A/N- Sorry for the long hiatus.

Logan Fell had begun his article at midnight and at one am on the dot, had taken his hands off the keyboard and leaned back in his chair with the air of satisfaction that comes from knowing he was on the cusp of shaking the very foundations of the country to its core.

He had read it over once and emailed it to his editor, even as he knew that it was too late to break it that day, it would have to sit until tomorrow's news cycle.

He'd have over twenty-four hours to bask in the anticipation, the knowledge that the secret he was revealing would stun the masses, would send the Palace into a tail spin as they tried to do damage control. As they tried to rehabilitate the tarnished image of King Elijah.

In media circles, he'd often been nicknamed the 'Perfect Prince' because they couldn't find any scandal on him or get any rumour to really stick. Even the sudden switch of Lady Katerina from Prince Kol's betrothed to Elijah's fiancée and future queen had been played off.

'Ho hum, true love, good healthy country lass, nobility, nothing to see here.'

Even though, anyone with half a brain must have noticed the barely legal age gap between the two of them.

Still, Logan had worked in the communications department, he had been one of the best spin doctors the royals had ever seen until one day, when he'd made one tiny mistake.

He'd cleared an article about Prince Niklaus becoming a member of the Night Wolves.

One tiny mistake had derailed his life.

He'd been hungover that morning and swamped with work piling up around him, staff members who were being useless and more information flooding in than he could reasonably be expected to handle. He'd skimmed the article, cleared it and not even bothered reading it properly until late afternoon.

It was the second reading when he'd picked up on the key details he'd overlooked earlier.

And he'd figured it would warrant a slap on the wrist, maybe a temporary demotion. Not Ansel bloody Wolfsbane storming into the department screaming as if he'd posted nude pictures of the underage princess.

As it turned out, there were rules that had been in place since the Second World War, when it came to the first seven people in line to the throne, if they were serving in the military it was forbidden to post any information about their location, their company or even the name of the person they were serving under.

Another thing he had learnt that day was that despite the existence of the Night Wolves being common knowledge in Valhalla, the existence of the battalion had never been confirmed by the military, the government or any King in history. By allowing the article to print, he had given weight to supposed 'rumours', causing a major security breach that not only endangered the life of the prince but all Valhallan citizens.

He'd thought it had been a pretty major overreaction for one tiny, easy-to-retract-error, and managed to stammer as much even as the head of security continued bellowing in an completely unprofessional manner and when he'd declared that he was fired, Logan had nearly laughed in his face, assuming that maybe the man was so coked up that he'd forgot he didn't have that authority.

Except an hour later, when he was finally starting to calm down after the verbal lashing, he'd been called into the office of the Secretary to the Sovereign and been asked to resign.

He'd tried to protest but Roche had shaken his head, apologising for being the bearer of bad news, but the request had come from the Queen consort herself.

"Why the hell is she taking orders from the head of freaking security? He's a trumped-up bodyguard." Logan had shouted but Roche had only shrugged,

"The Prince Niklaus is her son," he countered, "If Mr Wolfsbane convinced her that you'd endangered him…"

He trailed off, letting the form letter for resignation in front of Logan punctuate the conversation.

One piece of paper.

Two hundred and fifty words.

His life was being destroyed in two hundred and fifty words, one-thousand-four-hundred characters.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

He'd had a plan.

Since he was an eighteen-year-old college student, he had had a plan. He was going to graduate with distinction, work the year-long internship in the Royal Communications Department, get a job afterwards, work his way up to Press Secretary, which after ten years came with the appointment to the Privy Council and after twenty-five years, came with a peerage.

He had arranged his life around that plan, worked towards it, networked with people and demanded favours from people who had granted them on the belief that he would one day be a member of the Privy Council, with the ear of the reigning monarch and a peerage. He had used that glorious promised future to convince his girlfriend- a peeress- to leave her long-term fiancé and hitch her wagon- and her trust fund- to his rising star.

He had a plan, decades in the making and hours in the unmaking.

Word of his resignation broke before his car even pulled out of the staff parking lot and he barely had his feet on the steps of his girlfriend's townhouse before she was packing his bags.

"I'm sorry it had to end like this," she'd told him, breathless from the speed with which she was had clattered about the house in her high heels,

"But when word gets out that you pissed off the royal family? If you don't leave now, my family could suffer, I'll be a pariah in my social circles, I'll never attend the Court again."

"What about love?" he'd protested weakly, as she'd pulled out the same suitcase he'd used for their holiday to Cannes.

