I held in vomit the entire time.
This morning I got my period. I’d had this niggling fear I might be getting pregnant, but then red appeared in my panties.
Blood.
Nothing left to tie me to Crowne Point.
I guess it was the perfect ending.
My grief made me…different. Nauseated. Fatigued. I hadn’t talked to Grayson since the Labor Day party, almost a month, but true to his word, not only did he give Uncle a funeral at Crowne Point, but Uncle was buried there.
Occasionally my eyes flitted to him across the leaf-strewn beach. In a black suit and tie, Lottie wrapped around his arm, his eyes down. Red.
A part of me wondered if my uncle’s death was ripping him up as much as it was me. And I hurt again.
Because I was back to being alone.
The one person I’d bled with now farther away.
The Crowne Family Cemetery was filled with proud granite mausoleums etched with scrawling poems along their sides. Now my uncle had one, the only non-Crowne ever to be buried there. I can’t imagine Tansy or Beryl was pleased. I don’t even know how Grayson pulled it off. My heart crunched, knowing how hard it would have been, but he’d kept his promise.
Servants were in attendance, dressed in their finest blacks. Tansy and Beryl Crowne were even there. West had come, as well as his parents. For this brief period on the beach, we were equalized, as only death could.
Then the ceremony ended.
There was a memorial being held for Uncle in the garden, a poetry reading. I went to my room to gather the materials I’d prepared to read, but when I tried to open my door, the knob wouldn’t budge.
Why wouldn’t it open?
I heard voices.
“Hello?”
Laughter.
My gut sank.
I slammed on the door. “Let me out!”
I repeated it over and over again, knowing it was useless but needing to do something as the last goodbye I would ever say to my uncle happened without me.
I didn’t realize I’d fallen to my knees until the door opened and I fell forward onto the cement. I didn’t look to see who’d opened it. I ran out to the gardens. They were cleaning everything up and taking down his rose-wrapped photo.
“I feel like I should say something about the clock striking twelve.”
I spun on Ellie and slapped her as something inside me snapped. I was fine to take my punishment, because I believed I deserved to be punished. I’d broken a rule, after all, one that we all obeyed.
But for how long was I supposed to sit and take it?
“That isn’t very princess-like.”
I turned at the voice. All the servants had gathered, and one of them—Andrew held his—phone up.
They’d taken a photo of me slapping Ellie.
The color drained from my face into a soggy wet piece of bread in my gut.
“I wonder what all your fans would think if they knew who you really were.”
“You’re not supposed to have your phone with you,” I said weakly.
“You’re not supposed to fuck Grayson,” Ellie said.
I looked at them all, those I’d considered family.
“Why are you doing this?” I asked. “Don’t you see you’re enabling it? When you treat me like garbage, you give them the right to treat us all like garbage.”
There was a pause. A breeze kicked up the strewn leaves. For a moment, I thought maybe I’d gotten through to them.
“If you continue to stay here, it will get worse for you, Cinderella,” Ellie said.
I wiped the snot from my nose. “I’m leaving. Tomorrow morning, first thing.”
I walked past them as they snickered.
Inside the hall I could smell everything. Feel everything. Someone had made spaghetti, and grief made me hate the smell, made me want to vomit.
“Excuse me, are you Miss Story Hale?”
I paused at my name, turning to find an older man in a dark suit. I didn’t recognize him, but he didn’t have the haughty air of someone in the Crowne world.
“Who are you?” I was wary of anyone now, certain they wanted to do something to me.
“I’m Woodson Hale’s executor. An estate of his size is going to take a few months to get in order, but he asked me to give you this.”
“His size…” I repeated, taking the book. As far as I knew, Uncle had nothing.
“Are you living here?”
“I don’t really know where I’m living,” I admitted.
I kept looking at the book. It was a collection of all the poems we’d read together, from Dickinson to Whitman to Poe and Byron. His note read, Would you give a dying man a wish, Story? Write one poem a day for me and share it with the world. Missing me one place? Uncle Woodson.
