The Billionaire Prince’s Pregnant Fiancée by Leslie North

3

Two months later

Clara sat at a desk at her local party campaign office, stuffing letters. The repetitive, almost hypnotic physical motions should have been soothing, but she got the feeling no amount of administrative busywork was going to stop the chaotic hurricane of thoughts that was threatening to shut her down.

I’m pregnant.

The morning sickness started not long after she missed her first period. She’d tried to pass it off as indigestion, maybe some bad takeaway, but deep down she knew the truth. There had been a moment with Erik where they’d been a little more amorous than careful, and even though they’d addressed the situation soon afterward, apparently a few minutes were all it took.

And now here we are.

Or rather, here she was. Once the doctor had confirmed her pregnancy via blood test (as if the six over-the-counter tests could somehow be wrong!), she’d gone to the head of entertainment at Kew Gardens and asked about Moonlight Serenade, the band Erik had sung with. Surely, they’d know how to find him? But the director had been curiously tight-lipped. She’d finally tracked them down on their website, and when she said she was looking for Erik, they’d simply stopped replying to her emails and blocked her on social media. Probably thinking she was some sort of crazed groupie, she thought bitterly. Now, she had no way of letting the man know she was expecting his child. She was on her own.

She bit her lip. She hadn’t told her parents quite yet because she was trying desperately to figure out what her next move was. Waitressing was what she knew, what she had the most experience in. She was good at it, even if it wasn’t what she wanted to do forever. But she couldn’t exactly pick up a double shift with a baby waiting at home. And how was that supposed to work? Up until recently, she’d been giving most of her spare money to her parents to help make up for her mother’s time off, and now anything extra had been going into her barely-there savings.

She paused in her envelope-stuffing. University. Was that dream dead again? Even if she could secure a scholarship again, how in the world could she juggle taking care of her baby, taking classes full-time, working a living wage, and paying for all the other unplanned expenses that always seemed to crop up?

Her heart sank, and she felt her eyes start to prick with tears she quickly blinked away. The obstetrician had warned her that pregnancy hormones were going to start playing havoc with her emotions and her energy levels, and she was a walking infomercial for the damned symptoms.

She stuffed the envelopes more quickly, more violently. She couldn’t ask her parents for help; they’d be happy to offer, but they were barely back on track themselves. And with her mother’s fibromyalgia, there was no way she could ask her or her father to watch a baby when she wasn’t working. It was simply too much. Which meant she’d have to pay for childcare of some sort.

She felt her breathing start to go shallow and panicky, and forced herself to calm down as best she could.

She’d already decided this was going to be her last week working for minimum wage at the campaign office. For pity’s sake, she usually helped with strategy, phone calls, canvassing. Today, between “baby brain” and her sloth-like energy levels, not to mention the lingering morning sickness, she was lucky to be able to manage the damned envelopes.

What am I going to do?

Surely there was an answer. She just wasn’t seeing it.

“You all right over there, Clara?” the campaign field officer, a kind woman in her sixties named Olivia, asked. Her eyes were compassionate but shrewd. Clara felt her cheeks heat with a blush, wondering if the other woman suspected her condition. “Maybe you should go to the break room, fix yourself a cup of tea.”

“That sounds lovely,” Clara agreed quietly. The campaign office wasn’t exceptionally large or well appointed, but it did have a nice break room. The electric kettle was (usually) full, and people brought in crisps and biscuits. There was a window that had a view out to the street and Big Ben beyond (okay, if you tilted your head a bit).

Best of all, Olivia was a fan of the printed word, which meant the break room’s table was stacked high with magazines and newspapers from around the world. She thought it was important that their people stay abreast of the political climate abroad, and that online coverage was simply too overwhelming, and often sub-par. Clara flipped her way through the glossy mags before settling on the newspapers. She skimmed headlines, but after several stomach-turning disasters and scandals, she decided to find something a bit brighter. She had enough disaster right now, thank you very much.

She was gratified to find The Fervian Times, a newspaper from a small island kingdom off the coast. She would barely have registered it if her friend Holly hadn’t up and moved there to pursue her dream of being an investigative journalist. She’d met Holly here at the party headquarters, actually, when Holly was doing research for a story, and they’d become friendly. She scanned the front page, and for the first time that day, she broke out into an unrestrained smile.

There Holly was, her byline front and center. Holly had covered some upcoming trade conference that the country was going to be entering, using the two other neighboring island kingdoms as a consortium. It sounded interesting, certainly a good boost for the local economy. And Holly’s smarts and skills as a journalist were certainly on display. Clara squelched the quick feeling of envy she felt.

Holly’s pursuing her dreams. When am I going to be able to follow mine?

Absently, she rubbed her still flat stomach. At this rate, it was going to be a damned long time. She tried not to let that feel as crushing as the lead weight in her chest would suggest.

“Now, now. None of that,” Olivia said, surprising her.

Clara startled, dropping the newspaper. “I’m sorry?”

