Jeremy shrugs. “Kind of.”
“Kind of?”
“Well, not illegal, exactly. Just out of print, and usually destroyed when found.”
I stare at him, wide-eyed.
“Keep it,” he says, waving a hand. “I don’t need it anymore.”
“Why do you have it in the first place?”
My agent sighs. “Well, it’s a reminder of another life. When I started my career, I was just chasing money. Everything I did was in service to my bank account. That book was my rock bottom. Made a lot of money, but I realized that spinning lies wasn’t what I wanted to represent. When shit hit the fan, I dropped the author as a client, and I vowed to only pursue projects that I truly believe in.”
I frown.
“What, you don’t believe people can change?” Jeremy asks, grinning. He flops back onto his chair and tosses his phone on his desk. “Look at my client list since then, and tell me I haven’t redeemed myself.”
“I think people can change, but I’m just surprised.” I point to the book in my hand. “So, all of this is a big lie?”
“Mostly. Let’s say it’s more fiction than non-fiction. I’m not proud of it.”
“Why do you still have it, then?”
Jeremy sighs. His jovial expression fades, and for the first time since I’ve met him, I see creases appear on his forehead. “I kept the book in my office as a reminder of what’s important to me.”
“And that is…?”
“Truth, integrity, respect. I didn’t want to be caught in that kind of controversy again. I didn’t want to see anyone else’s face slashed open because of something I’d helped create. So, yes. I represented Paulette—and yes, I regret it.” He stares at me, his face open. “Does that bother you?”
I stare at the controversial book, chewing my lip. I’m trying to reinvent myself, too. I’m trying to change from my eternal failure to something more. My writing is becoming more honest, and I’m realizing what’s important to me—the Prince. Flora. My family.
I shake my head. “I respect you for changing your ways.”
Lifting the book up, I move to put it back in the bookcase.
Jeremy stops me. “You should read it,” he says.
“Why would I do that?”
“I can tell you want to. Plus, I don’t want us to work together if there’s this book hanging between us. Honesty and integrity, right? So, read it, and then throw it out, or burn it, or give it to the pigeons to build a nest with—I don’t care. Take it as a sign that I’m here for you, and that I believe in your book a hell of a lot more than I believed in that drivel.”
I stare at the tome, chewing my lip. I shouldn’t read this—especially not if I’m back in Westhill. I shouldn’t bring it anywhere near Prince Gabriel.
But what does it say? Why did it explode the way it did, and why does it hold so much power over the Prince? Maybe, if I read it, I’ll understand where his pain comes from. Whether it’s sick curiosity, or a more noble desire to understand the man I’m falling in love with—either way, I want to read this book.
I nod. “Okay, thanks.”
“Good.” Jeremy claps his hands together. “Now, do you want to hear about that phone call, or not?”
28
Gabriel
The days drag on as I wait for Jolie to come back. I don’t sleep. I’m trapped. I claw at the walls of my own mind until my fingernails are cracked and bloody. I stare at the photos Paulette gave me, trying to come up with any explanation that would make sense.
The facts are the facts, though. Jolie wormed her way into my household. She gained my trust and my daughter’s affection, and saw everything that I try to hide away. Then, she wouldn’t let me read her work—and she left me to meet with the same agent who helped destroy my life.
All signs point to betrayal.
Still, I resist. The devil on my shoulder laughs, and laughs, and laughs. He whispers everything I’m trying not to believe.
And I resist.
I don’t believe it. Not fully. Jolie is different. She’s good. To her core, I believe that she’s good. I wouldn’t be that wrong about someone.
When I was with Paulette, it was mostly self-destructive. I was drinking a lot and partying all the time. She was beautiful, and available, and rich. Our relationship was tumultuous and explosive, and it ended with me snapping and her slashing my face open.
Jolie isn’t like that. She didn’t come to Westhill to be with me. She came here because her father needed her help. She didn’t seduce me—I pursued her.
