style="font-size:15px;"> She smiled at him, holding no grudge for his unwelcoming demeanor. “I know. I did some research when I got the scholarship. Your country is kind of amazing for its progressive stance on the environment and energy conservation.”
“I am glad you think so.”
“That money was yours,” the king’s sister insisted. “Until you married my son.”
The claims were starting to make an awful kind of sense, but Chanel had no intention of allowing the two emotional vultures in front of her to know about the splinters of pain slicing their way through Chanel’s heart.
She simply said, “He’s not your son.”
“Would you like to see your grandfather’s will?” the duke asked, clearly unwilling to give up.
Two things were obvious in that moment. The first was that there had to be some truth to what the duke and his wife were saying. If there wasn’t, Demyan and the king would have categorically denied it.
Also, they were both way too tense now for the claims to be entirely false.
Second, whatever the duke and Princess Svitlana’s motives for telling Chanel, it had nothing to do with helping or protecting anyone. Her least of all.
In fact, she was fairly certain their intention was to hurt the son who had finally made a public alliance with the family who had raised him.
She turned away from the duke and duchess to face Demyan. “Tell me your siblings don’t take after your egg and sperm donors.”
Duplicate sounds of outrage indicated the Zaretskys had heard her just fine.
Demyan didn’t respond, an expression she’d never seen in his eyes. Fear.
She wasn’t sure what he was afraid of. Whether he was afraid she would mess up whatever plan he’d made with King Fedir, or worried she would go ballistic at their very politically attended reception, or something else really didn’t matter.
Whatever Demyan felt for her, Chanel loved him and she wasn’t going to let the two people whose rejection had already caused him a lifetime of pain hurt him anymore.
“I think it’s time we all returned to the reception.” She couldn’t quite dredge up a smile, but she did her best to mask her own hurt.
He spoke then, the words coming out in a strange tone. “We need to talk.”
She didn’t want him showing vulnerability in front of the Zaretskys. Chanel wasn’t giving them the satisfaction of believing they’d succeeded in their petty and vindictive efforts.
She reached up and cupped his face, like he did so often with her, hoping it gave him the same sense of comfort and being cared for it had always done her, no matter how much of a lie it might have been at the time. “Later.”
“You promise?”
“Yes.”
“She is a fool,” the duke said in disgusted Ukrainian.
Chanel looked at him over her shoulder, her expression a perfect reflection of her mother’s favorite one for disdain. “The only fool here is you if you think for one second you have the power to influence my prince’s life for good or ill today, or any time in the future. You simply don’t matter.”
She had also spoken in his native language and enjoyed the shock that produced in the overweening nobleman.
The duchess gasped. “You’re American.”
“Which does not equate to uninformed, stupid or uneducated.” Chanel met eyes so similar in color but different in expression from Demyan’s. “My heritage in this country may not be royal, or as long-standing, but when it comes to the welfare of Volyarus, it is equally as important as yours.”
Her grandfather had helped this nation stay afloat financially three decades ago and his efforts were still benefitting the Volyarussians.
“You already knew,” the duchess said, almost as if she admired Chanel’s acumen. “But then why did you marry him?”
“Because she loves me,” Demyan said, his voice gravelly.
Chanel turned back to him without agreeing or giving his parents another single solitary moment of her time. She hadn’t known about the will being different than what her great-grandmother had believed, or what that had to do with Chanel’s marriage to Demyan, though she could make a pretty educated guess based on the prenuptial agreement.
She wasn’t about to admit that to the Zaretskys, though.
Demyan was searching her face as if trying to read Chanel’s thoughts. So far in their relationship, she’d been an open book. She had little hope of hiding what was going on in her head right now.
But she didn’t have to talk about it. Especially in front of the older generation of the royal family.
“Leave,” the king said to his sister and brother-in-law.
The Zaretskys started for the door of the study.
“No,” the king instructed. “Out through the secret passage. You will not return to the reception and you will be out of the palace within the hour.”
“What? You cannot be serious. How would that look?” his sister demanded.
“Like you threw a temper tantrum when your son chose to change his name to reflect his true parentage,” the king replied, his tone arctic.
Princess Svitlana crossed her arms, but stopped just shy of stomping her feet. “I won’t do it.”
“You will. Do not presume to forget that this is not a nominal King of Volyarus. I hold the power to revoke your citizenship and deport you. Do not tempt me to use it.”
The duke and his wife both paled at the king’s words, Princess Svitlana doing a fair imitation of a gasping fish, though no words passed her lips.
The expression in her brother’s eyes suggested she keep it that way.
Showing she was marginally more intelligent than evidence might suggest, the princess left without another word. Through the secret passageway. Her husband followed close behind her.
Chanel stepped back from Demyan, intending to return to the reception. The crowds of people and litany of voices that fifteen minutes ago had seemed so overwhelming now called like a beacon for escape from the thoughts that were multiplying by the second in her head.
And with every new thought came a shard of pain Chanel had no idea how long she could contain.
The king blocked her exit, his gaze searching hers as much as his adopted son’s had done. However, the level of ruthlessness behind his perusal chilled her; she’d felt only confusion mixed with hurt at Demyan’s look.
She said nothing, simply waited for the King of Volyarus to move.
He frowned. “You will not return to the reception only to cause a scene.”
