I showed up at my parents’ townhouse ten minutes before dinner started, wearing a freshly ironed suit and Aunt Tatiana’s cufflinks, and was greeted by my father in his usual gruff way. “Well, Adrian, I assume whatever business the queen has you on back here, it must be important.”

The comment took me aback until my mother rushed into the living room, looking glamorous in emerald green silk. “Now, Nathan, dear, don’t try to get state secrets out of him.” She rested a hand on my arm and gave a small, controlled laugh. “He’s been on me about that ever since the queen let me escort you back to your business here. I told him I just wanted to catch up, but he’s certain I know things he doesn’t.”

I finally caught on and shot her a grateful look when his attention was elsewhere. My mother hadn’t told him she’d found me in a drunken stupor in California and saved me from myself and a downward spiral. She’d let him think it was just an impulsive motherly gesture to travel with me and had even used it as an opportunity to pad my reputation. I didn’t necessarily feel the need to hide my shameful behaviors from my father, but I had to admit, life was certainly easier when he didn’t have them to rub in my face. Saying he was proud of me might have been a stretch, but he certainly seemed satisfied for the time being, and that was enough to make the night passable.

The dinner guests were other royals I’d met off and on throughout the years, people I knew little about, save that my parents were concerned with impressing them. My mother, who I was pretty sure had never personally cooked a meal in her life, oversaw every detail of their chef’s operation, making sure each course was perfect, be it in terms of wine pairing or simply how it was laid out on the plate. After a day of good behavior (and having checked for Sydney just before coming here), I let myself sample some of the wine, and even if I couldn’t correctly identify the region and soil type, I could tell my parents hadn’t been stingy.

I soon learned why: This was my parents’ first real leap into society since my mother’s return from incarceration. No one had invited them anywhere since she came back, so my parents were making the opening gesture, intent on showing the royal Moroi world that Nathan and Daniella Ivashkov were worthy company. That extended to me as well, since my parents went out of their way to keep bringing up the “important business” I was allegedly on. My relationship with Jill and her seclusion were top secret—not even my parents knew about those details—but Sonya’s work with the vaccine was known, and everyone was curious to learn more.

I explained it as best I could, using layman’s terms and avoiding state secrets. Everyone seemed impressed, particularly my parents, but I was glad when the attention shifted off me. Dinner wound down with some political talk, which I found mildly interesting, and society talk, which I didn’t find interesting at all. That had never been my thing, even before the life-changing events in Palm Springs. I didn’t care about golf scores or job promotions or upcoming formal gatherings. Still conscious of my role, I smiled politely through it all and contented myself by drinking more of the excellent wine. By the time the last of the guests left, I could tell that we’d successfully won them over and that Daniella Ivashkov would be welcomed back into that royal society she craved.

“Well,” she said with a sigh, sinking into one of the formal living room’s newly upholstered loveseats. “I daresay that was a success.”

“You did well, Adrian,” my father added. That was a big compliment, coming from him. “We have a few less problems to worry about now.”

I finished off the port that had been served with dessert. “I wouldn’t say not being invited to Charlene Badica’s annual summer tea really constitutes a ‘problem,’ but if I could help, I’m glad to.”

“You both helped repair damage you’ve caused to this family. Let’s hope that continues.” He stood up and stretched. “I’m going to my room. I’ll see you both in the morning.”

He’d been gone about thirty seconds when the full impact of his words penetrated my wine-soaked brain. “His room? Isn’t that your room too?”

My mother, still looking beautiful after the long evening, elegantly crossed her hands in her lap. “Actually, dear, I’m sleeping in your old room now.”

“My . . .” I struggled to string sense together. “Wait. Is that why you sent me to guest housing? I thought you said I needed my own space.”

“Both, really. You do need your own space. And as for the other . . . well, since my return, your father and I have decided things run much more smoothly if we each live our own lives here . . . just under one roof.”

Her tone was so easy and pleasant that it made it difficult to grasp the severity of the situation. “What’s that mean? Are you getting divorced? Are you separated?”

She frowned. “Oh, Adrian, those are such ugly words. Besides, people like us don’t get divorced.”

“And married people don’t sleep in separate bedrooms,” I argued. “Whose idea was it?”

“It was mutual,” she said. “Your father disapproves of what I did—and the embarrassment it caused all of us. He’s decided he can’t forgive that, and honestly, I don’t mind sleeping on my own.”

I was flabbergasted. “Then get a divorce, and truly be on your own! Because if he can’t forgive you for acting impulsively to save your own son . . . well, I’ve never been married, but that just doesn’t seem like good husband protocol. That’s not how you treat someone you love. And I don’t know how you can love someone who treats you like that.”