Tangled Games (Dating Games)

by T. K. Leigh

  “I’m more than aware that, after a thorough investigation, the police ruled out foul play. And perhaps I’m wrong. Perhaps it did unfold as Nora claimed. But, unfortunately, I’ve never been able to believe much of what she’s said. If I didn’t come forward and something horrible were to happen to her current fiancé, well… I’d never forgive myself. I want to warn him personally, but I have no doubt Nora’s tricked him into believing the worst of me. Which is why I felt it important to come on this show. To warn him and the entire royal family about the woman he’s about to marry.”

  Bridge hits the spacebar, pausing the video, then closes the laptop. “I think you get the gist of it,” he says solemnly.

  I blink, processing everything my mother just said on national TV, my stomach churning.

  She inferred I killed Hunter.

  And our baby.

  How could she do such a thing? Why?

  Because that’s who she is. Everything she claims about me could be said about her. She’s the manipulative one.

  I’m the one who couldn’t bring boyfriends home because she’d hit on them.

  I’m the one who had to move from town to town every time my mother’s latest husband realized just how warped and twisted of a person she was.

  I’m the one who suffered her wrath whenever she noticed one of her boyfriends looking at me in a way she didn’t like.

  Yet I’m manipulative?

  “Nora, love.” Anderson’s voice cuts through. “Talk to me.”

  I can’t look at him. I’m numb. Sick. So fucking tired of getting close to having it all, only for that woman to take it away from me in a perverted game.

  Not saying a word, I stand, practicing a few calming breathing techniques as I walk across the living room. The heat of everyone’s stares prickles my skin, but I don’t glance back or offer an explanation. I couldn’t give them one right now anyway. Not without screaming.

  Keeping my head held high and spine straight, as I was instructed in my etiquette classes, I make my way into the bathroom, neither walking too fast nor too slow. I shut the door behind me and turn the lock, the click echoing in the vast space. Then I stride toward the double vanity and lean my hands on the counter, hanging my head.

  I inhale a deep breath and close my eyes, trying to quiet the rage bubbling to the surface after years of keeping it buried deep within me. I learned early on that my emotions were another thing for my mother to exploit. That it was best to lock it all inside.

  But what’s the point when she’ll find another way to get her revenge. To keep me trapped.

  Muscles tightening and jaw hardening, I bring my gaze up to the mirror and study my appearance with the same scrutiny my mother always seemed to.

  Eyes that are a few sizes too big for my face.

  A nose that’s a bit too pointed and could benefit from reconstructive surgery.

  Cheeks that, despite the passing of years, are still cherub-like.

  Heart-shaped lips that should be a tiny bit plumper.

  For years, I listened to her call me too fat. Too skinny. Too plain. Too boring. Too uptight. Too carefree. All I wanted was to rid her from my life. To forget about all the ways she’s tormented me, everything I did either too good or not good enough.

  My body shaking more violently the more I recall everything that woman put me through, I scream. Unable to stand my reflection, all my imperfections glaring at me, I grab the metal tissue box off the vanity and hurl it against the mirror, the glass shattering.

  A loud knocking thunders on the door, followed by someone trying the handle, but I ignore it, screaming again as I take off one heel, then another, throwing them at the mirror, more glass falling to the floor. I step on the shards in search of something else to throw, the pain on my feet a welcome distraction to the storm brewing within me. I grab the hair dryer and toss it, followed by the soap dish, Anderson begging for me to let him in.

  I continue throwing everything I can find — shampoo bottles, vase with flowers, and even a few towels. When there’s nothing left, I allow my tears to overtake me as I lean against the wall and slump to the floor, hugging my legs to my chest, blood covering my feet.

  The door flies open and Creed barrels inside, frantically scanning the room. But his worry is no match for Anderson’s. Glass crunches beneath his shoes as he hurries toward me and crouches down, pulling me into his arms, my sobs echoing in the sudden silence.