"Oh Logan," she'd sighed, "You don't love me, you wanted me for my name and my money and I wanted you because you could have become a real noble, with lands and a manor house if you hadn't screwed up."

She kissed his cheek, told him that she'd booked him a room in a three-star motel in the city outskirts and that she'd be announcing their break-up at six pm that evening.

He'd left just as the locksmith arrived.

It had taken six years, and he'd had to work his ruined arse off, but he'd managed to get himself a position in the Valhallan branch of The Guardian. Having been the best- and only- qualified journalist for the position. They had wanted someone who not only spoke the language and English fluently, but had in-depth knowledge of the royal history and how the Palace functioned.

So now, here he was, at seven am, back in the office, unable to sleep because he was too excited.

When this story broke, Ansel Wolfsbane would be horrified. He'd thought the Night Wolves slip had been bad? How would he feel when he realised that he'd failed to keep his king's secret, that he had a leak in the famously tight-lipped ship he ran?

He had marked the email urgent, so he knew his editor would be reading it first thing and he couldn't wait to be called into his office.

Of course, he wasn't an idiot, he was aware that his editor would be horrified at first, after all, this wasn't the United Kingdom, the Lothbrok's hadn't had a scandal since…well, Mikael's bastard twins had been born and officially recognised.

Over two decades where the only disrepute cast on them had been various women and men claiming to have had one-night stands with the royal siblings and even those hadn't ever progressed past the gossip rags. Nothing to merit even a line in a decent newspaper.

But Logan had sources, high-up sources who promised him all the evidence he would possibly need.

So, when he's called into his editor's office, he's ready, he's confident. Ready to snap his fingers and impress the frightened, beady eyed little man until he rolls over and gives him the front-page headline he deserves.

What he's not ready for, is the almost immediate abuse.

"What the hell are you thinking?!" he bellows, causing Logan to nearly step back and hit the closed office door,

"Are you having a nervous breakdown?" he demands, "Is that what this bullshit is?"

For a moment, he's back in the Palace, in the Communications department being screamed at by Ansel Wolfsbane, feeling spittle hit the skin of his burning face. He takes three shallow breaths,

"Scream at me again and I'll hit you with a harassment lawsuit." he warns in calm, even tones.

The threat seems to do the trick and his editor releases a ragged sigh,

"Look mate," he says, emotion bringing his British accent out full force, "I'm sure you wrote this with the best intentions and whatnot, but… we can't just accuse the king of having a mistress, not when the country loves him, and the wedding date is almost set."

"If you actually read my article, you would see that I gave a name and background on the mistress," he points out,

"She an American musician, with the symphony here and was even spotted at the theatre last night being confronted by the Lady Katerina."

"Confronted?" he echoes, "As in, the Lady Katerina knows that the King has a mistress?"

Well, truthfully, all Logan could ascertain was that the two of them had spoken at the theater. He couldn't say whether or not the Lady Katerina knew who Gia was, although there was no doubt that Gia was aware she was the other woman in this scenario. No Valhallan living in the capital city was unaware of the Lady Katerina and her relationship to the king at this point.

Before he can give some vague-non-answer, the editor does it for him,

"I honestly wouldn't be surprised," he murmurs, "When it comes to royalty, the wife or fiancée never seems to be shocked when the story breaks."

"She'll be expected to stay silent on it as well," he continues, raising his chin and closing his eyes, "Whether there's any truth or not, she'll just have to smile and wave while the entire world speculates if this is her fault or not. And when the man gets caught running around with the mistress? Well, too late to leave him when the ring is on the finger and bookies are already taking bets about the wedding day. She's stuck."

"Yeah, the outdated gender values of the monarchy suck," Logan said, waving his hand dismissively, "If you need more proof before running this, I can get that."

The editor runs his hands through what was left of his hair, "We're the Guardian, not the daily mail, not a trash rag…that being said, we do report news and…unfortunately, the king of Valhalla taking a mistress is news, same as if one of our ministers was doing it, it shows immorality and corruption…"

Logan Fell wants to tune out, because at this point, his editor sounds like a middle-aged man raging against the disrespectful youth of today, with their divorces and their pre-marital sex.

It always makes him crave a joint and a blow job to be honest.

"If this story is going to break," the editor finally surmises, "Better that we be the ones to break it, in as respectful, unbiased a manner as possible. Which means, you're going to have to rewrite this and bring me some more evidence, photos or perhaps someone willing to go on the record…not an 'unnamed source' but someone high up enough that they either have 'honourable' or a county in their name."

