A Nordic King(93)

Oh, I’ve thought about it.

A lot.

My uterus has been a ticking time bomb for most of my twenties and I think the only reason I’ve been able to ignore it is because I’ve been a nanny for other people’s kids. And while being a nanny, not only do I get to have the family and security I never had growing up, I get to take care of babies and children. They aren’t mine, but it lets me get it out of my system.

But since I started working for Aksel, that ticking time bomb has gotten louder and louder, forcing me to pay attention to it. At first I thought it was because I’d fallen so in love with Clara and Freja, and then I realized it was because I’d fallen in love with their father.

I’d have this man’s babies any day.

Then what? The voice in my head says. Do you think this will actually work?

I ignore it. I choose to feel ecstasy instead.

“I love it when you’re speechless,” he says with a smirk as he tucks my hair behind my ear. “Gives me peace and quiet.”

I burst out laughing. It’s not even funny what he said, I just can’t help myself. Joy invades me from all corners of my heart.

“What?” he asks, frowning.

“Nothing,” I say, and if I don’t stop smiling, I think my face will permanently stay this way. “Nothing at all.” I grab his hand and start pulling him toward the French doors.

“Where are we going?” he asks.

I give him a flirty look over my shoulder. “If you want babies, Your Majesty, then the first thing we have to do is start making them.”

He lets me pull him into the bedroom. “Not that I’m complaining, but don’t you have to be off the pill for a few days for it to, uh, not work?”

I lie back on the bed. “There’s nothing wrong with a little practice.”

“No,” he says with a lustful grin as he unties his shorts. “There definitely isn’t.”



*

A buzzing noise keeps interrupting my dreams.

I groan and roll over, my body still worn out from the endless baby-making sessions. I slowly open my eyes. There’s a glow in the room but it’s not from the moon outside, it’s from my phone on the nightstand.

Who the hell is calling me at this hour?

I look over at Aksel who is asleep and lightly snoring—he’s always out cold after he comes—and then I reach for the phone.

It’s Amelie.

My pulse quickens. God, I hope everything is okay.

But before I get a chance to answer it, the phone stops buzzing.

I open it and check the time. It’s 3 a.m. here in St. Croix, which means it’s 8 a.m. in Paris.

I’m just about to text her and ask why she called when a text from her comes in.

It’s a photo of something, a screenshot, and I can’t get a good look at it until it’s open.

It’s quickly followed by a link to a UK tabloid.

My heart drops like a stone.

This is not going to be good.

I open the first pic, where Amelie had texted underneath: is this true??

And to my utter and total horror, it is true.

It’s completely true.

It’s the front page of an article with a picture of me.

A picture of my mug shot from back in the day.

The headline says Danish Royal Nanny a Criminal!

I can’t breathe. I can’t blink. I can’t even feel my heart anymore.

Everything I feared, everything I tried to bury, everything I left behind me, hoping to never face again, has come back in full force. I’m no longer haunted by my past.

My past is here.

With shaking hands, I clink on the link and read the rest of the article, ignoring all the texts coming through from Amelie, question after question.

What was reported was completely true, albeit not telling the whole story.

It makes me out to look like an actual criminal genius, not some young, fucked-up girl who was manipulated and abused.

That’s what hurts most of all. Maybe I’m a villain as much as a victim but without even knowing the facts, about what I’d gone through, my truth has turned into a lie.

I drop the phone in my lap, feeling like the world is crashing in on me.

It’s all over.

All of it.

Him, the girls, my job.

It’s done.

I can’t continue after this.

I wasn’t worthy before.

I’m a criminal now.

“What time is it?” Aksel says beside me, his voice thick with sleep.

But I can’t even talk.

He shifts in bed to look at me and I must look like a ghoul illuminated by the phone in my lap, staring at it in horror.

“What happened? Why are you up?” he asks, sitting upright.

My head shakes, a wobble, really, and my mouth opens to speak but no sound comes out.

The weight on my chest is a thousand pounds of bricks.

“Aurora, are you all right?” His voice is urgent. He grabs my shoulder so I’m facing him, his eyes searching my face. “What happened?”

The phone light goes off and the room goes dark.

It’s better this way.

I can tell him the truth without the light in my face.

“I have to tell you something,” I whisper.

A long beat. “Okay,” he says, trying to sound calm but failing. “What? You can tell me anything.”