The lemon sucker seared my tongue, biting. “Excuse me?”
“Your father barely got away with it the second time.”
“You might have had to threaten me into this marriage, but I’m here now. Unlike you and Father and every other goddamn male Crowne, I will honor my vows.”
Grandfather laughed. “Funny way of honoring her.”
He patted me on the shoulder; then, adjusting his tie one last time, he affected a smile and joined the reception. I stared after him long after his body had disappeared into the crowd, his real meaning falling over me like ice water.
My father didn’t have any more children than the triplets outside his marriage.
Numb, I rejoined Lottie at our table. I said nothing, because there was nothing I could say to make it better. She pulled out her phone as the music continued.
“The marriage of the century.” She held up a gold plate engraved with the words Marriage of the Century.
She pushed her cheek out with her tongue.
“Online they’re calling us the sham of the century. Fraud of the century. Joke of the century.”
“Lottie…”
She dropped the plate with a clang. “We have a wedding night to finish.”
She stared out at our reception, dead eyed and determined.
Four
STORY
The minute we were out of the ballroom I shoved West off. He could stand—he was barely hurt.
“I’m sorry—” West started, but I turned on him.
“Stop! Stop saying you’re sorry. I’m really tired of the men in my life using me to make themselves feel better. If I have to feel like shit, so do you.”
He looked like he wanted to say something, but to his credit, didn’t.
I could still hear the ballroom, the music playing as if nothing had happened. The way Grayson had looked at me seared into my chest like a brand. Scarring. White-hot.
“What was on their phones?” I asked quietly, afraid of the answer.
“This is you, right?” West held out his phone for me to look at.
Grayson.
Me.
Hours ago, as we’d said our goodbyes behind the altar. I lifted my eyes from the phone, colliding with West. A wedding full of people who’d seen me at my most vulnerable moment.
“How many people have seen this?” My eyes locked with West’s warm chocolate ones.
“Only a couple hundred thousand. Don’t get a big head. You’ll be forgotten in the morning.”
I spun, finding Mrs. du Lac.
A couple hundred thousand?
Only?
She stepped past me to her son, dabbing West’s nose with a silky white cloth. Her floor-length gown flowed across the marble, seeming to repel wrinkles and shadows, the silky cornflower color bringing out the complexion of her skin. Both elegant and intimidating, like her.
“What a way to ingratiate yourself with our new family,” she said lightly.
She reminded me a little of Tansy, in that she had that graceful air. She didn’t rush, even as her son bled.
A couple hundred thousand. Hundred. Thousand.
They hadn’t seen my face, at least.
West paused and said, “I was serious about my proposal.”
Mrs. du Lac threw an unreadable look over her shoulder, before following after him.
Then I was alone, only the distant sound of music and laughter my company. The quiet grew the longer I stood, until I felt so insignificant I couldn’t breathe.
A couple hundred thousand.
I shook my head, walking to the kitchen. I had a moment before Lottie’s next dressing, a few minutes I could spend with Uncle. I went to the pantry, piling up boxes of my uncle’s favorite biscuits. He couldn’t leave his bed, and he’s too prideful to ask. I piled the boxes until I couldn’t see. Until the sharp cardboard edges bit into my biceps.
A couple hundred thousand.
I walked in a daze to the servants’ quarters, mind spinning between Grayson and West. Serious about his proposal? Even if West wasn’t fucking with me…I didn’t want revenge against Grayson.
Maybe I should.
I just want an answer for why it all fell apart.
A couple hundred—
My foot caught, and the boxes went flying, scattering across the marble. I fell to the ground, scrambling to pick them up.
A couple hundred thousand. A couple hundred thousand. A couple hundred thousand.
“Ow, fuck.” I caught myself on a sharp cardboard edge and dropped what I’d barely managed to pick back up. Exhausted, I fell to the marble, legs spread like a child.
I guess it was a good thing the hallway was empty, that everyone was busy with the wedding.
No one was here to witness me collapse.
“A hundred thousand,” I whispered aloud.
A rustling to my left yanked me out of my daze. Someone had bent down to help me. Quickly re-entering servant mode, I scrambled to get on my knees.
“Oh, please don’t. I can do—” I broke off, voice dying.
Two big hands joined me, veins throbbing along the golden skin.
These hands had held me, had bruised me, had been inside me.
Cautiously, I lifted my eyes.
One by one, Grayson Crowne piled the boxes as if they were the most precious things in the world. His rose gold hair was wild and messy, like he’d been running his hands through it, and it veiled his face at the angle he was bent.
His eyes cut to mine like an electric shock.
I jumped off the floor, running my hands over my uniform, looking anywhere but his eyes. Grayson slowly stood, his back to his wedding, and mine to the servants’ quarters.
We were stuck between worlds.
Silence buzzed between us.
His eyes locked on the locket I wore—the one he gave me—and I shoved it under my collar. He clenched his jaw, then held the boxes out for me, his hand bloody from punching West.
I yanked them back. I wanted to yell at him, but what would I say? Don’t help me? Only a few hours had passed since he’d told me he loved me, but it may as well have been eons.
So I just turned on my heel.
I was almost at the servants’ quarters when Grayson’s cold voice drifted back. “Stay away from West, Story.”
I stopped short, fingers digging into the boxes until they crinkled.
“Or what?” I asked, refusing to turn around. “You’ve already done the worst thing you can ever do to me.”
Left me. Abandoned me. Forgot me. Chose her.
His hand was suddenly on my shoulder, pulling, as if trying to turn me around.
“Story…”
I nearly caved. Nearly let him pull me back, just to see the look on his face, what would accompany such an ache in his voice. But I dug deep for my dignity and yanked my shoulder free, disappearing down to the servants’ quarters.
I wound my way down the familiar tunnel to my uncle’s room. Some rumors say that the first Crowne believed in magic and built the secret doors and tunnels for ritual sacrifice, others say he built it to hide his mistress.
Either way, they’ve long been usurped for our purpose: servitude.
I knocked lightly on my uncle’s door. He was asleep, and I wasn’t going to wake him, so I just sat next to the bed, watching him. He looked so much smaller, frailer.