Chapter 75 Chapter 75 The King
Marta and I spread butter over sheets of rolled-out puff dough, the kitchen island completely buried under flour. Ingredients are scattered everywhere—bowls, spoons, jars—organized chaos. She spoons strawberry jam into the center of each square before folding them with practiced hands. I brush egg wash over the tops, careful and even, while she sprinkles coarse sugar that glitters under the light.
The entire kitchen is packed. Everyone is watching us.
Dimitri told Ivan we were just talking, but Ivan isn’t buying it. He sits at the table with an ice pack pressed to his forehead, eyes locked on me like he’s trying to solve a puzzle.
Marco rushes in, leans toward Illia Sr., and whispers something. Illia Sr. claps his hands together, a wide grin spreading across his face, dimples popping.
“Looks like we’ll be hosting Prince Roman,” he announces, glancing at me. Marco disappears just as quickly. “Paparazzi have been hounding him since your little outing.”
I wince.
Christian strolls in next, dressed in his fitted black suit, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
“The Thorn has been located. Send the Rose in!” he says into his sleeve, grinning at me.
I roll my eyes, but tension fills the room as Roman walks in.
He carries himself like he always does, like a prince—perfect posture, smooth movements, effortless control. His presence alone shifts the air.
I drop into a curtsey. “Prince Roman.”
He closes the distance between us in a few strides, taking my hand. “Lady Elena—”
My elbow meets his stomach before he finishes.
“Ouch, Elena,” he laughs. “Not very ladylike.”
“You ass! I hate when you call me that,” I gag dramatically.
A few of the guys stiffen, unsure how to react, but Christian snickers under his breath.
“Oh—right,” I say, glancing around. “Manners.”
I introduce Roman to everyone. To anyone who doesn’t know him, he looks intimidating—too polished, too controlled—but it doesn’t take long before they realize he’s just as much of a menace as the rest of them.
Roman unbuttons his jacket and takes a seat at the island. Around him, the others scatter—some at the table, some on their phones. Arno is reading, Leo typing away on his laptop.
Dimitri and Ivan both abandon what they’re doing and move to sit next to Roman. I shake my head at them, and Marta grins.
We shift from sweets to savory. I roll out filo dough while Marta layers egg and cheese before I roll it tight.
Roman props his chin on his palm, watching me like I’m the most interesting thing in the room.
His phone buzzes.
“Excuse me,” he mutters, stepping outside and sliding the glass door shut behind him.
Within seconds, he’s pacing, voice raised, anger sharp enough to cut through the glass.
“The King?” I ask quietly, glancing at Christian.
He nods.
Of course.
Roman’s voice rises louder, curses spilling out. We can all hear him now. His hand tightens around the phone until—crack. He crushes it in his grip.
Running a hand through his hair, he steps back inside. Smile back on his face.
Christian’s phone rings immediately. He answers, listens, then walks toward me.
“Are you sure, Your Highness?” he asks, then hands me the phone.
Roman bursts out laughing.
I take the phone. Wrong move.
King Ferdinand doesn’t bother with greetings. He launches straight into it—accusations, insults, his tone dripping with entitlement and fury. Everything he says is true. Every word.
I let him finish.
Then I clear my throat.
“Your Highness,” I say sweetly, “you are not over six feet tall, do not raise your voice at me."
The room goes dead quiet.
“Have you considered what your mother would say if she heard you speaking like this? You should be ashamed.” I pause, letting it sink in. “Who I fuck is not your concern.”
My eyes flick to Roman.
“If I really wanted to upset you, I’d elope with your son and have him renounce his title.”
Ivan slams his ice pack onto the counter, the sharp sound cutting through the silence.
On the other end, the King says nothing.
“That's what I thought.”
I inhale slowly, keeping my voice steady, sharp.
“Do not contact me again.”
I hand the phone back to Christian.
Roman is still smiling, amused.
“Who’s all this for?” he asks, glancing at the food. “She only cooks for you if she loves you.” His gaze flicks between Dimitri and Ivan. “I should know. I was her first love. She’s been making me mud pies since we were three.”
I laugh. “You’re an idiot. I was never in love with you. I’m helping Marta. We like cooking.”
Roman grunts at my words. It's the truth though, I'm not in love with him. Never have been. He is stunning and sweet but that is it. Marta nods, already serving tea and cookies.
I place the filo rolls into a buttered pan.
“What did you come here to ask me, Roman?” I glance up at him. “Something you couldn’t text?”
“Oh, right.” He straightens. “I want to take you to prom.”
I blink. “Why?”
“Because I want to see you dressed up,” he says simply. “And since you’re probably never getting married, this might be my only chance. Also—you promised me.”
He grins.
“I checked with your school,” he adds. “None of your other boyfriends qualify. They’re too old. Apparently, dates can’t be over eighteen.”
He winks.
“I look really good in a suit, by the way.”
“You look good in everything,” I shoot back. “Not exactly a brag.”
“So I’ve been told,” he smirks. “But I look best naked under moonlight.”
Laughter erupts around the room.
“I definitely never said that,” I counter quickly. “Never.”
Lie.
I absolutely said that. Drunk. Years ago. When he stopped looking like a boy and started looking like… that.
Marta starts handing out hot turnovers. The room fills with low groans of approval.
I glance at Ivan as he eats, watching him carefully. I wonder if he bought Dimitri’s story. If he can read the truth in my face—in my lips.
Roman leans closer to me.
“I have news,” he murmurs. “Not public yet. Your sister and my oldest brother are engaged.”
“Ew. Gross,” I say immediately. “He looks like your dad.” I pause. “She didn’t tell me. Rude.”
“Do you think my dad is attractive?” Ivan asks suddenly.
I shrug. “Look at all of you. It had to come from somewhere. Have you seen Roman’s brothers?”
Roman laughs so hard he slaps the counter.
“Do you always say exactly what you think?” Illia Sr. asks.
“Most days,” I grin.
The room erupts again. Marta rushes out toward the bathroom, laughing too hard to stay upright, which only makes it worse.
I’m practically wheezing.
I glance at Roman, and he mouths the words silently:
I love you.