“He knew?”
“When you do, please call me.”
He handed me a card, which I numbly shoved into my pocket. Distantly I heard him walk away, but I couldn’t breathe. All the air sucked out of me like I’d fallen on a steel bar.
“He knew I wasn’t going to make it back in time. He knew and he still didn’t…” I couldn’t get it out. My uncle knew I wouldn’t make it back in time, and he still didn’t leave this fucking place. He didn’t come with me when I offered.
He chose to die here alone.
I finally vomited all over one of Tansy’s boutique white rose arrangements. I dry heaved, the noxious smell of vomit and rose mixing. I held on to the wall for dear life.
Were we all ghosts here?
Tied to this awful, horrible castle?
Suddenly, a hand was there, lifting me.
Grayson?
My heart plummeted when my eyes collided with West’s warm ones. I’d gotten so used to Grayson always being there.
“Let’s go, Angel.”
I held on to West, crinkling the buttery fabric of his black suit, my head spinning, as he carted me to the servants’ quarters.
We were almost at the entrance when I blinked into the red-rimmed eyes of Grayson.
“What’s going on? Story?” He looked from me to West. “What the fuck did you do to her?”
“He didn’t do anything.”
I tried to push past him, and he grabbed my arm. “Are you seriously going to go with him?”
West ripped his hand off my arm, and they both stepped to each other, as if they were going to come to blows.
I can’t take it anymore. It’s been a nonstop rollercoaster since that day in the antique room. I feel like I haven’t had a minute to breathe. I haven’t slept. I’m nauseated all the time. In constant fight or flight.
“I hate you.” I shoved Grayson. I hate that you chose her. I hate that I still want you to choose me, even though I have no right. “I should’ve forced him to leave this place. The only reason I ever endured this torture was to be with him, and instead, I missed his death because of fucking Asheville. Because I was being your wife’s girl.”
I gripped the book, my uncle’s handwriting burning through the leather, searing my flesh.
His shoulders sagged and he took a step away from West. “Story…”
“I’m leaving,” I said. “Tomorrow.”
This was how it was supposed to be, but my hand lingered on his chest, his eyes throbbing, my fingers curling in the soft fabric of his shirt.
“Goodbye, Mr. Grayson.”
My eyes connected with Grayson’s as Westley led me out.
GRAY
* * *
My pacing wore the wood beneath my feet raw.
Story leaving?
Fucking leaving. I knew this was coming. This is what I’d been working toward since before the wedding. Getting her out, getting her safe, and trying to give my wife a happily ever after.
I’d fulfilled my promise to her and Woodsy, secured him a nice plot of land on the family cemetery. Of course, it’s an eye for an eye in the Crowne family and my mother wasn’t going to let Woodson Hale be buried in the family plot without a poun
d of flesh: a promise.
Never speak to Story Hale again.
Story was leaving anyway.
Leaving.
Fucking. Leaving.
“Grayson?”
Lottie’s soft voice called to me. She still hadn’t changed out of her funeral attire. A long-sleeved cottony black number that covered her collarbones and went down below her knees. It kind of looked like something Snitch would wear.
I slammed Lottie against the wall, crashing my lips against hers. She gasped against my assault and grabbed me back. I ignored the thoughts in my head screaming it wasn’t right. It wasn’t Snitch. She had too much gloss on her lips.
Woodsy was dead. I wasn’t there for him. I’d been in fucking Asheville, with Lottie’s family, trying to fix what I’d broken on Labor Day. If I had just cut our trip short, I would have been able to say goodbye.
I thought I had more time.
I kissed her harder, trying to banish the thoughts.
Be a good husband.
Be a good man.
The harder I tried, the more I failed.
“What’s gotten into you?” Lottie gasped as I dove for her neck.
Snitch is leaving and it’s driving me insane.
