But that’s exactly why I’m apologizing—because he blames himself. My father has a whole lot of insight, yet none of it could prevent what’s happened. What a burden it must be to perceive the future yet be unable to change it.

His eyes shift to the package at his feet. “You have a present from the king.”

“He can take his present and shove it up—”

“Serenity.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I grumble. I grab the package and walk it into my room. Once I’m alone, I rip open the cardboard box. Inside is a pale yellow dress, and resting on top of it is a necklace made of yellow diamonds. Yellow, because it’s my favorite color.

I work my jaw at the sight. How many stomachs could these items feed? How much medical relief could they afford? Everything that comes from the king is blood money.

My hands shake when I pick up the card resting on top of the pale fabric. The note is simple.

Forgive me, and feel better.

I crumple up his note. Forgive me my ass. The king is not sorry. But he will be.

Marco raps on our suite five separate times before I decide to meet the king. He has my father to thank for that.

The entire time my father sits in the corner of the room, peace treaty on his lap, his hands threaded through his hair. He hasn’t turned the page since the knocking began.

Marco bangs on the door once more, and my father stands suddenly. Throwing the document on a nearby table, he strides towards the door.

“Dad, what are you doing?” I say, standing up from my own seat.

“I’m going to tell Marco that you will not see the king.”

Crap. I hadn’t meant for this.

“Wait, no.” I cut him off, and stop him with a hand. “Dad, it’s fine.”

“It’s not fine, and I can’t watch this.”

If my father intercedes now, it could be game over. Scenarios dance through my mind, none of them good. The ripple effects could be disastrous. I can’t let that happen.

“Please, Dad. Sit down. I’ll answer the door.”

“I can’t ask this of you,” he says. “None of us can.”

My throat works at his admission. “It’s alright. This arrangement isn’t forever. Just please, go sit back down.”

My father stares at me for a long time, his nostrils flaring. For a man who’s good at masking his emotions, he’s not doing so well at the moment.

Finally he nods and walks back to his seat, his movements mechanical.

Hurrying to the door, I grab the handle and fling it open before I can reconsider my actions.

“Evening Marco,” I say when I step out into the hallway.

“The king requests—”

“I know,” I say, pushing past him.

“He wants you to wear your gift,” Marco says to my back.