West gripped my elbow. “Not even for revenge?” He thumbed my chin. “We can make him regret everything.”
Two
GRAY
“Can I get a photo of the couple of the century?”
A man dressed in an ill-fitted tuxedo held up a camera to take a picture of us.
The wedding of the century. At least, that’s what was getting shoved up my ass from every angle, written in twenty-four karat gold on the six-foot wedding cake, spelled in diamonds across tables and walls, trending across social media because mother had paid for millions of bot accounts.
The Crowne-du Lac merge was the biggest marriage to happen in our world and my mother wasn’t going to let anyone forget it—or maybe it was an attempt to draw their attention from the blurry girl I’d brought to the engagement party, leaked in photographs online. We were the wedding of the century, the couple of the century.
“You could at least pretend to smile,” Lottie whispered. “It’s not like we don’t know how to pretend.”
Every Crowne is taught a wedding is just another business deal.
I had hoped to avoid that fate, but here I was.
I grasped Lottie’s hand, trying to offer her some kind of support.
She shot me her pretend smile. Sad, hollow, willowy. Fuck.
The paparazzo looked at his camera. “Perfect. Look how happy you are.” He snapped another few pictures and left, disappearing into the crowd.
We were seated above everyone, and I felt like some kind of royalty at a feast.
We had an entire year of this facade, an entire year of photo ops and pretending. Of paid paparazzi and paid magazine covers that were staged to look organic. Shit, we didn’t even get a fucking weekend to rest. This weekend we were headed to Asheville to celebrate Labor Day with Lottie’s family.
We were going on a veritable royal tour.
The food was made by some Michelin chef, a fucking steak I had to scarf down. It shouldn’t have bothered me. I did this all the time.
They think your favorite food is steak…
“Rare, like you like it, right?” Lottie asked.
I shot her another winning Grayson Crowne smile.
Our wedding planner appeared before us, and she bobbled her head in front of our long table for a good three minutes before I realized she was talking to us.
“It’s our first dance,” Lottie said quietly.
“Oh shit.”
I stood, offering my hand to Lottie so we could make our way into the center of the ballroom. The music started, and bright-white camera flashes went off one after the other. My eyes connected across the room, and I tripped over my shoe, into Lottie.
Snitch.
A few feet behind her was West.
Fucking West.
It was a brief glimpse, but I would always and forever recognize her. Only hours ago I’d been inside her.
Come inside her.
“Grayson?” Lottie’s concerned tone drew me back.
I started dancing again, plastered a smile on my face. Fuck, I really didn’t like that he followed her.
Snitch rounded a corner out of the ballroom, and Westley followed.
It’s not my place. Not my place to wonder if she still dripped me between her thighs. Not my place to care that Westley fucking du Lac was once again riding my girl’s ass—not my girl anymore.
Shit.
Fuck.
“Is something wrong?” Lottie asked, then blew out a breath. “I mean, other than the very obvious.”
My eyes were still on the door, but a small smile quirked my lips at Lottie’s honesty.
“I just think Strauss is a really trash waltz,” I said. “Couple of the century and our first dance is to the one song everyone plays for their first recital.”
Lottie laughed, and for a minute I forgot about Snitch and that I had no right to think about her anymore. For a second, it was normal and almost okay.
I fingered the rubies in her ear. “You hate red.”
She shrugged, as if it wasn’t even worth mentioning why she was wearing something she hated.
I couldn’t believe any of this was how Lottie had imagined it. Walking down the aisle to an empty altar, married to a man like me. Though her makeup had been fixed, her eyes were still red.
“Lottie, if you could do anything right now, what would it be?”
Her throat bobbed. “I don’t want to play this game.”
I wanted to give her something.
Anything to prove I wasn’t the man I’d taught her I’d become.
“Lottie—”
Her eyes flashed to mine. “You can’t give it to me.”
“I’m Grayson Crowne. I can do anything.”
Her eyes narrowed at the challenge. “I don’t want to smile for pictures. I want to take off this dress and this tiara. I want to talk to you and get to know you again in private. And…” She looked away, as if ashamed. “I don’t want to see her.”
I stopped dancing. “Let’s get out of here, Lottie.”
“Really?” She blinked. “Just…leave?” She looked around us. Our song ended and couples had surrounded us on the dance floor.
“We’ve taken enough pictures. Let’s go have your perfect wedding night.”
Her mouth parted, and I clasped her hand, dragging her with me. Her laugh echoed as she gripped my shoulder.
“Are we really going to leave?” she whispered.
“Yeah—”
My mother stepped in front of us with a hiss. “Keep smiling.”
Naturally our smiles wavered.
“I said, Keep smiling.”
She shoved a phone between our chests. It was a shaky video, half the image obscured by something…flowers. White roses. Beyond them an obscene dance took place. A man’s naked ass, a woman groping him.
It was me. Me with Snitch, just hours before. Luckily there was no sound. They would have heard the words that were seared into my mind.
I love you, Story Hale. I’ll never stop loving you, Story Hale.
“It’s clear it’s a maid,” my mother said, pulling the phone back. “They don’t know which maid. But it’s clear it’s a maid. On your wedding night.” Her nostrils flared.
Lottie dropped her grip from my shoulder, and our hands separated.
“How many people have seen it?” I asked, voice rough.
“Just—” My mother held up her finger. “I’m going to fix it. So far it’s only on small forums. It hasn’t hit any major news. I’ll fix it—we’ll fix it. This should go without saying, but don’t do anything that would draw attention to this. Go mingle or go dance and smile.” She shot a pointed look in Lottie’s direction.
Mother walked away to presumably bribe some web hosts.
A spiny silence crept up in her wake. Lottie rubbed one arm, eyes on the floor.
A thousand words ran through my head, something to rewind the time, all of them useless.
“Lottie, believe me, I had no idea someone was filming.”
“I think this is the worst day of my life,” she whispered.
“Lottie—”
She picked up her dress, walking swiftly across the ballroom.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Who filmed that? How had we not seen? It wasn’t exactly private back there…fuck. I needed out of this facade, even if for only a minute. I headed past the bastard table minus the bastards who couldn’t be fucked to attend. I’m sure my mother would rip my ear off about that later. Past people I’d never met in my life, who I’m sure were only here so Mother or Grandfather could use this invite as a way to manipulate their interests. Past friends who didn’t give a single shit about me.