Royally Unexpected Book 5: Wicked Prince

Atonement.

That’s what I’m doing when I haul another tray of baked goods into a cooling rack at my sister’s bakery. I move to sweep flour off the floor and smile as my sister comes through the door.

“You don’t have to do this, Margot,” Ivy says. “I have enough employees. You should just relax.”

My sister’s black hair is pulled into a sleek ponytail. She wipes her hands on her apron, glancing through the front door of the bakery. Chewing her bottom lip, Ivy wrings her hands. “You think people will come back?”

“It’s your grand re-opening,” I smile. “Of course they’ll come back.”

“Even after people were hospitalized because of me?”

“It wasn’t because of you,” I answer, leaning the broom against the wall. I put my hands on my sister’s shoulders. “It was my dickhead agent, Hunter. You were a victim of his maliciousness.”

“I know, but you know what I mean. People will still blame me. Hunter hasn’t been charged with anything—besides his confession to you, there’s no evidence that he was even here.”

I smile. “It’ll be fine. Word has gotten out that he planted the bacteria. I’ve been looking at the response online, and it doesn’t look like people blame you at all. All kinds of shady stuff Hunter’s done is surfacing, now. If anything, the extra publicity will be good.”

“Not for the people who were hospitalized.” Ivy grimaces, and my chest squeezes.

I try to swallow past the lump that’s lodged itself in my throat. “I’m sorry, Ivy.”

Her eyes turn back to me, and she shakes her head. “You know it wasn’t your fault.”

“If I’d been more supportive…”

“You had just gotten home. You’re in recovery. You were taking care of yourself after supporting me your entire life. None of this is your fault.” Ivy wraps her arms around me, and my chest tightens some more.

Guilt is a useless emotion. It doesn’t serve any purpose. It doesn’t push me to be a better person, it only drags me down further into my own anxiety. Feeling guilty doesn’t change the past.

Logically, I know this, but the guilt persists.

It snakes in and out of my heart, creeping into my thoughts whenever I feel like I’m doing well. Guilt is a group of little gremlins, hiding in every corner of my mind. They poke their heads out once in a while to remind me that I’m a terrible person.

Even when I spend a week helping Ivy out at her bakery, Spoonful of Sugar, and endorse her publicly when she announces that she’ll re-open it, I still feel bad.

It was my agent who poisoned her food. It was my agent who put her in the hospital. It was my agent who tried to ruin her new business.

Guilty, guilty, guilty.

The back door of the bakery bursts open, and Ivy’s boyfriend, Prince Luca, comes through. He gives me a broad smile, hooking his arms around both Ivy and me.

“Today’s the big day!”

Ivy’s face breaks into a grin, and she nuzzles her face into his chest. The Prince kisses the top of her head.

My heart melts. There was a time when I was jealous of Ivy. It wasn’t long ago, either—only about four months. They were the darkest days of my life, right before I learned the truth about my diagnosis. Before I hit rock bottom. I saw the relationship budding between the two of them, and I thought it should be me that Prince Luca wanted, not my sister.

I was in a haze of self-medication, depression, and anxiety. My mind was a mess, and it landed me pregnant, overdosing in hospital, and forced to retreat to an intensive therapy course in the middle of the Farcliff wilderness. I was unhealthy, selfish, and wrong.

I know that now, but it doesn’t make it any easier.

I reach for my bottle of water on the counter, and my hand shakes slightly. I look at the tremor in my hand, and fear pierces through me like an ice pick. I ball my hand into a fist to hide the shaking. Glancing at Ivy, I breathe a sigh of relief when I see she hasn’t noticed.

I reach for the bottle again, knocking it to the ground.

“Shit,” I say under my breath.

Ivy laughs, shaking her head. “Always the clumsy one. How your publicist manages to hide that from the public is beyond me.”

“She’s a magician,” I say, laughing nervously as I pick up the water bottle with trembling hands. “Being an oaf doesn’t exactly fit with the image of a ‘graceful blonde goddess.’” I grin, making air quotes around the last words.

Ivy giggles. I turn away from her, using a precious moment to take a deep breath and compose myself.

Four months ago, I tested positive for Huntington’s disease. It’s the illness that killed our mother. Ivy has no idea.

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