Page 46 of Fallen Crown

My miscarriage sent me into a grief spiral, but the news that came on the heels of it was really what caused me to bore so low. The harsh reality is something I try not to dwell on too deeply. Enzo and I went to so many specialists, and every single one offered the same grim reality. No amount of positive thinking can overcome something a body just wasn’t meant to do. Before I can get sucked too deeply into that train of thought, my phone starts to ring.

The trill of my ringtone makes me jump, and I fumble to sit up, checking the caller ID. It’s anonymous, which could mean anything. When I answer, there’s a beat of dead space, and my heart sinks. Figures I’d get a telemarketer when I’m primed for someone else.

“Hello?” I try one last time, my tone hinting at annoyance.

“Maren Tucker, please,” King Alexander says.

I’m stunned for a beat, and then I say, “This is she.”

“My wife tells me that you and my brother, Brice, have grown quite close. As I’m sure you’re aware…” He clears his throat. “Our father passed away this evening.” There’s another lengthy pause, and I can hear Queen Aurora in the background offering to take the phone.

“Maren,” Queen Aurora says. “Hi. We’re all worried about Brice. He’s been telling everyone he’s fine and refusing any support. As I’m sure you can appreciate, fine is not really something any of them are right now.”

“Yes.” It’s the only thing I can think to say as my mind spins on Brice grieving alone. “He—he hasn’t called me, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“He won’t,” she says. “Posey and Brent tried. We’ve all tried. Alex even suggested calling some of the buddies he goes to Vegas with—which I thought was a bad idea, but desperate times and all that. Then Nick wondered whether Brice might agree to see you?”

“He might not want to see me either.” There’s a tight knot in my chest. Part of me is desperate to go, but another part of me can see the danger in continuing to cultivate this closeness. On top of that, Brice isn’t the one calling for help. Our private encounters are usually carefully crafted, as though neither of us wants to put a foot wrong. “I can text him and ask.”

“If there’s one thing I can say with absolute certainty about the Summerset men, it’s that they need someone who shows up for them.” Aurora groans. “That sounds like I’m advocating something I’m not. I know you’re married. I’m just.” She sighs. “If you text him, he’ll tell you he’s fine.”

“You want me to come to the estate.”

“If you can. If you’re willing. If not, that’s okay.” There’s a pause on the line. “I can always call one of his drinking and gambling buddies. There are—there are other options.”

It’s silly for me to be resistant when they’re telling me he needs help, and I know from personal experience how isolating grief can be when not enough people notice.

“I’ll be there soon,” I say.

It’s late, but the front entrance is bursting with press. The first time I drive past the main gates, I’m not sure I should attempt to go through the cameras and reporters. The last thing I need is a story in the Bellerive gossip pages about me and Brice. There have already been a few about our public training sessions. Nothing salacious, but it could so easily go there.

There must be a secondary entrance for deliveries or events, but I’ve never used it. After I’ve passed the estate entrance for the second time, and I’m starting to worry about appearing suspicious, I pull onto the side of the road, and I search for Jag’s number in my contacts.

He answers on the first ring and proceeds to give me detailed instructions about another entrance, which has to be unlocked and opened by hand. I hang up with him, and I inch along the side road, looking for the concealed entrance that Jag assured me was in amongst the bushes. In the end, it’s not the entrance I see but Jag waving his cell phone like a flashlight.

The driveway is narrow and partially covered with shrubs and bushes. I’m really hoping I don’t end up with scratches across my paint job. Once I’m through the gate, Jag comes to the passenger’s side and opens the door wide enough to squeeze in beside me.

“This entrance is for deliveries?” I ask once he’s buckled in.

“No,” he says. “It’s for other things.”

There’s something about the way he says it that makes me think “other things” are clandestine meetings, perhaps for the princes. The idea turns my stomach. A silly reaction. The internet is rife with proof of the very colorful life Brice led before he started training for the adventure race. That life is exactly why I didn’t particularly like him before. But he hasn’t turned out to be anything like I expected or assumed based on what I’d seen and read.

Doesn’t mean he won’t go right back to being the guy I believed him to be as soon as training is done. I’m not sure how to reconcile the two versions of him that live inside my head. For now, I don’t have to.

“I guess I should be glad I haven’t been relegated to this entrance before.”

“It was discussed,” Jag says in his usual gruff tone.

“Oh?” I come to a fork in the gravel drive and gesture for help.

“Left.”

“And why was that dismissed?”

“Nothing to hide, according to Prince Brice.”

It should bring me a measure of comfort to hear he’s told others the truth. I’m his coach, and somewhere along the line, we became friends. Nothing shameful there. But every once in a while, guilt pinches at me over how close I’ve gotten to him, how much I welcome his attention when I shouldn’t.