Lottie lingered long after everyone had returned to the dining room. The wine stain on Lottie’s dress had set and spread. She stared at the broken glass on the bar and ground, a numb expression on her face.
“You saved her. You can’t stop saving her.”
“You said she chose to come here,” I said lightly.
It didn’t feel right. Normally I wouldn’t second-guess Lottie, but this felt calculated. For the first time, I stared at my wife, uncertain.
I wanted to give her another chance.
Give us another chance.
Not turn her into my mother, not become my father. Save us from that fate.
Her eyes lifted, and in them I saw nothing. “You’ve been talking to her?”
Silence wafted.
“Tomorrow the press arrive for Labor Day,” Lottie continued. “Everyone is waiting for you to fuck up again. They want to see if the rumors are true. If she really is the Cinderella of Crowne Hall. If I’m…” She trailed off, and I stopped.
The Wicked Wife.
Shame enveloped me. “Lottie, you’re my wife. My beautiful, absolutely not wicked wife.”
My words affected her, but not in the way I’d hoped. Her throat bobbed, like she’d swallowed down tears.
“I can’t stop thinking…If you didn’t think you were going to fuck her again, you’d get a postnuptial drawn up.”
She didn’t wait for me to respond. She turned on her heel, heading into the dining room. It was then I noticed her mother lingering in the shadows. She stood off the wall, coming into the light.
“You know…my husband’s family is very open about their mistresses. I had to endure so many women, I lost count.”
“Are you trying to imply something, Mrs. du Lac?” I asked.
“Lottie won’t have the same life as me.”
“No,” I gritted. “She won’t.”
She arched a brow but said nothing else.
Since dinner had been cut short, I went up to Lottie’s room—anything to avoid more of her family. I froze in the doorway. Story was there, dropping off a plate of grilled cheese. Her hair was up, messy curls falling around her face. After arranging the plate, she stayed in the room, staring at it silently.
I wondered what was on her mind.
I was fucking desperate for her thoughts.
“Lottie hates grilled cheese,” I said. “So either that’s not for her, or you really are shit at your job.”
She startled and then hurriedly walked to the door without another word.
I grabbed her elbow, catching her. “Why did you bring that?”
I tried to tamp down the anger in my voice, but failed. I’m trying to stop loving her, trying to get over her, and she’s making it fucking impossible.
She averted her gaze, looking at the floor.
I grabbed her chin, forcing her gaze. “Answer me.”
“Because you hate steak,” she spat.
“But why that. Why grilled cheese? I’m a Crowne, why would you think I’d like that?”
“Am I wrong?” she demanded.
“Fucking say it, Snitch.”
“It’s your favorite, Grayson.”
She yanked her chin and arm out of my hold, and continued on her way.
“You’re supposed to hate me, little nun,” I said to her back.
“I do.”
Then why the fuck are you the only one who knows what I really like?
“My dad used to make me grilled cheese.”
She paused in the hallway, partially obscured by shadows. This was how I would talk to her. How I would confess. If we couldn’t have our nights, then I could at least have shadows.
“The edges were always burned and the middle not melted enough, but he’d make it for me himself, late at night in the kitchen. It’s one of the only memories I have of him that isn’t shit.”
Her shoulders dropped, and she turned her head to the side, giving me her soft profile.
Even when you hate me, you’re still the only one I can count on.
But that isn’t how it’s supposed to be. I’m supposed to count on my fucking wife.
And Story is supposed move on.
Forget me.
“I don’t want your grilled cheese, Snitch,” I said, voice cold. “Stop thinking about me, forget about me, because I don’t give a shit about you anymore.”
Her head slashed over her shoulder, glare catching mine. “Poor, sad Grayson Crown. No one’s ever been kind to you, so you look at kindness with distrust. I don’t think about you, Grayson, I pity you.”
She walked away and I wanted her to turn back around, show me her face—show me anything.
But she kept walking.
Holy shit.
That glare, those words, that glimpse of the Story that always called me on my shit. It was like a drop of heroin in my blood.
I slid into the chair, gripping the armrest so I didn’t run after her, staring at the grilled cheese.
I couldn’t fucking eat it.
It was a couple hours before Lottie came back, and by then I’d slid into bed. Lottie sat on the edge, knees to her chest, her gown flowing around her body.
“Why is there grilled cheese?” she asked.
I don’t know why I had the urge to lie. I hadn’t technically done anything wrong.
“I think someone sent it up for you.”
“That’s strange…I hate grilled cheese.” She crawled to me, lying on my chest, still in her gown. “I’m sorry…about before.”
I eyed the cold sandwich. “You don’t have anything to be sorry about, Lottie.”
I don’t think about you, Grayson, I pity you.
Later that night I couldn’t sleep.
I stared at the floor, picturing Snitch before she’d crawled into my bed, into my veins. I missed Snitch. Missed her raspy voice in the dark. Missed her in my sheets. Missed her talking with me when I couldn’t fucking sleep.