Lottie palmed my cock, but her touch was anathema. Snitch is too in the forefront. Every little thing is compared to her. Her lips. Her kiss. Her tongue. The way she touched.
I took a step back and Lottie blinked at me.
I dragged my hands through my hair. “Take off your clothes.”
“Is it really happening?” Lottie asked, but she undid the pearly buttons at the front of her dress.
“Get on the bed.”
She stumbled backward onto my black sheets, watching my every movement. I climbed on top of her, and she tried to kiss me. I grabbed her hands, pinning them above her, going for her neck.
“Give me a baby,” she breathed against my lips.
Those four words froze me.
I climbed off, running a hand up and down the back of my neck. The quiet was stale and splintery.
“I don’t know how,” Lottie said after a moment, “but I know this is about her. It’s always about her.”
Our gazes collided.
“Are we being honest now, Lottie? Finally? Why did you tell Story I was getting a postnup drawn? Why did you tell her you gave me permission? Why are you fucking with her when you already won?”
She looked guilty for a half second; then she stood up. “I won?” She let out a sound somewhere between a scoff and a laugh, rolling her eyes. “How am I the villain?” Her eyes were broken and pleading. “What is so wrong about what I did, Grayson? How is it so evil, especially compared to what you’ve done? What she’s done?” Her hands scraped at her chest as though her heart hurt. “I love you. You’re my husband, and she’s there, at every turn, trying to steal you away.”
“You’re Lottie…”
Pure, kind, sweet, gentle Lottie.
Every time I try to do right, I just fuck it up more. It’s like my marriage is a sandcastle crumbling in the wind.
“You never knew me!” She shoved me. “You’re just like everyone else. I love you. I’m willing to fight for you. I’ll play dirty. That only scares you because you don’t love me back.”
“Lottie, I—”
“Don’t! Don’t lie to me anymore. Be honest about it. You don’t love me. You won’t even try.” Her face twisted in agony. “Everything I do is wrong. Is bad for you. She could light the sky on fire and you’d thank her for keeping you warm. If I hung the moon, you’d yell at me for ruining the shadows.”
Lottie hiccupped and turned from me. She paused in the hallway, throwing her head over her shoulder.
“I should have realized you’d never want me the day you gave my wedding dress to her and didn’t even care enough to make sure I wouldn’t see it. My dad does that shit to my mom all the time.”
A few moments later I heard the door to the bathroom slam shut.
“Fuck!” I kicked my desk, breaking the wooden leg into splinters.
STORY
* * *
West helped me down to my room in the servants’ quarters, and I was numb enough to let him. There was that voice in my head telling me to stop.
Stick up for myself.
But I’d already slapped one person today, and my nausea hadn’t left, and now I felt light-headed. The servants still refused to feed me. I would’ve left to grab something in Crowne Point, but I just wanted to pack and get out.
West set me on the bed. “You look like you’re going to faint.”
“I’m fine. I’m just…” I rubbed my forehead, never finishing.
Every time I stood I got dizzy, like the blood was rushing too fast. Maybe it was lack of food, I don’t know.
“I should have just taken my uncle out of here,” I said quietly.
“I remember your uncle,” West said. “I don’t think he would have listened.”
“He wasn’t the same in the end. Losing his mind. Going on about coins buried beneath poetry and wishes.” I exhaled.
He arched a brow. “Coins?”
Grayson’s locket glared back at me from my dingy mirror, dangling from my collarbone and glinting atop my black dress from the little light in the room. I was suddenly stricken with an impossible choice. I knew I should leave it behind, leave all memories of this place.
When I wore it, I told myself it didn’t mean anything. It was the only nice jewelry I owned.
I never opened it.
What was inside Grayson Crowne’s heart?
West put his hand on mine, stopping my frantic packing. “Angel. My offer will always stand.”
“Are you hitting on me on the day of my uncle’s funeral, West?”
“I’m letting you know you’re not alone.”