Right?
The other gardener—Harry something—takes care of the roses while Jolie’s gone. It feels wrong to see him in there. He walks around like he owns the place, and I miss Jolie’s gentle touch. I miss hearing her sing to the flowers at night.
I miss her. All of her.
And all the while, I wonder… Was any of it real?
I pretend not to notice when I see her walking across the lawn to the Gardener’s Cottage. I pretend that my heart doesn’t thump out of my chest, and force myself to stay sitting in my chambers, even though my eyes are glued to her.
She comes back to the garden and finds Harry. I crack the window open and strain my ears to listen to them. Jolie laughs at something he says, and hot, green envy poisons my blood. They come into view of my window, and her eyes dart up toward mine, as if she can sense my presence.
A smile tugs at the corner of her lips, and my mouth tastes like ash.
Is this all a lie?
She works in the garden all afternoon, and I sense that she’s waiting for me to come see her.
I don’t.
I can’t bring myself to face her—not yet. Even after staying up for nights on end. Even after thinking about her non-stop for the past two weeks. Even after staring at the pictures Paulette gave me until my head pounded and my heart ached.
I still can’t go to the rose garden.
From my window, I watch her gather fallen rose petals as the sun goes down. She wipes her forehead with her arm, and my stomach sours.
The roses are wilting, just like our relationship. I turn away from the window, disgusted.
I pace up and down my room until Bert knocks on my door. “Dinner, sir?”
I wave him away. I can’t eat. How could I eat, when my whole world is falling apart? And the woman to blame is walking around my castle like she owns the place?
How dare she? The fucking nerve of her, to come back here like nothing is wrong. To walk through my garden and live in my cottage, as if she hasn’t already betrayed me.
To glance up my window and smile, as if she actually wants to see me.
How. Fucking. Dare. She.
Ripping my bedroom door open, I tear down the hall. Flora calls after me from her bedroom.
“Not now, Flora,” I snap. Somewhere deep in my heart, I regret speaking to my daughter like that—but right now, at the forefront of my mind, I’m consumed by sweet, intoxicating anger. It pumps through me like hot metal, urging me forward and making me feel invincible.
My hands are shaking. My breath is ragged. I can’t think about anything except the audacity of the woman in the cottage.
With every step I take toward her, my rage intensifies. I’ll kick her out. I’ll have her jailed. I’ll shame her and ruin her family name until she’s forced to leave the Kingdom.
I will not be disgraced again by a goddamn writer. I won’t be made a fool, and I won’t put Flora through that again.
When I make it to the Gardener’s Cottage, my blood is pumping thick and hot through my veins. My vision is cloudy, and I can’t hear anything except my thundering heartbeat.
I pound on the door so hard it shakes.
Within seconds, Jolie opens the door. For a moment—just a split second—my anger evaporates. She looks radiant, with her hair falling around her shoulders, and a silky, white nightgown hugging her body. She smiles at me so genuinely, so openly, that I hesitate.
But I
am who I am, and when faced with a choice between anger and grace, I choose anger. Always anger.
Jolie’s face falls. “Are you okay?”
“Anything to tell me?” I growl, pushing past her. My eyes scan the room, as if I’m going to see some hidden camera or other evidence of her transgressions.
Jo closes the door and faces me, her brow creased. “What do you mean?”
“Your trip to Farcliff. Is there something you wanted to tell me about?”
“I…” She pauses, staring at me. “I got a book deal. And my father’s tests are getting better. And…” She gulps, shaking her head.
“And what?”
“Nothing. Why are you speaking to me like this?” Her spine stiffens.
We face off opposite each other. I squeeze my hands into fists, digging my fingernails into my palms to try in vain to contain my anger. Jolie stares at me openly, her emotions flitting on her face in quick succession. Confusion. Hurt. Outrage.
Fear.
When her eyes fill with tears, I realize she’s afraid of me, and something inside me breaks. My shoulders sink, and the anger inside me comes crumbling down. I sink down onto a chair and drop my head in my hands.