I crawled into bed with Lottie, wondering if she could be that person for me.
“Lottie.”
She woke up sleepy.
“What? What is it? Is everything okay?”
“Everything is fine. I just…” It took a minute to work past the mental block. The part that says, You’re a pussy. Roll over. Go to sleep. No one gives a shit.
“Do you want to talk?” I eventually managed. “I hate steak. My favorite food is grilled cheese—”
She’d fallen back asleep.
I climbed out of bed and went rooting around the one bag I never let the servants touch, grabbing my journal.
Do you write everything in green?
One time Snitch had found this. She didn’t know what was inside, the importance of what she’d found.
I can’t talk to her. I don’t know how she’s dealing with all of the new attention, but I can guess, and I know it’s probably not good.
I couldn’t give her anything but this notebook.
My hopes.
My dreams.
Because, forever, they belong to her.
Ten
STORY
* * *
It was another sleepless night, staring at the ceiling. I’m not sure when I finally fell asleep, but when I woke, my lids felt swollen.
That was what I missed most, I realized. Having someone to share the darkness with.
I don’t think about you, Grayson, I pity you.
What a fucking lie. He was all I thought about.
I’d stared at the door, picturing Grayson coming to me, as ludicrous as that was. When I heard a creak outside my door, I let myself play out a fantasy that he actually had come to me. I told him I would learn to hate him.
I was doing a bad job of it.
But did he have to be so fucking cruel? It was already torture watching him with his wife.
I rolled over, and my face smacked into something hard.
A journal.
I sat up so fast I almost got whiplash. It looked like the one Grayson had in his d
esk. I held it tightly between my fingers.
Had he actually come last night?
Tentatively, I went to open the leather book.
Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs.
I ran my finger across the raised green ink.
This line from Romeo and Juliet basically meant passion always gave way to grief, the sighs are one and the same, and my heart ached with the accuracy.
I was deep inside Grayson’s soul. Deeper than he’d ever allowed me inside before. It was torture. To be so inside—and so far away from him.
The floorboard outside my door creaked.
“Grayson?” His name fell from my lips before I could keep it in.
I was glued to the door opening, as if in slow motion.
“Angel.” West opened the door entirely, leaning against the doorframe.
My heart dropped like a fucking traitor.
Grayson left us, I tried to reason with it. I shoved the journal under my pillow, feeling caught.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“Wondering if you’ve given my proposal more thought.” He shrugged, as if asking me to marry him was no more exciting than asking me to lunch.
“I haven’t, and I won’t.”
He looked around my room. “We’d make a good pair, Angel.”
West was already dressed for Labor Day in a gingham suit that fit his tall, muscular frame perfectly, with no tie on his stark white shirt. It was refined. Southern. Charming like him.
Deceptive.
I scoffed. “You said I was naive for believing in happily ever after. That I could only be a mistress. I won’t be a mistress. I won’t move from one hell to…”
I think we’re both in the same hell, just different wallpaper.
“I won’t move to one with different wallpaper.”
He rolled his plump lips. “Not a mistress. My wife.”
“Everyone would disown you.”
“I’ve always thought it’s easier to ask for forgiveness than permission.”
I winced at the implication.
“Angel, I—”
“It’s fine,” I said, trying to brush past it. “I have to go to your sister. Please leave.”
I pinned him, and again, surprisingly, he listened. He kicked off the wall. “I’m going. Gone. But…think about it, Angel.”
West shut the door, and I stared at it.
He was fucking with me.
They were always fucking with me.
I worked the fabric of my bedspread between my thumbs. I thought I could handle a couple of months of this. I’d been a servant for half my life, so what was a couple more if it meant getting to spend the last months with my only family?
I didn’t account for what would become of me during those months.
The stains it would leave on my soul.
I fell back flat onto the mattress, shame running cold through my veins.
Maybe Uncle would leave with me.
Maybe he would give up his home.
After all, is it really our home? If it was our home, I shouldn’t have to barter my dignity to stay.
I video-called my uncle from bed. He looked wan, weak, and my heart cracked.
“What if I came home and we left? We could go to Scotland like you suggested. We could go anywhere, Uncle.”
I had enough money, after all. What was the point of it if I still lived like this? If he was there, and I was here.
I knew his answer before he’d even spoken.
“I’ve spent my whole life here, Storybook. I can’t abandon it at the end.”
“Of course.”
My words were barely a whisper.
“We’ll have a poetry reading when you get back,” he said with a smile. “Everything will be fine.”
We hung up, and I went to Lottie.
“Mrs. Cr—oh.” I broke off as my eyes connected with Grayson.
I nearly lost my breath at Grayson in all white for Labor Day. His stark white tailored suit with matching shirt, the top two buttons undone, showing a glimpse of his perfect golden chest. It was both polished and casual in a way only he could pull off.
I could already see the headlines…the trends that would follow, all because Grayson Crowne decided he felt like wearing something.
“Gray—I mean, Mr. Crowne, I didn’t know you’d be here. I’m here for your wife’s tea.”