I let out a bark of a laugh.
I was so fucking alone.
“The only person keeping me in this fucking place just died. So you can fuck yourself.”
He sat down, ignoring my ire, folding a shirt. “You need me, Story.”
“I have money,” I said numbly.
Something flickered in his eyes. “In this world…money is useless. You need power. Do you still write poetry, Story? You know I’m taking over the company soon. We run the biggest publishing houses in the East Coast. Do you think about getting published? I could get you there.”
West said it lightly, but my stomach went cold. It was nearly the exact same offer Grayson had given me months ago.
“I don’t want—”
I broke off as West got off the bed, down on one knee, and reached into his pocket, pulling out a ring. A fucking ring.
“What is that?” Alarm crawled into my throat. “What are you doing?”
“It’s a ring. A nice one. Cost a shit-ton.”
“You’re proposing to me on the day of my uncle’s funeral?” I put my head in my hands, making a noise somewhere between a laugh and a cry.
West peeled my hands away, and I saw he’d set the ring on my dresser.
“Why do you want this so much, West?” I finally snapped. “I know I can’t offer you anything. I don’t have a company. I don’t have billions of dollars. I’m not some model you can parade around.”
He grinned slowly. “I just want you, Angel.”
“What the fuck are you still doing down here?”
I looked over West’s shoulder, finding Grayson in the doorway. Somehow, he looked even worse than before. His hair was a mess, his eyes so red. West didn’t immediately let go of my hands. His grip tightened, and he stared at me for a long moment.
Then he stood up and turned to face Grayson. “I think that’s a question I should be asking you, bro.”
“How’d your jaw heal, bro.”
Tension oozed like earlier, but thicker and more oily.
“Get the fuck out, du Lac,” Grayson said.
West quirked his neck. “I don’t think this is your bedroom, dude.”
�
�She’s mine. Get out.”
West laughed. “Does my sister know you’re talking like that?”
“Who do you think you are telling him to leave?” I snapped. “Why are you even here, Grayson?”
His glare flashed to me. “Your uncle died, so maybe I’m here to fucking comfort you, Story.”
How dare you? You lost that right. Words got stuck in my throat like chewed gum with the way he looked at me.
West placed the shirt he’d been folding on top of the ring he’d just proposed to me with. “Think about what I asked, Story.”
Gray didn’t move out of the way for him, and he didn’t take his eyes off me as West knocked into his shoulder.
I was so, so tired. I couldn’t handle another fight.
“Gray—”
“Truce,” Grayson said, cutting me off.
“What?”
Grayson closed the distance between us, still with that burning, intense stare locked on me.
“I don’t have anyone else I can talk to, Story. Only you. Only you understand what I’m going through.” Grayson fell to his knees, wrapping his arms around my waist, pressing his head to my stomach. “Right now you’re Story, and I’m Gray.”
Fourteen
STORY
* * *
Grayson sat on the floor, his back against my bed, taking sips from his flask. It was almost like before, the nights we spent in the dark, the secrets we shared…only now Grayson was on the floor.
“He was like my dad,” Grayson said. “The only one that counted, at least.”
“Same,” I said roughly.
We paused, and he lifted his head, giving me a bone-melting, delirious grin. “That’s kinda fucked up if you think about it, Snitch.”
I hadn’t realized how much I missed his smiles until it blasted me in the heart like that.
He shifted on the floor. “Man. I really was an ass, making you sleep down here.”
Another sip.
He raised the flask for me to have some, but I shook my hand. I still felt kind of nauseated, a little weak.
“Everything in my life worth keeping, Woodsy gave me. He gave me the pen. When my dad died, he promised he wouldn’t die…obviously lied.” He laughed brokenly. “You know what my grandfather said to me at my father’s funeral?” Grayson took another drink, and I waited. “He pointed at my half-siblings and said, ‘You see them? They’re your competition now, Grayson. Thank your father for that.’”
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