I realize what she just told me—she got a book deal, and her father is getting better. She didn’t hide the fact that she met with an agent. She didn’t lie to me.
I groan as the guilt and shame come surging up inside me. Squeezing my eyes shut, I try to contain the bitter taste that starts to fill my mouth.
“Holy fuck, Jolie, I’m sorry.”
She doesn’t answer, so I force myself to look at her. Jolie brushes a tear from her face and gulps. She won’t look at me.
I stand up and take a step toward her, but she flinches.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“You come charging in here like you’re going to kill me… Why? What have I done? I was so excited to see you, so happy about everything that happened in Farcliff. Do you realize that when I got that book deal, the first person I thought about was you? I wanted to share that moment with you. I wanted to be happy with you. I thought you’d be happy for me. My father and I talked about coming back here together. I couldn’t wait to bring him back!”
She shakes her head, staring at me like she doesn’t understand what’s going on.
“I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that,” I say quietly.
“No, you shouldn’t have.” She turns away from me, and panic starts to grip my throat. I can’t lose her. Not like this! Not because I’m fucked in the head and I didn’t trust her! Not because of something my ex made up.
“I thought you were writing a book about me. I thought you were another Paulette,” I blurt out.
Jolie’s eyes widen and she stares at me. “What?”
“I got pictures of you with her agent. My mind went crazy…”
“Are you spying on me? You had me followed? You took pictures of me?”
“No!”
Her eyebrows arch, and she takes another step back.
“I didn’t do it. They were given to me.”
“By who?”
I inhale sharply.
“By who, Your Highness?”
I close my eyes. “By Paulette. She followed me to Westhill after the Farcliff celebration. When you left, she gave them to me…”
“… and you assumed that I was just the same as she is?”
I nod, ashamed.
“I wrote a children’s book, Your Highness,” Jo spits at me. “I didn’t write tabloid fodder about our affair.”
“Our affair?”
What we have is so much more than an affair—but is that all she thinks of me? I’m just a lover that she’ll forget about one day?
“What would you call it?”
I open my mouth and close it again. What would I call this thing between us?
Everything is falling apart in front of me. Jolie is so close, so perfect, so beautiful…and she’s slipping through my fingers. I’m ruining everything, just like I always do.
She’ll walk away, and I’ll lose the only woman who’s ever treated me like a real person. Flora will lose her. My face twists as my heart breaks. I’m a fucking idiot.
I cover my face with my hands, wanting to hide my shame. Hide my guilt. Hide myself.
A second later, I feel a finger on my forearm. Jolie pulls my hands away from my face, and cups my cheeks in her palms. Her eyebrows arch as she strokes my face.
She shakes her head. “What am I going to do with you?”
I’m too scared to speak. If I say the wrong thing, Jolie will back away again. She’ll leave, and I’ll lose her. Instead, I put my hands on her hips, tentatively pulling her toward me.
She melts into me, angling her lips against mine. The moment our mouths press together, my heart melts. Relief floods through me, and I wrap my arms around her more tightly than ever before. I deepen the kiss, singing my fingers into her skin and inhaling her scent.
I’ve been a fool. I’ve listened to all the wrong thoughts, and I’ve given false truth to my darkest fears.
I almost lost her—and for what? Over a misunderstanding?
Jolie doesn’t say another word. She lifts my shirt off over my head and kisses my chest. Her touch is gentle, loving, tender. Taking my hand, she leads me to the bed. I watch her undress and lay down, spreading her arms toward me.
There’s no fear in her eyes now, only affection.
Only love.
I was wrong to doubt her, and I vow to never do it again. And in those few moments together, it feels like it’s possible. With my head buried between Jolie’s thighs, I don’t see the storm brewing on the horizon.
