Page 54 of Reign
The next night, I apologize.
This, too, feels like choreography, but at least it is honest in its own limited way. The gala we’re attending is hers, one of the larger charity events on the winter calendar, full of old money, public generosity, and women who like being photographed alongside expensive causes.
Arabella is seated at her vanity when I walk into her dressing room with the velvet case in my hand. Her makeup is half done. Her hair is being pinned into place by one of the stylists. The silver dress spread over the chaise is mercilessly flattering.
She sees me in the mirror and goes immediately into careful mode. Good. That makes two of us.
“I was unpleasant,” I say.
One of her brows lifts faintly because there is no point pretending that narrows the field. “You usually are.”
“Last night in particular.”
That earns me more of her attention. The stylists go still in the room, all of them well-trained enough not to look as if they’re listening while plainly hearing every syllable.
I set the velvet case on the vanity and open it.
The necklace inside is worth ten million and then some, diamonds and sapphires cut to catch light like spilled waterover ice. The sort of obscene piece only men with something to apologize for or prove ever really buy.
Her breath actually catches, andthere—that’s the sound money buys. Not love or forgiveness, but relief, wonder, and temporary erasure.
“Vincenzo,” she whispers, fingers already reaching for it. “It’s gorgeous.”
“I know.”
Her fingers hover over the stones before lifting one careful piece free. Even without the full styling finished, the necklace transforms the room simply by existing in her hands. It is beautiful, and she is beautiful while wearing beauty. I understand enough of aesthetics to know I’ve chosen correctly.
“I am sorry,” I say. “I could have spoken with more grace.”
“That would imply you possess some.”
I almost smile. “You married me anyway.”
She closes her eyes for one small second, pleased despite herself. “You are impossible to hate when you’re spending this much.”
“That’s why I do it.”
The line draws the ghost of a laugh out of her, and some of the tension in the room eases. Good. I gesture for the stylist to help with the clasp, and once it’s fastened and the diamonds are blazing against her throat, I rest my hand lightly on the back of her chair.
She touches it reverently. “You always know how to win me over.”
No,I think.I always know how to calm the immediate problem.
“We can look at surrogacy,” I tell her. “Sometime.”
I feel the subtle change in her body before I see her expression. Relief first, then hope. Then something else, something almost shameful on its own: gratitude. “Really?”
“Yes.”
“Soon?”
I shrug one shoulder. “We’ll speak to whoever we need to speak to.”
The happiness that lights up her face is bright enough to hurt if I let myself think about it too long. What she hears is possibility; what I hear is one more compromise that makes sense on paper and will probably ruin some poor child before it ever gets a chance to choose differently.
The awful part is that the thought doesn’t stop me.
Arabella turns and kisses my cheek. “Thank you,” she says softly. “And… I’m glad I won’t have to carry the baby.”
