his main concern is keeping Saintland thriving for several more generations.

I can’t let my reaction to Jessica’s social blunder derail this event, or allow my reactions to affect any other event. That is, not if I’m going to remain on even footing with my father, which is essential if I’m going to succeed in this goddamn role.

I change direction midstride, take a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter, and join my father in his discussion with the Spanish ambassador. When I approach the pair, they’re discussing Jessica.

“That woman—Ms. Reeves, did you say?—is she a member of the royal household or an invited guest?”

“She is our guest at the moment,” my father says, no emotion coloring his voice.

The ambassador sneers. “You don’t think she’s a little…out of control for important events such as this? She seems to have no interest in observing proper protocol.”

My father shrugs his head in an indifferent sort of gesture that could be interpreted as anything. He is a master at reacting without revealing whether he agrees or disagrees—at least in public. I’m goddamn certain that my skin has turned to an angry color of red in reaction to the man’s words. Who the hell does he think he is?

Taking a deep, discreet breath and letting it out, I sip on the champagne. Then, instead of defending Jessica and explaining that the ambassador is out of line for passing judgments about guests of the House of Caldwell, I do the opposite.

“You’ll have to excuse her,” I say, giving the man a winning smile. “She wasn’t feeling very well and let it get the best of her.”

The Spanish ambassador rolls his eyes. In a low voice, he gets in one final crack. “Some women.”

My blood boils in my veins, but I just give him a shrug and laugh.



After that conversation, I don’t linger long at the event.

“I have some things to finish up before I turn in,” I tell my father, then make my way to the exit, stopping every few feet to say more goodbyes to the guests.

As soon as I’m outside the doors of the Great Hall, I’m rushing toward the elevator, my heart pounding against my chest, my hands shaking with dread and shame. At the reception, I swallowed it all back so I could accept condolences about my brother and shake hands with a neutral expression and pretend to pay attention to what everyone said.

Now I have to get to her.

I have to tell her how fucking sorry I am.

My heart beats so hard it hurts as I rush up to the third level of the palace.

Will she forgive me?

By the time the elevator arrives, I’m in a frenzy that’s completely fucking inappropriate for a crown prince. The hallway is empty. I sprint toward her door and pound on it with my fist.

“Jessica!” I cry, silently praying that nobody can hear the anguish in my voice. “Jessica, it’s me! Please come to the door.”

A moment later, as if she’s been waiting for me, the door swings open to reveal Jessica, her hair down and eyes red from crying. She’s wearing the purple silk robe that I had the staff hang up for her in the bathroom before she moved over from the Northern Crown.

“What do you want, Alec?” she says sadly, her voice trembling.

I step closer, cup her face in my hands, and look deeply into her eyes.

She doesn’t look away.

“What do you want?” she repeats.

“I’m sorry.”

I let the apology hang in the air for a moment, and at first her jaw juts out a little. I know she’s deciding whether or not to be stubborn.

Her shoulders relax just a fraction.

“I’m sorry, Jessica,” I press on. “I shouldn’t have said any of that to you at the reception. I shouldn’t have said anything like that to you ever. I don’t know what came over me.”

“I do,” she responds solemnly.