The Prince's Cinderella Bride. Amalie Berlin

      When Quinn had agreed to come home, he’d thought it would go a little differently.

      Summer had arrived, so naturally he’d assumed there would be loads of parties to attend where he would meet women. Drinks. Philip would fill his schedule with meetings, dinners, and appearances, telling him what to do, when, where, and what was expected of him. All that.

      All he had so far was news of his grandfather’s terminal illness, a friend who’d tried to kill himself, an ex-wife he couldn’t keep his mind or his damned hands off, and now a tricky emotional situation he was utterly unequipped to deal with.

      And a distinct lack of drinks.

      Slamming the door to his penthouse, Quinn tossed the envelope Anais has shoved at him onto the counter, and made a beeline for the fridge.

      He grabbed a tumbler, threw some ice into it, and turned toward the liquor cabinet, only to stop. That route out of his kitchen had been blocked by large lidded plastic crates. Stuff he was supposed to deal with too. Seven years’ worth of junk that people had just been sticking into crates for him...and he’d been ignoring for every leave.

      But it was better duty than that penis conversation.

      He backtracked and went the other way around the kitchen to reach for the rum, which would at least get the taste of her out of his mouth.

      Instead of kissing her, he should’ve asked how to start this conversation.

      He drained the glass entirely, felt his stomach lurch, and put the glass back down.

      The man knew what parts were malfunctioning. It was his body. They’d told him that he could probably get it fixed. He knew these things already.

      How would Philip handle this task?

      Something heartfelt. Make an appeal to his better nature—whatever that would amount to.

      He poured himself another glass and took another pull on the rum, and put the tumbler down.

      Anais had never approved of drinking, for any reason. No wine with dinner. No beer after an arduous exam. Strip poker was fine, but not with shots. Not for her. And when she’d gone he’d thrown himself into spirits whenever the opportunity presented itself. Boot camp and deployment had probably saved him from becoming an alcoholic that first year.

      He should watch the drinking since she’d strayed back into his life.

      He turned his attention to the first crate, lifting the lid and riffling through its contents.

      At the bottom of the stack of papers requiring his attention was a large yellow envelope, crammed with documents.

      He flipped it over and read: Divorce of Prince Quinton Corlow and Princess Anais Corlow née Hayes.

      Right. Bloody timely. He flung the packet over his shoulder in the vague direction of the sofa, and went back to the crate.

      Gifts.

      Books.

      Things to be looked at later, when he’d not drunk enough rum to make his eyes go blurry.

      A photo album filled with pictures taken during their whirlwind marriage.

      Half a crate’s worth of quasi-attentive sorting painful garbage was enough for one night. There really wasn’t enough rum in his place for further torture.

      Flopping one leg over the edge of the crate, he pushed the remaining material to the far end to make room for what he had to put back in.

      A white-handled gift bag tumbled out of the moving pile of stuff, hit the bottom of the crate and spilled a small unopened package wrapped in pale blue paper and a silver bow onto the floor.

      His heart stopped the moment he saw it.

      It must’ve been the first crate the palace staff started packing for him. Copies of divorce papers. The gift he’d bought Anais for their first anniversary—the one they hadn’t made it to—an engagement ring she’d never gotten before the wedding because they’d impetuously eloped.

      He swallowed, then kicked the small box back to the side. Stuffed into a crate by someone who didn’t know its value. He put it right back there, suddenly too bitter to care about the small fortune buried under papers by his boot.

      Enough of that.

      He began dumping the bits he’d sorted out right back into the crate. Too much. All too much to deal with tonight, when all he really wanted was a shower and some sleep.

       CHAPTER FOUR

      STILL MARRIED.

      The words rattled around in Quinn’s head, as they’d been doing since he’d seen the morning news.

      Sitting across from his ranting brother on the naughty schoolboy side of the King’s desk at least made the news feel real, if still unpleasant. He’d never inspired his brother to rant before. Father, Mother, even Grandmother, God rest them. The King never ranted, though that sad, disapproving shake of his head always hit harder.

      But, as he watched his brother pace and growl at him, he fully realized how things had changed.

      Grandfather was dying. Philip now worried about these things, and felt as if he’d inherited a problem.

      Quinn had always done his best to care when he was being lectured, but he never really had. Things always worked out, somehow.

      Well, except for his marriage.

      His day had started with a phone call and a number of emails, all directing him to programs and pages with the kind of annoying news reports they’d always lobbed at Anais, whether she deserved them or not.

      They had always been big on inappropriate sex and full of tales of devious female conniving. And big on underestimating him—though they weren’t wrong about him having wildly inappropriate...

      Who was he kidding?

      It was appropriate.

      It felt appropriate.

      It felt like a damn lightning bolt—illuminating to the point of scorching.

      One enterprising journalist had caught a picture of them together and had gone off to investigate the court records of their divorce. Although apparently there were no court records. It must be a mix-up. It had to be a mix-up.

      “Are you listening, Quinn?”

      “Yeah, I hear you. You’re angry. You don’t know how it could have happened. I wish I had the answer for you.”

      Philip sat back down and stared hard at the photo of Quinn and Anais. “What’s she wearing?”

      “Workout clothes. She...runs. Or maybe boxes. I don’t know. She works at the rehabilitation facility. She probably exercises all the time. It wasn’t some kind of cheap ploy to get my attention.”

      Even though it had gotten his attention, or just focused his attention.

      “When did you start defending her? You never...”

      “You never attacked like this before. I know you’re stressed out, but she literally did nothing wrong.” Nothing that was caught on camera, he prayed. “She’d been working out when I left Ben for the evening, and since she wanted to talk to me about his care, I went to speak with her. The documents she’s handing me in that photo are something to do with the medical care. I haven’t read them yet.”