Logan nods and goes to leave when the editor calls him back,

"She's a classical musician you said?"

"Yeah," he confirms, "In the symphony orchestra."

"Well, I suppose that's one up from the theater girls of old."

Katherine had been loitering on the edge of wakefulness when the alarm began. Softly and slowly drawing her eyes open until she began stretching her legs and had a thrill of surprise when they collided with another. Purring in pleasure, she notes the warm hand resting on her hip and the sensation of someone lying next to her.

Shifting as carefully as possible, she moves onto her back and then onto her side, Elijah's hand dropping onto the mattress, where she picks it up and brings it to her lips, kissing his palm gently. His eyelashes flutter slightly before his head sinks further into the pillows.

Chuckling to herself in amusement, she twists around, reaching for her bedside table where his phone had been left to charge, and where it was incessantly playing Vivaldi's Winter.

"Time to wake up." she whispers, her voice husky from sleep.

"Katerina," he mumbles, "Do not lie to your king."

She turns off the alarm, wincing at the vivid brightness of the screen and at the time it portrays.

There was frost on her windowsill and it would be freezing in the hallways at this hour. With only her and Caroline as official residents in the Cousin's Palace, the staff wouldn't begin lighting fires until midday. Still, Elijah had only been the king for a short while, he had to be seen to be waking up in the king's rooms and in his own bed.

Of course, she'd be a lot more sympathetic if she had to get up herself.

He reaches over and palms her right breast, hooking a leg around her waist to draw her closer to his body, and she lets him kiss her, soft, lazily kisses where she tastes last night on his tongue.

She's pleasantly drowsy but responding to his touch, arousal beginning to pool in her belly when the harsh buzzing of an alarm startles her.

"How many do you have?" she asks, pouting as he reaches over her to turn it off.

"Another three before it's a national emergency," he quips, dropping his weight onto her body and she squeals in surprise, laughing when he groans against her neck.

"We should have done this in my bed." he sulks, nuzzling her shoulder and she adjusts to bear his weight,

"So I would be the one doing the walk of shame?" she counters, "Not a chance, when I leave your bed, it'll be as the queen returning to my apartments."

He huffs against her neck, "Not even married and you're planning to live apart from me."

She runs a hand down his back, walking two fingers up his spine, "Well, if you want to try and fit my wardrobe in your room, go ahead my king, and may our gods be merciful on your attempt."

He chuckles and groans again when his phone trills, the alarm growing shriller and louder.

"Bloody Ansel." He mumbles, climbing off her and running a hand over his face as he stumbled to where his clothes were.

"Do we have anything today?" she asks, pushing herself up onto her elbows as he pulled on his pants.

"I think Rebekah wants to have a salon?" he answered vaguely, "She mentioned it last night."

"Has she sent out the invitations?" Katherine demands, "Because either I'm not invited, or she doesn't understand how party planning works."

He shakes his head, "Honestly, I haven't a clue but if Aiden tells me anything, I'll let you know."

This had the potential to be problematic.

But if Elijah went to the salon, she could use him to gate-crash.

Then again, a salon with less than a day planning? Who could Rebekah even invite?

"Enjoy your morning walk." Katherine teases, as Elijah braces himself at the bedroom door.

"Thank-you, my love," he said, his tone sarcastic and she laughs as she flops back down onto the bed, curling onto her side to enjoy a few more hours of sleep.

At a more reasonable hour- when the sun is finally making an actual effort to rise and light the world- Katherine opens her eyes and tries to figure out what woke her. She had another five minutes on her alarm, and there wasn't enough light to have caused her to wake up. Thinking perhaps her body was just falling back to university hours, she hoists herself into a sitting position, pats her hair and winces when she feels an impersonation of a bird's nest instead.

And now she was more awake, the smell of sex and sweat still permeating the room wasn't as romantic or domestic as she had initially thought.

Grimacing slightly, she contemplates the effort of bathing and making herself presentable when she didn't even know if there was anything planned today. Historically, the Winter Court was more relaxed in day-to-day activities as the nobility had favoured spending their time before roaring fires and in smaller rooms that were cheaper and easier to heat than socialising as frantically as they did during the warmer months.

But that was before electric lights, thermal clothes and the more modern heating systems in Kattegat Palace, before cars and before entertainment venues in the city had their own heating. So, Katherine figured there would be something for her to do.

Especially when she hears someone coughing and, after a small moment of panic, realises that there were people in her sitting room.

