I mutter a long stream of curses. Had the possibility of other students at Lincoln taking photos of us occurred to me? Of course. Had I thought anyone actually had? No. Did I imagine they might sell them to the press for who knows how much money? Absolutely not.

I feel angry, violated, and naïve as I stare down at the glossy cover. The full weight of my spontaneous actions yesterday hits me. Jace will see this. His family will see this. His teammates will see this.

In one panicked moment, I completely upended his life. Again. His words from yesterday echo in my mind, and I’m oddly grateful he’s already angry with me. It tempers the blow, somehow. But I still experience a sharp stab of pain at the knowledge Jace likely hates me even more now. And I know what I need to do to try and fix this—for me, but more so for him.

Several hours of stares later, I end the call with Anne and walk over to the bench where Charles is sitting, taking a seat next to him.

“Hey,” I greet, setting my backpack down next to me.

Charles closes the book he’s reading and looks over at me. His usual easy-going expression is glaringly absent. “Is it true? What everyone is saying? About you and that American football player?”

I’m expecting the question, but uncertain how to answer it. “Some of it,” I finally say. “We had a relationship when I was there for school, but that’s long over now.”

Charles eyes me. “You’re certain?”

Jace’s angry face flashes in my mind yet again. His expression will haunt me for a long time. “Yes. I’m certain.”

“Okay.” Charles lets the subject drop.

“I need to get married in the spring,” I say after a brief pause. “Which you know. They want me to announce my engagement now. Clear up some of the bad press.”

“Is this your idea of a proposal?” Charles asks me after a long pause. Some of the good humor has returned to his face.

I huff out a laugh. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“Okay,” Charles states.

“Okay?” I echo.

“Yes. Let’s get married.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

JACE

Dead silence greets me when I walk inside the Sharks’ locker room. Despite the annoyance of having my mom flutter around me constantly while ensuring I’m following every component of the concussion protocol to the letter, I almost wish I had stayed home. Even the concerned looks my mother cast me each morning that another tabloid about Vivienne’s engagement arrived were better than this.

I wish I knew another guy who was knocked unconscious during his first professional football game, only to have his ex-girlfriend—who happens to be an actual princess—rush to his side and reveal their formerly secret relationship to the global media.

Unfortunately, it seems to be a rare occurrence, so I have no metric for how best to handle this. I settle for denial as I stride over to my locker, ignoring the stares.