It had taken Demetria Andreou two days to work up the courage to say that to her father. She’d waited until Sandros Andreou was relaxing by the pool by the palace guesthouse, with plates of meze and a bottle of ouzo before him. She’d waited until she was sure there was no hope that the relationship would miraculously change between her and her fiancé. Now, as she watched the olive tinge of her father’s skin take on an ugly ruddy hue, she knew his anger was about to explode. And her insides seized up—for his rage was a terrible thing to witness. “I care little about what you want,” her father said. “The King of Angyra selected you to be the Crown Prince’s wife when you were twelve years old. It’s an honor! A duty to your family and your country!” It was also a boon to Sandros Andreou, for being the father of the Queen would elevate his status. “But I don’t love him, and he certainly doesn’t hold me in any affection.” “Love!” Her father spat the word out as if it were a curse.
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