Chapter 45

~ BAILEY ~

We step into the opulent foyer of the apartment. It is no less and no more elegant and luxurious than Nick’s. The hues are a bit lighter than what Nick evidently prefers and the styles are dissimilar in terms of historical vs. modern, but other than that… Yeah. No expense spared here. Or on any inch of this palace.

We’re greeted by a butler, who tells us, “His Majesty is waiting for you, Your Highness.”

So king father still likes to be denoted as such. I tuck that away.

We are escorted along the cavernous entryway that empties into a well-appointed salon, large enough to host an awards show, it seems.

Another lengthy hall with myriad closed double doors is our route. Near the end, we are ceremoniously ushered into a striking suite with stunning textures and shades of deep burgundy and hunter green.

I find this intriguing.

Did his wife prefer the more delicate color palette elsewhere, and here in the bedroom, this was a compromise?

I don’t know, of course. But for some reason, I also feel it’s necessary to mentally file this tidbit.

I will have but a brief period of time to get to know Nick’s father. I believe it’s imperative to glean all I can in the short span.

The butler announces us, then falls back, closing the doors as he exits.

“I was just starting a new book,” Nick’s father says. And sets the thick volume on the nightstand.

“A Tale of Two Cities…” I smile kindly. “I always wanted to read it. Perhaps you’ll give me the highlights.”

“It’s yours when I’m done with it. Come… Sit.” His very frail hand drifts through the air to indicate a plush chair at his bedside.

He is, not surprisingly, a frail-looking man.

Although, that’s really a compassionate lie.

I know he’s sick. I have known this from the start. I just can’t fathom a man who spawned an incredibly virile and commanding son would appear so delicate.

He’s older than my father was when he became ill. But he still has a full head of salt-and-pepper hair, and his hand is quite steady. It’s the thinness of his face, that gaunt look of his sunken cheeks, that is both shocking and also emotionally disturbing. I recognize the paler, near-translucent skin; the more pronounced veins in the neck; and the prominent bones in the shoulders and clavicle. While he’s dressed in silk pajamas, the first button on the shirt is positioned just low enough to reveal a rippled sternum.

I recalled the day in which I noticed this on my own father. I’d begged him to eat. I’d done everything in my power to put some meat back on his bones. Or, at the very least, get some protein and calories into his system. To no avail.

There isn’t just something eerie about a person withering away, physically. The imminent decay of muscle and the fragility of the infrastructure is disconcerting to witness, yes. But there’s always a plea in your heart that comes with seeing a loved one in this state. Especially when he’d taken such good care of you.

I might have been a poor kid, but my dad was both smart enough and judicious enough to know what nutrients I needed and he didn’t skimp when it came to ensuring I was healthy.

I’d tried to return the favor, later on.

There isn’t anything similar I could do in this particular scenario, though. Nick’s father has the best care imaginable at his disposal—I’m not it. And I do not doubt Nick took up arms too, to keep his only parent on a managed wellness track.

This, however, does not abate the clawing inside me to do something…

For the moment, that something is to slip into the comfy chair. Nick props himself on the rolled arm of it. Sort of draping himself along the wingback so that he’s lingering close to me, in both a naturally territorial move, but also a protective one.

It makes a statement.

The king father takes note.

I cross my legs and sit straight and primly, my hands in my lap. Attempting to hide or otherwise disguise my skittishness.

I say, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Your Majesty.”

“Please, my dear. Call me Antonio.”

He smiles. Graciously.

I’m caught a bit off guard. I’d prepared myself for the formality.

But this is a more friendly scene and so I quietly say, “Antonio.”

He nods in agreement. Then tells me, “I’ve heard much about you, Bailey.” His brow crooks. Obviously, a family trait. “May I call you that?”

“Of course.”

I’m growing fonder of him by the second.

Conversely… All the feels from my past are resurrected.

I work on tamping them down. This is not my past. This is my present.

I’m just having such a been there, done that moment.

And it’s fucking agonizing.

Worse… I’m under scrutiny. Make no mistake, Antonio Angelini’s politeness does not infer he’s accepting of mine and Nick’s predicament.

I grasp this even before he says, “You’re quite radiant. Extraordinary, even.” His light brown eyes narrow. “You live in California?”

“Yes. My whole life.”

