Chapter 37

The peeling paint on the familiar front door send a shiver down my spine.

I'm in England. As much as I don't want to be, here I am after all these years.

The door opens, and familiar wide eyes stare back at me. "Josie?"

"Dad."

He looks much the same, only thinner and more drawn. His cheeks are sunken, and his eyes are dim. "Come to gloat, have you?"

"Gloat?" When have I ever done anything of the sort?

"I've seen you standing there next to your so-called prince. It's all over the television."

Oh, gods. I do not want to talk about being on television, or all over the Internet, for that matter.

"Can I come in?"

My father shrugs and stands aside, holding open the door as if he's resigned to meet some unpleasant fate rather than receiving his daughter after years of no contact.

I'm seated in a familiar but darker and dustier living room than what I remember from the last time I was here.

He asks what I've been up to, and I tell him. I tell him about the time I spent on the container ships, traveling the world. About how I went back to Gravenland and how I work in a grocery store. I tell him about the letters. He has less of a reaction to being confronted with this information than I would've expected. "Why, Dad? Why did you keep Jacob's letters from me?"

"Because I knew him."

"Knew Jakob? You barely knew me."

This sets off a familiar temper, but there's no power behind it. It's only impotent anger now.

"I knew what he was," he growls.

"What do you mean? What did you know about him?"

"I've lived a long life, and I've seen every Haart man who has sat on the throne. Cheaters and liars, all of them."

That's rich, I think to myself, considering this man before me has spent the better part of his life hurting everyone around him as he chased after endless schemes and scams.

"Those Haart men spread their seed like the species is about to go extinct. I knew the look of the boy soon as I laid eyes on him. I didn't want you mixed up with the son of a whore."

I sit there in utter shock, staring into a lukewarm cup of tea, unable to say a word. While I'm still processing his despicable words, my father stands and shuffles down the hallway to who knows where.

Moments later, he returns carrying a box and sets it on the sofa cushion next to me. He sits down on the other side of it and heaves a sigh.

"If you thought you knew that, why didn't you just tell me?"

"Would you have believed me?" He has a point. Considering our history, no, I wouldn't have believed him.

"It probably would've driven me closer to Jakob out of spite."

He snorts.

"You might have had a correct suspicion, but I do need to say this. Do not, under any circumstances, ever again refer to my late mother-in-law by that term."

My father's bloodshot eyes survey me, as if I'm pulling his leg.

Jakob's mother's name may be Silver, but Jakob is a Haart brother through and through, whether I love that fact or not.

I shift my focus to the box next to me. I open it, and as I suspected, there are all the letters that I wrote to Jacob before I gave up. I pick up one of them and study my handwriting, not all that different at 14 as it is now. I was always fussy about this.

At least now I have answers.

"That boy you disliked found his way to me anyway, didn't he, Dad?"

The harrumph from the older man is dry and weak. "Now you're in a right royal mess, aren't you?"

I wish everyone in my life would stop assuming that I can't handle reality. Jakob is not a mess; he's my husband. I'm just taking some time to think and to process. But Jakob is still my Jakob.

"I'm married. And sometimes marriage is work. Not that you understand the meaning of that word."

He scoffs. "Some marriage if you don't invite your own father."

"It was a private ceremony."

"Suppose you came here to get my congratulations. Perhaps a wedding gift?"

I know what my father's doing. He's pointing out sardonically that he doesn't have any money as a way to make me feel guilty.

"Dad, you know I never asked for anything from you. I only came here to get answers."

He gets a twinkle in his eye, and I remember why I went no contact when he replies, "How much are these answers worth to you?"

Without a pause, I snap, "My gratitude."

He winks. "And yet my pockets are empty. If only I knew where to get some of that palace money."

The audacity. He refers to my childhood friend as the son of a whore, not worthy of his daughter, but now he can't wait to get his grubby hands on the king's money.

This gives me an idea. "How about instead, if I go back to the palace, I can have the chief of staff put you to work. And then you have your own earned pocket money instead of guilting me out of mine."

He changes tone, knowing he's found another pressure point in my psyche.

"If? There's trouble in paradise already, my dear?"

Here is where I leave, and I take the box with me when I go.