The Prince I Love to Hate: A Steamy Romantic Comedy (The Heir Affair Book 1), Iris Morland [best reads of all time TXT] 📗

“He arrived before you left for your appointment, I believe.”

So he’d made a point to avoid me. Great. “Oh, well. We must’ve missed each other.” I turned to go upstairs, but I looked over my shoulder to add, “Can you bring up coffee and snacks in, say, an hour? We’ll probably need it.”

“Of course.” She bobbed a curtsy and hurried off. Despite my best efforts to tell all the employees here that they absolutely did not need to bow and curtsy, habits died hard. Olivier had seemed to instantly feel comfortable with the show of deference. He’d make a better owner of this grand estate than I would, that was for sure.

I walked up the stairs slowly. My body felt heavy, like all of the revelations had physically weighed it down. My heart thumped loudly in my ears.

Da might’ve been wrong about Olivier. The letters could be someone else’s. 

I told myself that, but my gut wasn’t convinced.

When I opened the door to the library, it took me a moment to find Olivier. He was sitting in a chair in front of one of the bay windows, simply staring into the distance. He looked up when he heard me approach, but he didn’t rise. He just steepled his fingers.

Where did anyone begin? I opened my mouth, but Olivier beat me to it.

“I’m assuming, based on your expression, that your father told you everything,” he said quietly.

I watched as a gull soared across the wide ocean. I suddenly wished I were out there, away from the stress of this tête-à-tête. I could practically feel the tension vibrating off of Olivier.

“If you’re referring to the letters,” I said slowly, “then yes. He showed them to me. That being said, they don’t necessarily prove anything.”

Olivier’s knuckles turned white. “I appreciate your optimism, but they’re exactly what they seem. They prove that, more than likely, I’m a bastard.”

I flinched. Olivier, though, was pure stone. His face was blank. I could only tell he was feeling anything by the way he flexed his fingers in a distinct rhythm.

I sat across from him. “Those letters could be forgeries. They could be from other people. You don’t know for sure—”

“You’re sweet, Niamh.” His tone was almost condescending. “But it puts all the pieces together, pieces I’ve always wondered about. Why I look nothing like my father, and very little like my mother, either. Why my parents are so distant with each other. And why my mother was desperate for me to find this clock. It wasn’t about the clock at all: it was about what was hidden inside.”

Olivier’s gaze caught mine. He smiled, but there was no joy in it. “It makes sense, when I think of so many parts of my childhood that were strange. In a way, I’m relieved to have confirmation.”

“I don’t believe you. You can’t be this calm about this. Your entire life, everything you’ve been raised to believe, it’s over. Or potentially over.”

“I’m calm because any other emotion is a waste of time.”

I wanted to shake him. I wanted him to yell, scream, cry. I wanted him to act like a human being. Instead, he retained that princely distance, the same icy arrogance that had made me dislike him when we’d first met.

“Emotion isn’t a waste of time. Jesus Christ. I’m devastated for you.” I took his hands, and I tried to warm up his fingers. “My heart breaks for you, and for your father, your mother. Did your father know? Or is he still in the dark? And what about your mom? Was she in love with this other man but she had to marry your father?”

With every word, I watched a flush crawl up Olivier’s face. He pulled his hand away from mine and slowly got up. Leaning over the window ledge, he gripped the dark wood, his head bowed.

“My mother—if one can even call her that—has kept my true parentage a secret my entire life.” His voice was strained. “I have been living a lie for twenty-five years, because of her.” He turned to face me. The scorn in his expression made me rear backward. “I don’t feel any pity for her. She made her own bed when she slept with another man and tried to pass off the child as my father’s.”

I got up, not wanting Olivier to loom over me like some terrifying specter. “You’re angry now, but once you speak with her—”

“I never want to see her again,” he snarled, so harshly that it felt almost like a physical blow.

“Olivier…” I tried to touch him. I tried to hug him, but he rebuffed me.

“Stop. Please, for the love of God. I don’t want your pity. That look on your face? ‘Poor little prince. What will he do now?’”

“I’m not pitying you. I’m trying to be supportive.”

“I don’t want your support. You, your father—you’ve done enough. I don’t need any of this, and I don’t need you to hold my hand and tell me it’ll all be just fine, when you and I both know it won’t be. It’s over. It’s all fucking over.”

I felt angry tears press behind my lids. I could read between the lines: we were over, too.

“You have to know that I had no idea about any of this,” I said. “My da was behind this. He’s the one trying to extort money out of your family, not me.”

“I’m aware. But at the end of day, you’re still the daughter of the man who could ruin my life, and my father’s, within a moment’s notice. You have more to gain from this than anyone, besides your father.”

“How dare you.” I stepped closer to him, barely restraining myself from shaking him. “How dare you accuse me of trying to gain from all of this. I never wanted this to happen. I wanted to find my da, not have this royal family baby daddy drama fuck everything up! I never wanted a cent from