  “It’s okay,” he soothes, kissing my temple. “It’ll all be okay. She won’t get away with this.”

  I wish I could believe him. But she already has. The truth is irrelevant. In the court of public opinion, I’ve already been judged guilty.

  Nothing anyone says or does will change the verdict.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Anderson

  “Are you sure you’ll be okay?” I ask Nora as we stand in front of my residence. The dark SUV that drove us from the airfield idles behind us, waiting for me to get back into it.

  She lifts her eyes to mine, but they’re as empty as they’ve been all afternoon, all signs of life gone.

  I’d never seen Nora as broken as when Creed burst through the bathroom door and my gaze fell on her defeated frame, her feet cut up, glass everywhere.

  From the beginning, she had a habit of hiding behind a mask of perfectly groomed hair and impeccably applied makeup. But I was able to see it for what it was. A cry for help. A silent plea for someone to finally set her free. And not just from her sorrow over losing Hunter and her baby. But also from her mother’s torment.

  Now I can’t help but think I dragged her back into the darkness. Forced her into this life where she lost another piece of who she was daily until it got to be too much and she snapped.

  Thankfully, we were able to get out of the hotel without incident, the French police dispersing the assembled paparazzi almost as soon as they showed up. During the short, tension-filled flight back to Belmont, I’d grown hopeful it would all blow over. That the people here wouldn’t buy into the lies. That they’d focus on the woman who captured their hearts these past few months.

  Who joined in on a nationwide search for a missing child, tromping through fields alongside a volunteer group looking for any clue as to her whereabouts.

  Who donned a baseball hat and sunglasses to serve meals at a soup kitchen when she saw they were desperate for help. Something no one in the royal family would ever do, except for Esme and myself.

  Who spent hours trying to respond to every letter she received, not wanting anybody to think their messages fell on deaf ears.

  But when our plane landed to a swarm of media and outraged locals, I knew that wasn’t the case.

  It didn’t matter the OB who delivered Ember gave an interview painting Nora in a vastly different light, claiming she’d never seen a patient so distraught.

  It didn’t matter the local police chief where the accident happened also made a statement that there was no physical evidence to support Dr. Harcourt’s inferences regarding foul play.

  It didn’t matter that Hunter’s parents also made a statement in support of Nora’s strong character and sympathetic nature.

  The die’s already been cast. Nora’s mother gave everyone a sensational story. In the court of social media, the people are the judge, jury, and executioner. The truth is completely irrelevant.

  If I thought Nora was broken before, having to drive through a city entrenched in protests, people holding signs calling her a murderer, gold digger, and baby killer, destroyed her last remnant of life.

  The last thing I want is to leave her in such a fragile state, but I don’t have a choice, not after being summoned to the palace.

  “I’ll be fine,” she says, her voice defeated. She lowers her head as she turns from me, her steps sluggish.

  I pull my lips between my teeth, rubbing the back of my neck. I hate this. Hate watching her break down. Hate I can’t stay to comfort her. What good would it do, though? I fear our fate has already been dec
ided.

  “O’Kelly,” I bark out at Nora’s chief protection officer as he starts to follow her into the house.

  He pauses, glancing at me.

  I walk toward him and lean in, dropping my voice to barely a whisper. “Do not let her out of your sight. Got it?”

  He nods. “Yes, sir.”

  “I mean it, Kylian. Not for so much as a heartbeat.” I hold his gaze, hoping he picks up on the importance of my request. When he nods once more in understanding, I turn, sliding back into the SUV.

  Creed doesn’t utter a single word during the drive to the palace, simply studies me every so often through the rearview mirror. I’m grateful for it. I’m not sure what I’d say to him even if he asked how I’m holding up. I have no fucking clue. This interview came out of left field, leaving all of us unprepared.

  Although I shouldn’t have been.

  Should have known this woman wouldn’t sit back and allow Nora to be happy. She’s now succeeded in doing what she’s tried to do for years.