Logic tells her that only her family would have the permission- and the gall- to sit out there when she was in bed, but she still wraps a heavy dressing gown around her frame and pictures the exact position of the panic button in the room before willing herself to walk through her bathroom and stick her head through the door.

The relief she feels when her suspicions are confirmed- her parents and Elena- is almost dizzying.

"What are you doing here?" she demands, annoyed more than anything,

"We didn't have anything planned, did we?"

Miranda isn't used to her speaking in that tone and raises a famously groomed eyebrow in response.

"We're having brunch," her father informs her, "A charity event."

It's on the tip of her tongue to ask after Caroline, except that Caroline booked her pap smears two years in advance, her dentists appointments annually like clockwork and after receiving her syllabi for the semester, could recite her timetable and due date for every paper and project without hesitation.

If Katherine had been scheduled for a charity event, she would have damn well known about it.

"What's going on?" she demands, first in Valhallan and then in Romani when none of them answer her, "Tell me!"

"Perhaps we should have this conversation when…" her father trails off and she's beginning to feel panic clawing at her throat when Elena catches her eye and gestures to her face and neck.

Katherine doesn't bother to announce that she's going to bathe, she figures between the three of them they'll either figure it out or continue sitting in the drawing room like they're stuck in an Austen novel.

While the bathtub is slowly filling, she hits the lights, waits an annoying length of time for the bulb to warm up and brighten before looking in the mirror.

Her hair was a mess, there was enough traces of make-up left on her face that she had a definite train wreck vibe going on but that wasn't the main problem.

There was a hickey on her neck.

An almost comically large one.

She didn't even remember Elijah giving it to her.

It's an irritation, she'll have to work to cover it up, but it still brings a smile to her face.

The charity brunch is being held in a mid-tier restaurant in a hotel by somebody's wife.

Miranda quickly fills her in and Katherine only bothers retaining enough information to thank the woman for hosting the event, for allowing them to purchase last minute tickets and for raising awareness for the issue she forgets about as soon as she's mentioned it.

Leaving the wife suitably flattered and thrilled to be having the king's fiancée at her event, she follows her mother to the large table the family had reserved by the large windows overlooking the street below.

"Why am I here?" she demands, keeping the smile on her face as she raises the flute of orange juice to her lips.

"So it looks like you care about the less fortunate." Miranda snapped, as visibly on edge as she could be in public.

Katherine sips the orange juice and holds it on her tongue as she reins in the temptation to remind her mother that only one of them was a gold-digger who'd dedicated her life to social-climbing. They'd had this argument before and it was hard to take the moral high ground when the aforementioned social climbing was part of the reason she was now one year and two ceremonies away from being queen.

"What is happening?" she tries asking again, timing her question so that the waiter who approaches only sees grateful smiles as he does a quick check of their glasses.

She hears Nadia before she sees her, and twists in her seat, her smile becoming sincere as she watches her approach, even though Giuseppe is behind her like Father Time or Death, stalking in the shadow of youth.

Worse, the rest of the Salvatore clan seems to be with him, even Damon's fiancée.

And they rarely all gathered like this for social reasons, which meant…

"Tell me we are not having a clan meeting at a charity brunch surrounded by socialites with Instagram fame and twitter feeds." She demands, tugging at the scarf wrapped around her neck, about to remove it before remembering what exactly it was hiding.

"I am sorry, Katerina." her father sighs, standing up to shake the hands of the Salvatore men and she rose with him, trying to keep her eyes wide to hide her anger but making sure the kisses she pressed to Stefan and Damon's cheeks were cold and hard.

Stefan and Elena take Nadia to go talk to whomever is running the brunch and distract her with the burnished bronze wall art at the far end of the restaurant while the rest of the adults take their seats.

And despite being legally an adult, right now, Katherine feels like a teenage girl having been caught drinking or tarnishing the family name.

"Why is it that the only time I can go five minutes without one of you reminding me that my fiancé is the King is when you want to lecture me without consequences?"

Damon smirks and toasts her with a coffee that appears out of place only because she's so used to him drinking bourbon, regardless of the early hour.

"Why is it that you insist on behaving like having a fiancé carries the same security as having a husband?" Miranda hisses, leaning over to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, pulling it hard as a sharp reminder to control herself.

Katherine gives a practised laugh as if her mother has said something particularly amusing and puts her hand in her lap as a waitress brings them the appetizers.

"Explain," she orders, mimicking Queen Esther, the tone she had used that had brooked no refusal, "Now."

"Gia Mohan," Giuseppe states, pronouncing the name with complete ease, even as the rest of the table occupants try to hide their distaste.