29
Jo
My beautiful, fragile Prince. I don’t know what happened when I was gone, but I know that he suffered at the hands of his own mind. I want to look in his eyes and steal the pain from them. I want to shoulder his burdens as if they were my own, because I want him to be free. I want to drink the hurt he carries with him, and suffer in his place.
Instead, I just lay next to him and trail my fingers over his skin. I reach up to touch the scar that runs from his ear to his jaw. Prince Gabriel doesn’t flinch away from my touch. He turns his head to look at me as I caress his scar, trying to take some of his pain away.
He catches my fingers in his hand and kisses them. His eyes shine, and he shifts his body closer to mine in the bed.
“I love you,” he says in a hoarse voice.
My eyes widen. “What?”
“I said I love you, Jolie Beaumont. I’m sorry I scared you, and I’m sorry I acted like that. I don’t want to make you feel badly, ever.”
A lump forms in my throat. I smile. “I love you too, Your Highness.”
“Are you ever going to call me Gabriel, or are we sticking with formal titles for the rest of our lives?”
“I was waiting for you to give me permission,” I laugh, my heart thumping at the thought of forever with him.
“When have you ever asked for permission for anything?”
I laugh, rolling on top of the Prince to cover him in hot kisses from his neck to his navel. I’ve spent the past week in fear—fear of what he would say when he found out I was pregnant. But he loves me! Maybe that means he’d be happy about another child, too.
I want to tell him, but the words stick in my throat. Instead, we make love in the Gardener’s Cottage, with stars in our eyes and our hearts beating as one.
You know that feeling when everything is going well and you know—you just know—that it’s all going to fall apart?
That’s the feeling I wake up with.
The Prince leaves my bed to go back to the castle before dawn, and I lay there, staring up at the ceiling. I put my hand over my stomach, trying to shake the persistent tiredness that seems to be clinging to my marrow. I try to sleep, but I can’t get comfortable.
What if he doesn’t want the baby?
When I took the pregnancy test, I was terrified.
When Gabriel stormed into the cottage last night, I was hurt. But now?
Now, I feel hopeful.
Hope is the beginning of the end. Hope leads to disappointment.
I get up with the sun and make my way to the kitchens for breakfast. I feel a bit groggy, like I have the remnants of a hangover that stays with me all the time. Pushing through the discomfort, I eat a bit of dry toast and make my way to the garden.
Throughout the morning, my movements are labored, and the roses smell so damn sweet. After an hour or so, I end up puking behind a rose bush. Wiping my mouth, I lean on my knees and sigh. This is going to be a tough nine months—well, seven and a half months, now.
A noise at the gate makes me turn my head, and Flora’s smiling head appears. She coughs into her hand, and then smiles at me again.
“Jo!”
“Hey, kiddo.”
“I’m not a kid,” she says, rolling her eyes. She coughs again, her whole body contracting.
I frown. “You okay?”
“It’s nothing.” She forces another smile. “Can I help you with anything?”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea? Maybe you should get some rest.”
“I’ve been waiting for ever for you to come back, and now you want to send me away?” She has the same big, blue eyes as her father. Right now, they’re wide and pleading, and I can’t say no.
“All right,” I sigh. “Grab that bag, I’m picking up the fallen petals.”
“Mr. Marcel said the roses bloomed again in September. Is that true?”
“These ones will.” I point to the roses along the southern fence. We get to work. Flora coughs a lot as we gather the wilted rose petals. She has to sit down after a few minutes, and coughs so hard I’m afraid her little body will break into pieces.
“Let’s go find Mrs. Grey, Flora.” My voice is a bit sterner, now. The Princess shouldn’t be out here. Maybe it’s because I have my own child growing inside me, but my motherly instincts are starting to kick in.
The Princess doesn’t protest. I slip my hand into hers, and we walk back toward the castle. Mrs. Grey meets us at the door—she always has a sixth sense when it comes to Flora. The old woman’s lips pinch together as her brow furrows, and she takes the coughing girl over to the East Wing.
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