  Breaking Nora to the point where I barely recognize her.

  As we approach the front gates of the palace, I keep my eyes trained forward in an attempt to ignore all the protestors assembled outside. I’d give anything to admonish each and every one of them, remind them how, mere hours ago, they adored Nora.

  How quickly the tides turn.

  They have fresh meat for the slaughter, and they’re more than happy to roast Nora on a spit.

  During my schooling, I was often fascinated by the Salem Witch Trials. How it was possible for mass hysteria to spread so quickly, a sham of a trial being the only thing standing between the accused and a date with the gallows. Now I understand. It has nothing to do with who’s right. All that matters is who has the loudest voice.

  And the mob outside the palace gates is deafening.

  When Creed pulls the SUV to a stop in front of the entrance, I glance up at the building, my stomach roiling. My hand twitches, head throbs. I squeeze my eyes closed, pinching the bridge of my nose.

  “You okay?” Creed asks.

  “Fucking peachy,” I snip out as one of the palace valets opens my door. I slide out and button my suit jacket, about to walk up the steps when I pause, popping my head back into the car. “Listen, mate. I’m sorry. I’m—”

  “It’s fine. It’s been a trying day. Just don’t forget what’s important to you. What you fought so hard for.”

  It’s like he can read my mind. Like he knows the war I’ve been waging these past few days.

  “I haven’t,” I tell him.

  “Good.”

  I turn and follow my father’s private secretary toward the executive wing of the palace. This is all distressingly similar to when Nora and I first landed in Belmont a few weeks ago.

  But I have a feeling the outcome this time won’t be as positive.

  When we reach the same conference room, Colonel Winters knocks once, then opens the door, stepping inside. “His Royal Highness Prince Gabriel,” he announces, then moves to the side.

  I’d expected to be greeted by my father, the head of household, Dalton Peel, and my grandmother, as is typically the case whenever something like this happens.

  I didn’t expect to walk in to see all the members of the Privy Council assembled around the conference table, my father at the head.

  “Your Highness,” they all murmur as they stand and bow.

  I nod in acknowledgment, then look back at my father, bowing. “Your Majesty.”

  “Gabriel.” My father bows toward me, then gestures at the chair at the opposite end of the table. “Have a seat.”

  I make my way through the room. With every step I take, the knot in my stomach grows tighter. Things must be bad if the entire Privy Council is here. I have no doubt I’m not going to like what my father has to say.

  I sit, back straight, steeling myself for the proverbial bloodbath that’s about to ensue.

  “I assume you know why I called you here today,” he says, as if I had any question.

  “I do.”

  “Then you’re already aware that the interview has had quite a disastrous effect. And not just on Nora, but also you. Hell, on the entire monarchy. There’s no other way to put it. This is a bloody catastrophe.”

  “It was all a lie,” I remind him, my jaw tight. “Every single word that woman spoke was a fabrication.” I narrow my gaze on him. “And you know that.”

  “What I know is irrelevant.” He waves a hand, as if it will relieve him of any liability. “What’s important right now is that this story, whether true or a fabrication, is out there. Is being eaten up by the tabloids. Unfortunately, we no longer live in an age of responsible journalism, where reporters are respected and revered for giving people the truth. The truth doesn’t matter. In this day of clickbait and social media, all that matters is what’s sensational. And Dr. Harcourt just gave the world a story that’s prime gossip fodder.”

  He squares his shoulders, swallowing hard. I know this expression. Know I won’t like whatever follows. It’s the same look he wore when he called Esme and me into the library at our family home in the country and told us our uncle had died, as did our cousins. That we would have to move to the capital city of Montrose.

  That I’d be shipped off to boarding school in London.

  That I would one day be king.

  But instead of manning up to the new responsibilities placed on me as the future monarch, I reacted like an eight-year-old boy.

  I cried. Screamed. Shouted.

  I knew it wouldn’t change anything, though. Knew the wheels had already been set in motion and I had no choice but to accept it.

