The last time I stayed at the Westminster Royal, I’d been in a private suite that took up an entire floor of the hotel. Spencer had demanded it, as though two people needed more than a bed and a roof over their heads. I didn’t require that much space. In fact, I didn’t want it. “That would be perfect.”
She took my identification and credit card, chattering away in a friendly manner as she filled me in on the hotel’s amenities. It wasn’t until she began typing the information from my identification that she stopped mid-sentence. “I apologize, Ms. Belmond. I see that you are a platinum elite member of the Eaton family of hotels. Let me see about getting you an upgrade.”
“That won’t be necessary,” I said quickly. I should have known something like this was inevitable, whether or not I name dropped. “I’m simply grateful that you can get me a room on such short notice.”
“Are you sure?” She chewed on her lips thoughtfully, watching me like she was taking a test.
“I travel a lot,” I lied. I’d never gone anywhere. Kerrigan had. “That’s the reason I have that platinum status.”
“Standard procedure is to offer an upgrade in such cases,” she explained. “I’m sure we can find you a nicer room —”
“A single is fine,” I repeated firmly. “I just need a place to sleep.”
She continued after another minute of hesitation. She prepped a key card and passed it to me in a little envelope. Her friendliness seemed to have cooled. She was on edge as though she knew the name Kerrigan Belmond came with more than just an elite status. I took the key with one last hopeful smile. The one she mustered looked more concerned than cordial.
That was one of the worst parts of being Kerrigan: the expectation that came with her name. Maybe she lived up to the stereotype of the overprivileged heiress. Maybe no one ever gave her a chance to prove she was anything else. I considered it as I took the lift up a floor and continued down a corridor toward my room.
When I found it, I unlocked it to discover a room about the size of the presidential suite’s closet. The door opened to a double bed, with two nightstands crammed into the corners beside it, and just enough space to walk its perimeter. The attached bathroom had a simple, cramped shower stall, toilet, and sink. Everything was neatly appointed and sparkling clean, but it was a far cry from the luxurious space I knew was sitting on the top floor. There was a time when a hotel room this nice would have been entirely outside my means. I’d only recently found myself in that luxurious, overindulgent suite.
Which one did I belong in? The sidewalk outside the hotel as Kate? Or the penthouse meant for people like Kerrigan? I comforted myself that limbo seemed to be somewhere in between in a warm, cozy room with a locked door and a pillow.
I checked both the locks and threw the extra bolt so that no one could get inside the room. Then I walked over to open the drapes. Nighttime in London was different than the quiet, all-consuming dark of Yorkshire. At night, London was alive. Lights dazzled along the streets, cars sped by, and, despite the continued rain, umbrellas once again dotted the sidewalks as the world kept spinning, even in the storm. I lost track of time as I stood and watched the rain hit the windowpanes, its pitter-patter lulling me into a daze. At some point, it began to come down harder, lashing the glass with a mesmerizing force that I found equally captivating. The night seemed to seep into the room and with each second, I became more aware of the cold, wet world around me. I could almost feel the rain on my shoulders. I drop hit my face and instinctively, I looked up to see where it had fallen. But there was nothing there. My interest in the dazzling world outside the window was replaced by an intense study of the ceiling. There was no wet spot and no sign of a leak. That wasn’t surprising since I was on the second floor. There was nothing above me but pristine plaster. Beneath me, the floor rocked, and I finally realized that it wasn’t the storm I had felt but the familiar tendrils of an anxiety attack. I tried to turn to the bed. I only needed to spin around to reach it, but shifting direction only made it worse. Panic hit me like waves of icy water and my knees buckled.
I didn’t try to fight it as I crumbled to the ground. It was said and strong. There was something else. The floor moved again, and I threw myself forward, grabbing hold of the mattress. It tilted as though it were a capsizing boat. I clung to the blankets, but there was no anchor in the storm. It had finally found me, and there was no safe harbor.
“Kerrigan!”
I lifted my head to look for the voice that called my name. I expected to find Spencer standing at the door. But it was still closed and bolted like I’d left it. Blackness shadowed its edges like night was claiming it. Which was real: the darkness or the door? I dropped my head onto the mattress top, my stomach churning from the tumultuous storm. “This isn’t real,” I whispered to myself.
In the past when the darkness found me, it overtook me. There was no such relief tonight. It battered me from all sides until I was sobbing and soaked in sweat. I kept hearing my name called, but I didn’t dare look up. I knew I had locked up, meaning it was impossible for someone else to be in here with me. But the name hung in the air like an echo. Was it a trick of my mind? Or something much darker? I stayed at the edge of the bed until calm descended. When I was certain that everything was fine, I finally lifted my head and opened my eyes.
I was alone in a hotel room on the second floor of the Westminster Royal. There was no rain seeping through the ceiling. No violent waves rocking the floor. No person at the door calling my name. Despite that, my fingers remained tightly on the sheets until I pried them free. I didn’t dare stand up. Instead, I placed one shaky palm to the floor and lowered myself to my hands and knees. The dizzying effects of the attack lingered, even as I made my way slowly to the bathroom, speeding up as my mouth began to water. Thankfully, I reached the toilet before I vomited. Collapsing onto the tile beneath me, I lay shaking until I found the strength to draw my mobile from my pocket and dial a number.
The phone picked up on the first ring. I didn’t wait for him to answer.
“I’m at the Westminster Royal. I need you.” Then, I hung up.
Chapter Seven
By the time I heard the knock at the door, I’d managed to pull myself up off the floor. I turned the handle, sagging against the wall for support, and opened the door to find him standing there. I hated the relief I felt as I drank in his broad shoulders and muscular form. He was turned away from me, his hands shoved in his pockets, and as he turned to face me, he wore an expression of confusion.
No, not confusion. Distaste bordering on disdain. “Did they put you in this room?”
It was only then that I noticed his pressed shirt. Even unbuttoned with his tie hanging loosely around his neck, he held himself importantly. His face was clean-shaven and his eyes clear. He hadn’t been drinking. The man standing before me hadn’t lost control for a second.
Spencer.
I called Holden, but Spencer came. My heart crashed to the floor at our feet, but I mustered a nonchalant look.
“I only asked for a room. I didn’t care which one they put me in,” I explained.
“When they saw your name, they should’ve known better than to put you in this.” He peered over my shoulder and looked at the room like he’d found me sitting in a hovel.