Kris was expressionless as he stared at her. “What’s going on here?”
In a kind of numb dread, she said, “He was waiting for me.”
“I know,” he said, voice hollow. “But what’s he talking about?”
“Nothing.” She was trembling, panic alive beneath her skin. “He’s trying to—”
“I’m Kris,” he said, moving to stand between them, his attention fixed on her father. “Prince Kristof.”
“Your Highness.” Her father’s bow was smooth. “What an honor.”
Kris waved off the formality, features somber. “I couldn’t help but overhear.”
“Oh.” Her father feigned shock, shooting Frankie a swift glance and raising his palms. “I’m sure you misunderstand, Your Highness. It was a joke about her previous line of work. It’s been, oh, years since she’s ever done anything like that.”
Kris stared at him for several long seconds.
“You’re right,” he murmured.
Her father blinked. “Pardon?”
“As I said, I couldn’t help but overhear.” Kris shifted his stance, bringing himself beside Frankie. His elbow brushed hers as he faced her father. “We all know I’m new to this position, but it sure sounded like you were proposing that she exploit the royal family. I might not know the intricacies of treason, but extortion sounds a bit close for comfort.”
Her father’s features grew slack.
Frankie’s pulse stuttered.
“You were suggesting that she use her position to gather sensitive information on me and my family,” Kris said, shaking his head slowly. “You were practically advising her to use that information as blackmail in order to steal from us. That sounds treasonous to me.”
“You misunder—”
“I know what I heard.” Kris cut him off with a raised hand. “Perhaps a different witness might have their credibility doubted, but I’m a Prince of Kiraly and I unmistakably heard you plot against the royal family.” He turned to Frankie, features hard with insult. “You should decide what we do with him—though I think we could delay charges and see whether he can prove to be an upstanding citizen.”
Frankie and her father both stared at him, incredulous.
“For instance,” Kris continued, “if anyone asks him whether he has a daughter, and whether he could tell them about her, he would prove himself upstanding by claiming to have no daughter at all.” Head angling, he eyed her father up and down critically. “But if, for instance, he did talk about his daughter and the way he raised her, he would find himself charged with treason. Because I won’t ever forget what I heard here tonight. And sentences for treason aren’t as fun as being caught on a little swindle. There will be press. Photos. The chance for women to recognize him from whirlwind romances gone wrong and come forward with charges of their own. And that kind of thing has a tendency to snowball.”
Face bloodless, her father looked horrified at being backed so swiftly into a corner.
Frankie’s breath shook with disbelief.
Kris took a step forward, getting in her father’s face. “You thought I’d doubt her.” His words were low with contempt. “That I’d believe she was capable of such deception. You thought,” he spat, “that I knew her as little as you always have.”
Her father, the great manipulator of her life, opened his mouth to protest.
Nothing came out.
Stepping back, Kris turned to her. “What’s your professional opinion, Frankie?”
She slipped her hands behind her back, clasping them tightly. The world had gone wonky and her legs struggled to bear the weight of her body. She’d never dared to believe it was possible but—her father had just been bested.
Hauling herself together, she said, “Everyone deserves a second chance.”
Kris nodded, features carefully neutral.
“I’ll have him monitored,” she said, holding her father’s stare. “If he does anything that isn’t upstanding—anything at all—we’ll be forced to revisit this.”
How he’d survive without his cons, they were all about to find out.
Kris glanced down absently, brushing a night bug off his arm. “Sound fair, Harvey?”
Her father’s scowl faltered at the use of his name. For several seconds, he stared back at Kris. Undoubtedly running calculations behind those unlit eyes, weighing risks and odds and worst-case scenarios for the offer on the table.
Then, with visible resistance, he swallowed his pride. Such an ugly, inflated thing, she hoped he would choke on it. “Yes, Your Highness.”
“Good. Now, Frankie, what was that last thing you said to him before I came over?”
She blinked, thinking back. Then she frowned.
Kris hooked his thumb in his front pocket. “I think you should say it again.”
She set her attention on her father, recalling the dread of her childhood spent in his shadow—the canker in her self-worth that he’d fed like a guest at his table. His void conscience and his infidelity that had driven her mother away, that had positioned Frankie’s mother against her, even now. His indifference for her safety and repugnant command over her sexuality. Her body. Her innocence.
She’d been sixteen. Sixteen.
And he’d turned up here with a scheme to ruin her life all over again because she’d had the nerve to leave him.
Now her rage was wide awake.
“Fuck you.” Her voice was steady this time. “A cockroach wouldn’t touch the scum in your soul.”
Her father’s lip lifted, but his attention continued to travel between her and Kris.
“Ahh.” Kris grinned, sliding an arm around her shoulders, and she swayed into him, weak with disbelief. “I’m going to feast from that gutter every day of my life.”
Her father was glowering with defeat.
“Hey, you heard her.” Kris’s brows rose. “She doesn’t want you here.”
Frankie braced for a final fight from the man who had molded her childhood into the worst possible shape. She met his glance with her chin up and shoulders back, and saw in his eyes that he had no moves left. This was it—she wouldn’t see him again. He wouldn’t risk prison to get even with her. This was the farewell they’d never had when she’d run away. Her final chance at closure.
She leaned harder against Kris’s side, telling herself to watch her father go in silence. To be the bigger person; not sink to the pettiness of having the last word.
But she couldn’t help herself.
“I’ve always been better than you,” she said.
Her father’s inhale was razor-sharp. He’d stew on exactly what she meant by that for years to come. Then he was retreating, crossing the street on silent feet and slipping out of sight.
Gone.
She spun into Kris, clamping her arms around him and holding so tightly, he gave a breathless, “Oof.” He returned the embrace, and her heartbeat gradually slowed as it worked out the last of her fear. She was safe in his arms, one banded across her shoulder blades, the other firm at her lower back.
“Thank you,” she breathed.
“I’ve got you.” He gave her a gentle squeeze. “He can’t touch you.”