  Just like I fear is happening now, too.

  “Right now, our best course of action is to come up with a plan to…” He glances to his right where Dalton Peel sits. “Save face,” my father finishes.

  “Save face?” I repeat in disbelief.

  It was a fool’s wish to think I’d come to my father’s office and learn he and the royal household would stand behind Nora. A part of me had hoped that would be the case. That my father would stop taking the council members’ advice simply because that’s the way things have always been done. I’ve seen first-hand what can happen when you stop doing that. The people of this country fell in love with the idea of Nora and me as a couple because, instead of appearing out of reach and untouchable, we became relatable.

  But as the saying goes… You can’t teach an old dog new tricks.

  My father has never truly felt comfortable in his role as king, having been thrust into it unexpectedly.

  As such, he continues to allow his council and the royal household to control most of his decisions. Including this one.

  “Why would we need to save face when Nora did nothing wrong?” I argue. “When that woman went on national news to spread lies? Rest assured, I will be pursuing legal action against her.”

  “A lawsuit will take years,” Dalton reminds me. “Threatening legal action is like putting a Band-Aid over a gunshot wound. It won’t fix the underlying problem. It will only become more and more infected until it destroys you from the inside out. If a person has an infection in a leg that could kill him, the doctor doesn’t put a bandage on it and hope for the best. You want to know what he does?”

  “What’s that?”

  He leans across the table, eyes narrowed slits like the snake he is. “He amputates the leg. So that’s what we need to do. Amputate the leg. Rid us of this…infection.”

  “Infection?” I grind out.

  “After the interview this morning, the publicity team conducted some preliminary polling.” Dalton stands from his chair and makes his way toward me, placing a folder in front of me.

  I reluctantly open it, charts and numbers staring back at me. By now, I’m accustomed to this sort of thing. All of my life’s big decisions have been reduced to bar graphs and statistical probabilities.

  “As you can see, the most favorable outcome for the monarchy remainin
g as it is would be if the royal family, yourself especially, were to distance itself from Ms. Tremblay.”

  Bile rises in my throat as I flip through the pages, a half-dozen different scenarios presented, ranging from continuing on as if nothing happened to doing what Dalton suggested — walking away from Nora.

  It was an easier idea to wrap my head around when I contemplated doing just that in order to save her from being saddled with a lifetime of being married to a man who may one day lose the ability to walk, to control his bladder, to make love to her.

  It’s harder to consider when I’m being ordered to end things.

  “Most of the interview was speculation, no concrete evidence,” I remind them, grasping at straws.

  “The preliminary research indicates that a large majority of our representative sample believed Dr. Harcourt made a compelling case,” one of the Privy Council members replies. “Especially when she’d mentioned Nora had somehow miraculously walked away from that car wreck with barely a scratch.”

  “Unfortunately for us, photos from the accident report were leaked and are currently circulating on social media,” Dalton adds. “Everyone’s offering their opinion, regardless of their knowledge about this topic. It doesn’t look good. For Nora. Or the monarchy.”

  I run a hand over my face, shaking my head as my shoulders slump, sitting in a way that’s incredibly unbecoming of a future monarch. “She was in that car.”

  “So you say, but according to records we obtained, she lived nearby. Her fiancé’s parents also lived in the general vicinity. It’s not a huge leap to assume she knew the area well. And do you want to know what I learned after doing minimal research?”

  I don’t respond, knowing he’ll tell me regardless.

  “That the curve where their car was allegedly run off the road is a common area for drivers to lose control of their vehicles and go over the edge, so much so that there were yearly petitions to put in a guardrail. The town had recently granted the request and were slated to begin installation the following week, another suspicious coincidence. When the police interviewed her in the hospital, she claimed to have been pulled from the wreck by a Good Samaritan, yet even after her fiancé’s family offered a reward of over $10,000 for information as to who it was, no one came forward.”