His gaze drops to my rounded belly, but for a spell. Then he glances back up at me.

“Maternity suits you.”

I know where this is headed.

I simply say, “I feel incredibly fortunate to be in the position I’m in.” I spare a glimpse toward Nick. Then return my attention to his father. “I had no idea I’d be so enamored with motherhood.”

His expression remains shrewd as he ominously queries, “That creates quite the problem, doesn’t it, my dear?”

~ NICK ~

I clear my throat. Sharply.

Perceptively, my father gives Bailey a reprieve by saying, “Again… You’re exquisite, my dear.”

She is.

However… She’s having none of the backtracked mea culpa. She’s onto him.

“Thank you, Antonio. I’ve enjoyed our time together. I appreciate you accepting an audience with me.” Her tone is level and cordial. Yet there’s a hint of I understand I’m the elephant in the room. Along with a distinct note of confidence that she’s going to find a solution to that particular issue.

She doesn’t take exception to the blatant scrutiny… More like she’s determined to eat the fucking elephant, so everyone stops staring at it.

I’d chuckle, were it actually a laughing matter. It’s not. I grasp her plight. And I don’t intervene. I don’t have to. This woman can stand up for herself.

Should the occasion call for me to more thoroughly assert myself, of course I’m going to defend her.

At the moment, I sense this is a cusp she will crest—and needs to do so on her own terms.

For her own sake.

For that very reason, I further keep my mouth shut.

My father is gauging all of this as well. He tells her, “I was not dismissing you.”

Her head tilts. “I’m clearly not ideal.”

That’s an interesting statement. She neither expresses specifically why she’s not ideal, nor does she balk at the vagueness she’s presented.

I lean in, curious to know what’s up her sleeve. Despite the fact she’s not wearing any.

She’s dressed in the nightgown I had made for her. My father is well aware it’s a gift from me, one which speaks of its own accord, indicating what extreme I went to for her and also that Bailey subsequently acknowledges and recognizes the significant bearing. Embraces it, considering that she is, indeed, attired in something with notable implications. A signature stamp, really.

My father tells her, “I don’t require ‘ideal.’ I require loyalty.”

“Oh, well…” She gives a small shrug of a bare shoulder. “Then I’m less of the anomaly I’ve mentally made myself out to be.”

He’s the one who chuckles. And there is a surprising glint in his eyes.

Squaring her shoulders in a more serious posture, Bailey scoots toward the edge of her seat and evidently spears my father with a pointed look, because he’s instantly hypnotized.

She says, “I have much to question and sort out. Without doubt. But there are a few absolutes which I do not discount or dispute; rather, I cling to them.”

“And they are?” my father inquires with an arched brow.

She smiles.

I can barely see it, given I’m poised at an angle on the chair. I’m so attuned to her disposition, though, I can make out this gesture.

She says, “I used to find it highly unfathomable that dreams come true. Then I met your son.”

She spares me a brief glance. And voila. There’s the smile. The one that never fails to seize my heart.

I grin back.

She returns her attention to my father. “I also previously found no belief in ‘maternal instinct,’ because my mother possessed none. Yet every single day, I feel as though I know precisely what’s going on with this baby that’s growing inside me. Yes, she takes me by surprise more often than not. But she’s proof that I’m not the person my mother was. And maybe that’s what is so much more special to me. I grew up with a disparity I naturally assumed was hereditary. I deduced that the most substantial thing I could do in life was go to college and cultivate a career. My mother doesn’t care one way or another how I’ve eventually turned out, but my dad…”

Her voice fractures, ever so slightly—and my father slants partially toward her, involuntarily. Stares more intently at her.

Bailey swallows a lump of emotion. Then continues. “My dad never obsessed over whether I’d become rich and affluent—be ‘somebody.’ He only ever wanted me to be happy. He died thinking that was an impossibility because he hadn’t provided me with all the material tools for success.” She inhales. Deeply. The air seems to still around us. On a slow exhale, she bravely says, “We came from nothing. We had nothing. And after he left this world… I was no better off. I had the same bills to pay. I had no less worry or pain in my heart. But I did have drive and determination. Not always fully rewarded. Though…”

She takes another glimpse at me.

The mist covering her blue irises is enough to make me stop this conversation this very second. I have no desire to see her tormented.

But torturing her is not really the point of this discussion. Bailey is stating her case. I can’t take that from her.