Did you give me that journal? Why?
All the whys between us piled like thorns until they became briar I couldn’t navigate. Why did you choose her? Why did you leave? Why won’t you just let me go?
Why do you look so broken every time I see you?
“I thought you were Lottie,” he said.
“Not this time,” I whispered.
A small, barely-there smile cracked my lips.
Stifling.
I held the tea tray like I had the first time we’d been together. The first time he’d mistaken me for his wife. A sucker stem poked out from his pouty pink lips, and he had a forlorn look in his blue eyes.
“Have you been chewing suckers all day?” I asked softly. His jaw tightened, and immediately I backtracked. “I’m sorry it’s not—”
I broke off and braced myself for a repeat of last night, for more cruel and thorny words from him.
“You have to stop doing that, Snitch.”
Our eyes caught. The intensity in his blue gaze almost made me swallow my words.
“Doing what?” I whispered.
“Being the only person in the world paying attention to me.”
The air froze and a little bit off the walls he’d erected crumbled; through them I saw inside his soul, I saw Grayson again.
Grayson Crowne had to be one of the most-watched people in the world, but maybe he was right, and I was the only one who really saw him. What kind of twisted irony was that? Because I wasn’t even supposed to look at him.
Sharing his gaze was technically forbidden.
“How is Woodsy?” he asked, voice rough, eyes still locked.
“You would know better than me. He lies to me.”
He laughed. “He lies to me too.”
“Prideful old man,” I said.
“He won’t take my money. Won’t let me pay for his treatment. Anything.”
My eyes cut to his. “Must be hard for you. That’s the only way you know how to solve your problems.”
I’d spoken out of turn, stepped over the line. Instead of looking furious, his eyes ignited.
“Snitch—”
“Grayson?”
We both froze; then he quickly left. Left without saying another word to either of us, shoving another sucker in his mouth.
I stared after him.
It felt like she’d caught us fucking or something, but all we’d done was talk.
I put Lottie’s tea down, and as she drank, I adjusted her big straw hat in silence.
I was ripped in two.
If Uncle would leave, I could leave. I wouldn’t be here, behind her.
I wouldn’t be here, seeing him.
“Do you wear lip gloss?” Lottie asked suddenly.
“Uh, no.”
“ChapStick?”
“No…”
She exhaled as though my answer was incorrect. I reached for the final touch to her outfit, white pearls. She was classy, elegant, looked as though she belonged at an English summer wedding.
“You can wear mine today.” She handed me a gilded, ornately designed tube.
“I don’t understand, Mrs. Crowne.”
“There will be plenty of press today,” Lottie said lightly. “You’ll need to look your best. But it should go without saying…” She lifted her eyes to mine in the mirror, barely visible beneath the big visor of her hat. “Stay away from them.”
“Of course, Mrs. Crowne.”
GRAY
* * *
That honesty.
I missed it like air.
Did Story know how badly I wanted to rip tha
t tray out of her hands and rip her to me?
Across the lawn my grandfather approached me with a man who looked only a few years younger. I drank my whiskey lemonade, unsure where the fuck this was headed, but certain it was somewhere bad.
“Grandfather,” I said when they approached, inclining my head to the new asshole.
“I thought it time to introduce you to Roger. Or, as you know him, District Attorney Millard.”
I shook his hand, eyes cold on Grandpa. “Nice to finally meet.”
“We were just discussing his conviction rate.”
“Highest in years.”
They laughed. I clenched my jaw and focused across the lawn. Story had come out.
All I want to do is snap back at my grandfather. Topple him. Get rid of his influence.
Crowne Industries was always successful, but under my grandfather’s tutelage it became a behemoth. Something to be feared. I’m not naive. I wear the last name Crowne but I don’t wear the crown.
He’s a king, and you don’t topple a king without an army.
With a snap of his fingers he could make Story disappear.
Grandfather and DA Millard finished talking, Millard walked away, his threat sufficiently clear.
“Do you know what happens when you keep tightening a string?” I asked. “It snaps.”
“You know, your father and I had a very similar conversation years ago. It’s always good to know how much you’re willing to lose before you start a war, Grayson. He wasn’t willing to lose anything.”
I lifted my eyes, colliding with his.
“I’m not my father.”
STORY
* * *
I’ve only been to parties at Crowne Hall, but the du Lacs came in second place. All the servants were instructed to wear white, and guests were dressed in soft linens and beige, like sand. On the emerald lawn, everyone looked like a still from an old movie.
I blended in with the other servants in their outfits of starched white, and I was pretty confident no one would notice me. Just another servant among the many, there to do her duty for her mistress.
A man to my left eyed me. At first I didn’t think anything of it, but as I moved to another spot, his gaze followed me.
Caution crept up my spine. I had my gaze lowered but still kept an eye on him. Everywhere I went, his eyes followed me. It wasn’t lascivious, as when I’d been nearly gambled with Khalid and all the other boys at that table.
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