The ugly.
Raw.
Jagged.
Truth.
Sixty-Nine
Dear world,
You don’t know my name, but you think you know me.
You called me Cinderella.
You called me slut.
You’ve read my letters for months and cheered me on, all the while tearing the real me down.
Do you want to know the real me?
My story started once upon a time when I kissed a boy who didn’t belong to me. I tried to fix what I broke, but fell deeper in love. I promised myself I would be nothing like my mother, who cheated, and stole, and lied, who raised me to do the same. I promised I would be different.
Trying to be better, I was worse.
I’m a cheater.
I’m a liar.
I’m a coward.
I’m a thief.
I stole his happily ever after when I slept with him on his wedding day, then I married a man I didn’t love to run from my fate, a man who raped me, a man I still had feelings for, a man I wanted so badly to be a hero.
Because then maybe that meant I was less of a victim.
I was only given one story, and you wrote the ending before you ever heard my beginning.
But, dear world…
YOU. DON’T. GET. TO. DICTATE. MY. PAIN.
You don’t get to tell me how I have to behave just so I can wear the mantle of victim.
I am a victim.
I was raped.
Even if I went back to him a thousand times.
Even if I fell in love with him a thousand more times.
It still fucking happened.
You don’t get to tell me that because I made a mistake, it makes me less of a victim.
You don’t get to tell me that.
Dear world, I don’t think you’re the villain either.
I think our roles have become corrupted.
It’s too easy to pretend they aren’t.
Wouldn’t it be so much easier if everything was black and white?
If we hated who we were supposed to hate, and loved who we were supposed to love?
But…if I hated who I was supposed to hate, then I never would have loved who I shouldn’t have.
I never would have loved him.
So, dear world.
I am not Cinderella.
I am not a stepsister.
I am not the woman I hoped to be.
I am more.
My name is Storybook Hale, and I won’t fix what I’ve broken. I’m not hiding anymore.
So, world, if you’ve ever been given one story when someone has been given a thousand.
Or if you’ve given a thousand when you should have given just one…
Please help me.
I don’t want to lose everything when I’m so close to having it all.
My happily ever after is held hostage and I need your help.
Seventy
GRAY
Story.
Story.
Story.
I thought I was dreaming when I heard Story’s name being chanted, thought my nightmares were tormenting me. The sun was setting on the night of the Swan Swell, my grandfather’s favorite holiday, and the moment he’d been planning for decades.
The day we’d been waiting for, my revenge nearly complete.
And hollow.
Because the love of my life was dead.
“Your bastard siblings are here,” my grandfather said, coming into my wing.
I didn’t lift my eyes to meet his. “And? Come to gloat about your dynasty some more?”
I stood, going to my grandfather. A rare moment where he was alone with me—he’s never alone with me, maybe he could feel the murder beneath my fingertips. He’d felt it beneath his own, after all.
My gaze glanced to a letter opener—when two guards rushed in, sweaty. “There’s a crowd outside the gates. They’re trying to break through the gates—we caught her. Story—”
My grandfather made a noise, silencing them. Her name was electricity on my spine.
But I didn’t believe it.
Not even when they dragged a woman in the room, her long, white dress flowing across the hardwood.
Story?
It can’t be her.
My heart didn’t recognize the woman, and suspicion crept. Another one of my grandfather’s tricks.
She lifted her head; beneath her white, feathery mask, I knew those eyes.
It was not my wife.
My grandfather’s eyes narrowed. “Lottie du Lac, your mother has been looking for you.”
She yanked her arm free of Beryl, and spat in his face. That wasn’t the Lottie I remembered. My grandfather wiped the spit from his cheek.
“Husband and wife, finally back together.” He smiled viciously. “You look so perfect together.”
Story.
Story.
Story.
The chanting continued, growing louder, and then a loud crash followed. The guards’ eyes widened.
“They’ve broken through,” one said.
My grandfather clenched his jaw, nostrils flared. “This will not stop what I have planned.” My grandfather left to go deal with it, guards following.
“Why are you here?” I gritted. “Was a party really so important?”
“Grayson!” Lottie turned, grabbing my arm. “We have to go before your grandfather gets back. Story and I—”
“Don’t you ever say her name.” I pulled my arm free.
“You are…you are…” Words failed me; nothing save the seething hate in my chest would suffice. I wanted it to burn her. “I never should have left her in your care.”
Her brow pinched. “What are you talking about?”
“You left her. You left her and she died.”
“Story is alive.” She blinked. “Grayson…did he tell you she was dead?”
Hope was an overused match in my chest. Too many times it had burned me, left nothing but ash. And still… “The baby?”
“Is alive. Story and the baby are both alive. She sent you a message hours ago from Gemma’s phone. You didn’t get it?”
“I…” I trailed off, running to my phone before Lottie could finish. I had dropped it after falling asleep, reading her letters to me. There it was, a single notification waiting to be read.
Dear Atlas,
I’m coming home.