“I don’t know what’s got you so blue, but I can say this: you’re one of the hardest working people we have,” Olivia said gently. “You take things so seriously. I know something’s on your mind, and you seem both troubled and exhausted.”

Clara swallowed hard. “I… don’t think I’m going to be able to continue working here. Some things have come up.”

“Well, we’ve been lucky to have you this long and don’t worry. Things always come up.” Olivia’s smile was warm and encouraging. “You can always come back, whenever you like, if you want. And as for this…”

She gestured to the small stack of business and news periodicals Clara had piled in front of her.

“I think it’s vital to be informed about the world,” Olivia said with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, “but I also think that it’s important to not take things too seriously.”

With that, she pushed aside a stack of the Economist to reveal a treasure trove of tabloids and gossip rags. How had Clara ever missed those? Not that she read them, other than maybe a quick scan when she was in the shops, waiting in a long queue. “You like gossip?”

“I like turning my brain off now and then,” Olivia answered with a chuckle. “I can talk about reforming governmental programs all day long, but every now and then, I just want to read about what some silly socialite was wearing at some celebrity-filled soiree, or find out about some juicy drama. It doesn’t even feel real.” She paused, patting Clara’s hand. “There are enough meaty issues out there that we need to wrestle with. Sometimes, you just want dessert.”

Clara froze.

You’re an ice cream sundae.

Erik was supposed to be her break, her dessert. Her distraction from the troubles and exhaustion of her day-to-day world.

And look how well that turned out.

Olivia put a cup of herbal tea in front of Clara, then winked and left the break room—confirming Clara’s suspicions that Olivia knew what was going on. She took a deep breath, scoffing a little as she turned the pages of a glossy Royals Watch—Island edition! magazine. Beautiful people wearing expensive clothes in exotic locations, one after the other. She paused at a photo spread of three good-looking men, all in perfect bespoke tuxedos that probably cost more than her rent, all smiling broadly at the camera. Although there was no physical resemblance between the three, other than their obvious impeccable grooming, there was an easy camaraderie between the trio that suggested they were friends, practically brothers.

“The Royal Trio!” a headline proclaimed. “Prince Nic of Mynia, Prince Ben of Reinia, and…”

Clara’s eyes narrowed, and her heart stopped.

It. Can’t. Be.

She pulled the page closer, unable to believe what she was seeing. There, in glossy color, was Erik. His hair was different enough that she almost second-guessed herself. He looked so different with it styled back, instead of it being a rumpled halo around his face. But the face… the face was the same. Only he wasn’t Erik the anonymous wedding singer.

No. He was Erik Devlin, Prince of Fervia.

Her skin felt cold and clammy. Quickly, she scanned the article.

“Could it be? Prince Erik has a reputation as a ladies’ man and a party animal across every continent that’ll have him. But since the Queen’s death, he seems to have turned a corner. Is the infamous wild child now eyeing a life of domesticity? After dating some of the most eligible bachelorettes across Europe, it does make us wonder—is Prince Erik truly settling down? And if so, who will be the lucky lady who tames this charming beast?”

Her stomach knotted.

Womanizer. Ladies’ man. Party animal.

Is that so?

So had the whole thing been a ploy for him? Had she fallen for his “I am so attracted to you, it’s a bit crazed” line, like an idiot, like one of thousands of women he’d probably used it on? And now he was trying to “put his past behind him” and settle down, be “responsible?” Here she was, alone, wondering how the hell she’d keep a roof over her head and care for her child, waving goodbye to a future she saw no chance at. While he was acting the reformed rake, and looking to get married to some “suitable” socialite?

The hell he is.

She felt anger flash hot and bright as fireworks within her. It wasn’t because she was jealous or felt that she had some hold on him—even if she knew on some level, a bite of possessiveness and irritation crossed her at the thought of him being with someone else. No, she argued with herself: if he’d lied to her, used her, and was trying to turn the corner on his playboy past, he could do it now, with his own child. Asking that he provide financial support for childcare was not unreasonable. In fact, it was his duty. In a perfect world, he’d love the child, and together they…

She paused in her internal rant. Well, she wasn’t sure what they would be, in a perfect world. But at the very least, she’d settle for some money, even if it meant being silent and keeping the child hidden. She felt sure he’d probably want to keep his “indiscretion” hidden, and frankly, if she never saw his pretty-boy face again, it’d be too soon.

Ordinarily she swore by her own independence—she didn’t need anyone, least of all some man, to make her way in the world. But this was a baby, and she was willing to swallow some pride for the tiny person who was about to change her life.

She sipped the tea. The hot fury settled into something colder, more focused. She quickly did research on Erik, and the royal family of Fervia. There would be layers of protection and interference between her and the prince, she realized. There would be crazy fans, or vengeful ex-lovers who no doubt sought to stir up scandal. She’d need to get past those guards to get Erik to speak with her. But how?

She frowned. Sipped more tea. Then she started to plan the next step.