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☆.。.:*.。.:*☆

My grandmother once told me one thing you never want to hear a royal say is 'how much more can we take?' She told me if you hear those words, things are really turning to shit. I've only ever heard my mum say it when Theo died. We had army officers turn up to the palace, alert the guards, who alerted other guards, who then let them in to tell us. The moment they told us, my mum dropped to her knees and sobbed those words out loud. At the time, the war was going to shit with Ireland, who ended up surrendering eventually, and Grandma had died two weeks prior.

Life was awful back then, but then the war stopped, mum realised that she had one extra child, and dad sent her away to a holiday home near some beach so we could mourn without her screaming the palace down every night. While she was entitled to her mourning like the rest of us, she kept everyone up at night, and I think she spiralled into depression. I eventually heard through the grapevine that it wasn't a holiday home she went to, but a private mental health facility to help her grieve healthily.

My dad utters those infamous words as both Edward and I stand in front of him.

"I don't know how much more shit we can take here," Dad grumbles. The fact he's swearing says everything; even when Dad and I have time together, he never swears unless something is seriously wrong.

"What's going on, Carlson?" Edward asks. It still astounds me how despite being told this is an informal meeting, Edward is allowed to call my dad by his first name.

Both Nate and Edward are on a first-name basis with my father, which bodes well for the future. Should either of them win, that is.

"We've had a visitor at the door of the palace. No one really does that unless they have either a death wish, or it's super important. Either way, she spoke to the guards, who fed it back to me. The visitor is now in a hotel – paid by us, I'll also add, to get her to shut up – but she's come asking for you, Edward."

Both Edward and I glance at each other. I know; of course, it's happened. It's come to our doorstep literally and figuratively. Now it's even caught wind to my dad. Well, I assume this is it; there's nothing else it can be, unless Edward hasn't been fully honest with me. I highly doubt that, anyway.

"Her name is Justine, and she says she's pregnant with what could be your child. Apparently, you sent her a letter demanding DNA testing, and she's refusing. She says she has invited her and passed the letter on to the guards. It was my damned wife who invited her—"

"What, what?" I demand.

"Unfortunately, yes, and I will deal with that later. But right now, I want to deal with the initial drama," Dad says. He looks at Edward. "What's the story?"

Edward tells him the story of how he met Justine in a club and had a one-night stand with protection. Then she came and sucked the Modern-French bank dry to keep it a secret. He sent her a letter ordering a DNA test, and now this.

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