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Edward Grant and my brother, Charles Shea, were political enemies. But I had spent two years sneaking into Edward's bed, seduced by his charm and swept up in every stolen night we shared. When the pregnancy test came back positive, my heart nearly burst with joy. I asked him when he was going to propose. He lay sprawled across the couch, didn't even glance my way, and let a lazy smirk curl at the corner of his mouth. He drawled, "Sophia, does Charles have any idea what his little sister's become?" The blood drained from my face in an instant. Edward's eyes locked onto mine, cold and mocking, as he enunciated every word. He said, "No ring, no vows, and you still crawled into my bed. You know what that makes you, Sophia? A whore. And a whore deserves to be paraded through the streets."