I’ll blow up the world, but you promised to build me a kingdom.
I stumbled back, falling against the wall. It felt like a trick. I’d had a month of them, of my grandfather playing the wrong melody with my heartstrings.
“I saw the blood. It was on the beach and…” All this time she’d been alive?
“She almost died,” Lottie said. “The Horsemen saved her. Saved us.”
“She’s alive. She’s…she’s fucking alive? Why the fuck is she here?” Fear hid inside anger, burning my fingertips as I gripped the paper. “Why the fuck did she come back? I told her to stay the fuck away.”
“Grayson!” Lottie gripped my face between her palms. “Everything depends on this. We have a plan to take his company, but what we want to do is nearly impossible. Story is down with the servants, gathering evidence to use against Beryl—but we have no idea how to even use it, or what to do about him and his guards. We want justice.”
Lottie told me their plan, one that hinged on spilling every dark secret we’ve tried to hide.
I think to my mother, to the triplets, to an idea that seemed impossible until now.
For once, it felt like fate was lining up in our favor. While Story was away, building our happily ever after, the missing pieces in our plans lined up.
“We plan to wait until he uses all the coins—”
“No,” I gritted. “He’s already given your mother what she wants. Du Lac and Crowne Industries have merged. We can’t let him use his coins.”
“So what do we do?”
I gripped her. “The triplets are ou
t there trying to steal Beryl’s coins. If they do, we might just have a shot at beating him. He’ll spend his life in jail. All we have to do is wait for the moment…a sign.”
Lottie’s eyes grew. “And if they don’t?”
What you want to do is impossible. It’s only been done in myths and legends.
“I’m Grayson Crowne,” I gritted. “I was born to do the legendary.”
STORY
I pretended to be Lottie for the last and final time. We knew a simple outfit wouldn’t be enough to convince either Lottie’s mother or Beryl, but it had been enough to get me inside Crowne Hall, to get her to Grayson, and to create a diversion.
Now, as I made my way to the servants’ quarters, I just hoped Lottie had found Grayson. Nearly a month I hadn’t seen Grayson. I hoped Lottie got him my message. I hoped he was okay.
I made my way to the one room where I knew most of the servants would be, where time stood still in Crowne Hall. It was just like a year ago, when I’d first come down looking for information to free myself from Grayson. They played cards, did shots beneath the gothic chandelier, as bells rung signaling who was to be called next.
It felt like a lifetime ago.
A servant paused when they saw me, carrying a tray of white swan-shaped truffles. “Miss du Lac? Is there something we can help you with?”
“Yes, actually.”
He blinked. “Story?”
Everyone froze, beer pong balls skittering into the corners.
“We heard you died,” someone said.
What? They thought I died?
My heart skittered to a halt as I imagined what that meant for Grayson. The pain. Yet…I had to swallow it again, because we only had a small window of time to do this.
I lifted the mask off my face, so they could look me in the eyes. “Sorry to disappoint.”
“That’s not— Is it really you?”
A girl with red hair shoved their friend. “I told you that Instagram post was real.”
Murmurs started up, a soft wave of sound rolling through the small room.
“Why are you back?”
Because I still have hope that we can be a family again.
“I was told I had a following. I was also told there are quite a few of you who don’t like me.”
I could see it now, a few of their eyes shifting to the ground.
“I’m taking a really big leap here, because I don’t know who I can trust, but my back is pressed to the wall and I need you.”
So, I’d do what I did best.
I’ll bleed.
“I never really had a home until Crowne Hall,” I said softly. “I know I’m not alone. We’re treated like garbage, but we’re family. At least, I thought we were. Then when I needed you the most, you abandoned me. I’ve been in hell for months and no one asked me what was going on. Before this, I’d cried with you. I’d baked birthday cakes for you. You’d taught me how to drive. I know my uncle was like a father to some of you, and when he died you locked me away so I couldn’t be at his memorial.”
“Story—”
“What?” I demanded. “Am I lying?”
Silence fell across the room.
“You all always say you’re better than them. You say you aren’t cruel and you treat people with dignity, but having lived up there for a while now, I can tell you you’re all exactly the same.”
They shifted on their feet.
“I’m not here to make you feel bad, as if I’m any better. Because if you read my letter, you know I’m not. I think we’re on the same side.”
One by one, their eyes found mine.
“I need help,” I said. “I know you keep recordings and evidence, that you have proof of the whispers we hear…I have firsthand experience of that.” I looked away, pushing my tongue into my cheek.
The whole reason that video of me and Grayson existed was because of them.
I’d hated it, been violated by it, but in the end, it might save us.
“What else do you have? Do you have anything on Beryl Crowne? I want to put him away for what he’s done to Josephine and anyone else.”
They shared looks, shifting on their feet. It was one thing to go after me, but Beryl Crowne? Even if they did have proof, it’s like asking them to go on a suicide mission.
