“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.”

“Darling,” she said with a small laugh, “love doesn’t have anything to do with this.”

“It has everything to do with it!” I exclaimed. I promptly dropped my voice, fearing I’d inadvertently bring my dad back, and I wasn’t quite ready for that. “Why else get married—or stay married—if not for love?”

“It’s very complicated,” she said in the kind of tone she had used on me as a child. “There’s status to consider. It wouldn’t look right if we split up. That, and . . . well, all of my finances are tied up with your father. We had paperwork drawn up when we married, and let’s put it this way: If he and I divorced, I’d have no way to support myself.”

I jumped to my feet. “I’ll support you then.”

She met my gaze levelly. “With what, dear? Your art classes? I know the queen doesn’t pay you for your help—though goodness knows she should.”

“I’ll get some job. Any job. We might not have much to start with, but you’d at least have your self-respect! You don’t have to stay here, tied to his money and his judgment, pretending this is love!”

“There’s no pretending about it. This is as close to love as you get in marriage.”

“I don’t believe that,” I told her. “I know what love is, Mom. I’ve had love that burns in every fiber of my being, that drives me to be a better person and empowers me through each moment of the day. If you’d ever had something like that, you’d hold on to it with every bit of strength you had.”

“You only think that because you’re young, and you don’t know any better.” She was so damnably calm, it almost made me more upset. “You think love is a reckless relationship with a dhampir, just because it’s exciting. Or are you referring to the girl you were pining for on the plane? Where is she? If your love is so all-consuming and can triumph over everything, why aren’t you together?”

Good question, said Aunt Tatiana.

“Because . . . it’s not that easy,” I told my mother through clenched teeth.

“It’s not that easy because it’s not real,” she replied. “Young people mistake infatuation for ‘true love’ when there’s no such thing. Love between a mother and child? Yes, that’s real. But some romantic delusion that conquers all? Don’t fool yourself. Your friends, who have such grand romances, will eventually see the truth. This girl of yours, wherever she is, isn’t coming back. Stop chasing a dream and focus on someone you can build a stable life with. That’s what your father and I have done. That’s what we’ve always done . . . and I daresay it’s served us well.”

“Always?” I asked in a small voice. “You’ve always lived this sham?”

“Well,” she admitted. “Some parts of our marriage have been more . . . amicable than others. But we’ve always been pragmatic about it.”

“You’ve been cold and shallow about it,” I said. “You told me when you got out of prison, you understood the things that matter. Apparently not, if you’re willing to put up with this act—with a man who doesn’t respect you—for image and money! No security is worth that. And I refuse to believe this is the best anyone can hope for in love. There’s more to it than this. I will have more than this.”

My mother’s eyes almost appeared sad as she met mine. “Then where is she, dear? Where is your girl?”

I had no good answer for her. All I knew was that I could no longer stand being there. I stormed out of the townhouse, surprised to feel the sting of tears in my eyes. I had never thought of my parents as flowery, romantic types, but I’d believed that there’d still been some sort of strong affection in spite of—or perhaps because of—their prickly personalities. To be told that was a sham, that all love was a sham, couldn’t have come at a worse time. I didn’t believe it, of course. I knew there was real love out there. I’d experienced it firsthand . . . but my mother’s words stung because I was vulnerable right now, because no matter how popular I was at Court or how good my intentions were, I was still no closer to finding Sydney. My brain didn’t believe my mother, but my heart, so full of fear and doubt, worried there was truth to her words, and that dark, dreary pull of spirit only made things worse. It made me second-guess myself. Maybe I’d never find Sydney. Maybe I’d never find love at all. Maybe wanting something badly enough wasn’t enough to make it happen.