I merely sweep a loosely curled strand of blonde hair from her temple. She smiles again, more faintly this time. Like she’s ashamed, once more, of having to say all of this aloud.

The fact is, she deserves to say it aloud. Proudly.

That’s the real reason I don’t extract her from this difficult scenario. That and… I know something she doesn’t…

She gazes back at my father and tells him, “I suppose I’m at a crossroads, today. Right now.”

I slip from the chair to retrieve a tissue on the closest nightstand.

My father beats me to it, on the opposite side of his bed.

He hands one to Bailey. “I will counter your earlier sentiment,” he quietly comments. “You might not have been raised idyllically, but you did learn all the correct lessons.”

“Yes.” She simply nods. “I swear I did. There were just greater obstacles in my way then anyone explained to me how to hurdle. I figured a lot of that out on my own. Then, out of nowhere, Nick and Grayson and several others entered my life. They changed my thinking. So that I don’t always feel like I’m all alone.”

“You never will be,” I whisper as I settle next to her again.

My father’s gaze slides to me, briefly.

My jaw sets. Out of respect, I must permit him to say what he wants to say to the mother of my child.

Out of respect for her, however, I will refute anything and everything that is not a true fact.

And those true facts are centered around her longing to do what’s right by her, by me, and by our child.

Unfortunately, all those rights currently aren’t meshing.

Regardless, I do maintain that I know the direction in which this is all headed. I’m just impatient to get to the end result because this is wearing on Bailey’s emotions.

Though, it actually is necessary for her and my father to find some sort of common ground, to clear the air. Stilted as it remains.

I believe intensely that she would forever regret not having this somewhat painful and highly honest talk with him, if he passed without it having taken place. I’m convinced of this, due to knowing she would give anything to go back in time and tell her own father, before his death, how her life evolved. How she excelled at school and found a beachfront haven she could manage all on her own. Even if it was in need of care and patronage, it was the right place for her to be, to find some inner peace.

Additionally… It was fated. Her managing my half-brother’s restaurant brought us to this point in our lives. And even if we don’t reach a perfect conclusion, there’s still going to be perfection in her life. She’ll be a mother and she’ll be thrilled about it, and neither she nor that child will ever want for anything.

That is the takeaway she’d want to provide her father, if only she could. To ease his mind, to soothe his soul as he left her.

So, yes. This is a necessary evil. No matter how excruciating.

The former king is wholly cognizant of all of this. He knows plenty about Bailey Storm.

Which is why he’s careful when he merely says, “I don’t approve of these crossroads.”

 “I’m not particularly comfortable with them myself,” she confesses.

“There is only one relevant path, my dear. Surely, you know this.”

Now I’m about to interject. We’re suddenly veering off from my objective—it is not to gang up on Bailey to sway her.

This is more of an enlightenment and cleansing.

And my father has already shared with me, privately, that he supports Bailey’s decision to stay… Or go.

That is what I know.

If his plan is to deviate from the previous goal… I won’t abide that.

“Perhaps we need to—” I begin.

Bailey gently lifts her hand, cutting me off. Warning me off.

Focusing on my father, she explains, “If you never had all you wanted, and then you were mystically presented with all you wanted and never knew you could have… Wouldn’t that throw you into a bit of a conundrum?”

He gives a minor nod as he concedes the tick-mark in her favor.

She continues. “I understand there is only one relevant path, Antonio. Ideally.” She uses that word again, for emphasis. “In reality, however, the most appropriate, most pertinent path can also be the one with the most roadblocks.”

She’s good.

I resist the urge to gloat, my personal pride swelling. For her.

My father pauses a moment, processing.

He gives another nod, this one more decisive.

He respectfully asks, “What, precisely, will it take to alleviate those roadblocks?”

“This,” she replies, without hesitation. “All of this. Me being here, learning more about Nick’s world, meeting you, spending time with Claire, having Grayson offer his opinions on my two different worlds. And also…”

She draws in another deep breath. Gradually releases it.

My father is riveted again. As am I.

She concludes, “At the end of the day—literally and figuratively—listening to what my intuition and what this tiny human,” she delicately places her hand on her belly, “have to say to me.”

Emotion ripples through me this time.

My head dips once more and I murmur, “Yet another reason why I love you.”