"What about her?" Katherine queries, leaning back in her seat and her mother's head turns so fast she's afraid she'll pull something.

"You know who she is?" she nearly shrieks and someone at the next table over turns around, causing all of them to break into light laughter as if Miranda had made a joke.

Bonnie isn't playing along as well as the rest of them, possibly a mixture of the language barrier and the bizarre manner in which they acted.

"Of course, I know who she is," she answers, trying to keep the smugness out of her tone. In the past, it had always been safe to assume that at all times at least half the Palace staff were in Giuseppe's pocket, so the fact that they hadn't found out about Gia until now suggested that Elijah and Ansel had the secret locked down.

"You all forget, Elijah and I love each other, we don't keep secrets."

Giuseppe leans back in his own seat, mirroring her position as he eyes her contemplatively, she always felt a thrill of pride when she surprised him, the great Giuseppe Salvatore, one of the best diplomats of the twentieth century and one of the sharpest minds of the Valhallan aristocracy.

"You are unconcerned, but we do not share that same nonchalance," he murmurs, "As your mother pointed out, albeit crudely, almost a queen does not a queen make."

"Neither does a street performer." She quips, "But I can see why you're worried, Odin forbid you should fail to see a return on your investment."

He smirks but her parents don't share the same sense of macabre humour,

"What is wrong with you?" Miranda demands, "Time was, Elijah would have walked past Helen of Troy just to see your face, now he's cavorting with a common whore and you don't even care?!"

"She's a musician," Katherine argues, "She might not be nobility but she's hardly Dahlia, besides, I was away for half a decade and neither of us were celibate."

"We should still get rid of her," her father sighs, switching to Romani and Katherine doesn't like the lack of confusion in Giuseppe's eyes. It might not be the easiest language to learn, but she wouldn't have put it past the man to have somehow picked up enough to understand them.

"Katerina, we're so close now, we can't risk…"

"We are not risking anything," she interrupts, "Elijah has fallen for a woman who provides him with a sense of escapism, but the Valhallan nobility nearly rioted when I was announced as his fiancé, without the Salvatore backing," she nods to Giuseppe, "They never would have accepted me, and as much as they hate me, they'll have a collective heart attack if he even thought of bringing an American musician from nowhere with no money into society, and they'd stage a coup to put Niklaus on the throne if he tossed me over for her."

Her phone buzzes and she takes it out, ignoring Giuseppe's disapproving sniff, as she reads the messages under the table,

Caroline Forbes in a private message to Katerina Petrova

Caroline- 1. Mom says hi! 2. Twins have arrived. 3. Spoke to Ansel and got them visitor passes for the palace. 4. Their stuff is in my room. 5. Can they stay in my room? 6. Ansel also cleared us to go on a shopping trip provided we give him two-hour notice and take your bodyguard Trevor.

Katherine reads the message with a smile and picks at the appetizers before glancing around the room to try and judge how long the brunch would take,

Katerina Petrova in a private message to Caroline Forbes

Katherine- Tell him we're going shopping at one pm.

"So," she exhaled, smiling as Nadia, Stefan and Elena return to the table, "This is a publicity stunt, showing me off as the acceptable, appropriate candidate to wear Queen Freida's tiara."

"Hey," Elena murmured, catching her attention with a soft smile, "it can't hurt to remind everyone that you're at home here, that you've been prepared for the role and can handle it. After all, nobody wants another Diana scenario."

Diana.

The name caused a chill to run up her spine, and the disaster of that marriage, the way it had shaken the British monarchy on its previously steady foundations had blown a cold wind across the royal families of Europe. Comparisons had been drawn between Katherine and this tragic figure when her engagement to Elijah had been announced, another young country lady pulled from nowhere to be queen one day. It was one of the reasons, Esther had been adamant in training her, in taking her to Ensamhet and putting out word that she was tutoring her in preparation for the role. The Palace had quashed any concerns, any comparisons with this act, pointing out that they weren't throwing her in the ocean and demanding she swim, that Esther was mentoring her, caring for her as if she were her own.

And, in fairness, Esther had done that.

"Well," she said through harsh smile and gritted teeth, "You'll be pleased to know that I'll be walking high street this afternoon, buying clothes from Valhallan designers."

"Take Ms Bennett with you," Giuseppe requests, causing Bonnie to start at the mention of her name, "We need to make it as clear as possible that she is a member of this family."

"Gods help her," Damon muttered, under his breath.

"Gods help us all." Katherine countered.