“I’m done living like them,” I said. “This place used to be my home, and it will be my home again. There will be laughter, and warmth, and love in Crowne Hall. Will you help me?”
Jane stepped forward. “We have everything.”
Seventy-One
GRAY
Somewhere, hidden beneath the feathered masks, my wife was alive. Every laugh, every flutter of a mask, my heart jolted.
Alive.
Alive and here.
The clinking of champagne glasses started out small, then grew until everyone was silenced. My grandfather took the stage erected on the sprawling lawn below the terrace. At his back, the iron waves crashed beneath the moonlight, and the occasional swan hissed.
Lynette stood next to him. I was sure Lynette was happy Arthur was dead. That weight around her neck finally gone. She was never a du Lac anyway, not really.
Was it worth it, selling her soul to the devil?
“Tonight is more than my favorite holiday,” my grandfather started. “For over a hundred years, our two families have been at odds, and today, they become one.”
“Grayson, good to see you again.” DA Miller sidled next to me, arms crossed, a drink in one hand.
It wasn’t odd for him to be there; he was invited by my grandfather, after all.
“And you,” I said, eyes still on the stage.
“Everything is ready, the police are on standby…assuming you come through on your end of the bargain.”
I felt DA Miller turn and look at me.
Come through?
This plan was only trust.
I had to trust Lottie, my mother, three kids I’d barely spoken to. Trust that somewhere Story was alive. But if everything went right, tonight two empires would fall, and in their ashes…we would rise.
As my grandfather droned on, my mother clandestinely shooed away servants. His guards had left him—fearful of whatever the triplets had whispered in their ear.
The small window had opened, it was now or never.
I turned, looking DA Miller in the eyes. “We will.”
He raised his drink to me, and went to talk to someone across the lawn just as two of the triplets went on stage.
On fucking stage.
That’s when it started to go to shit.
I put my fingers to my temple. “What are they doing?”
“Tonight, over a decade’s worth of work is realized—” My grandfather paused mid-sentence, spotting Jo.
“Hey, Grandpa,” Jo said. She pointed down at Kell on the lawn, who held up a phone. “Check it out, we’re gonna go so viral.”
“Josephine,” my grandfather gritted.
“Ew. Please don’t call me that.”
For a moment, Jo had Lynette and my grandfather so completely distracted, they didn’t see Charles behind them.
“Okay, it’s a challenge, Gramps. Do it with me.”
My grandfather exhaled, nostrils flared. He started to turn, to look for his guards, maybe, and I was certain in that second everything was going to go to shit.
Then Jo ripped up her shirt.
Flashing our fucking grandfather.
“It’s called the Alabama challenge. Or in your case, the Hapsburg challenge.”
“Oh my—” Lynette covered her eyes, turning away.
My grandfather was stunned, fucking stunned. Then he gripped Jo and yanked her shirt down, thrusting her toward the edge of the stage. I couldn’t hear the words he spoke in her ear, but I could imagine them.
In that split second, Charles reached into his pocket, before spinning the opposite direction and disappearing off backstage.
Did he get them?
“Hashtag Hapsburg,” Jo
yelled as she dashed down the stairs.
My grandfather stared after her like he wanted to burn her to ashes on the spot.
I don’t know why I expected any kind of finesse from three triplets who’d grown up semi-orphaned in a world of excess and debauchery. They were like Abigail at that age…but worse.
Lynette raised the champagne. “Kids,” she said, laughing uneasily. “Always so unpredictable…”
My grandfather continued. “As I was saying…” He droned on about legacies and dynasties, and in less than a minute, the triplets were at my side.
“What the fuck was that—”
Something heavy and weighted fell into my pocket—a coin?
No fucking way.
“That was us motherfucking slaying this donkey.” Charles opened his palm, showing the remaining three coins. “Check out deez nuts.” He stuck out his tongue just as I slammed his hand shut before anyone could see.
“Did we go viral, though?” Jo asked, slurring her words.
“I didn’t record anything,” Keller said, deadpan.
“Dammit, Kell, our parents are dead now. We have to think about our futures. I’m trying to turn this family into something respectable.” She started giggling uncontrollably. “We can’t lose the farm too.”
Fuck.
She’s high.
“Are you all high right now?”
They paused, then burst out laughing in unison.
“Are you high?” Jo lowered her voice to a baritone, apparently mimicking me.
Jesus Christ, I can’t deal with this.
Grandfather had no coins.
He had no staff.
He had no guards.
He had nothing.
Nothing but the power that had grown like a cancer inside of him and metastasized with revenge.
I pushed through the crowd, finding DA Miller standing beside the fountain, two swans splashing at his back.
Miller turned to me. “Hello again.”
I pulled out the coin from my pocket. “It’s time.”
His haughty, East Coast WASP face slipped, and he looked at the gold coin with wonder. “I always thought these were a myth.”
I glanced at the stage, my grandfather had nearly finished with his speech. “It’s time,” I repeated.
Destroyed Destiny (Crowne Point Book 4) Page 35