Stolen Soulmate

by Mary Catherine Gebhard

  “One fucking thing, Mom,” Grayson’s voice bounced off the walls.

  I paused a few feet down from the door to Grayson’s bedroom, his yelling echoing in the barren halls.

  “Grayson, dear,” Tansy Crowne’s tinkling voice drifted like a breath of winter wind. “You know how these things work.”

  “He hits her. He’s a fucking psychopath.”

  “His father’s company will be quite the addition, and we both know Abigail isn’t the most…attractive investment.”

  I looked back down the hall, thinking I should leave, when the click-clack of heels stopped my heart. I turned, finding Tansy Crowne. We both froze as I stared her straight in her red-brown eyes—eyes so similar to her least attractive investment’s. Then sanity returned and I quickly looked at the floor.

  Her approaching footsteps were the only sound; then she stopped exactly parallel to me. I stared hard at her polished, nude heels, my heartbeat thunder. The minute dragged on like nails against a chalkboard.

  “How much?” she asked, voice low.

  “What?”

  “How much?” she repeated. “I’ve paid off every girl who thought she loved my son. You all have a price. Name it.”

  The shock of that statement had me looking up and into Tansy Crowne’s eyes.

  “You’ve paid off every girl interested in Grayson? Does he know?”

  Her red-brown eyes slimmed. “Do I tell him about the girls who wanted his money?”

  “I don’t want his money,” I said, though I had to look away. Because what was I even doing here? I’d signed my name on a dotted line for cash. All this was only for money.

  Tansy kept walking, and I let out a breath.

  When I got to Grayson’s room, he was on the edge of a couch, legs spread and head in his hands, already in a tux for the party. He looked every bit the lonely, broken prince I knew him to be, crushed beneath the weight of expectations. I struggled with the decision to leave him alone or go to him.

  I wanted to take the weight off his shoulders as no one had done for me when I was a kid, but I knew that was impossible, because no one could take that weight away. Sometimes problems are just unfixable.

  So I said the one thing I wished someone had said to me.

  “It’s not fair.”

  He lifted his head at my voice. It was the infamous Playboy Gray with his tangled, messy hair—all to hide the deep-blue eyes beneath. The iconic messy image of Grayson Crowne, the boy who doesn’t care, but in reality, it’s because he cares too much.

  “Whatever this weight is on your shoulders, you shouldn’t have it…” I looked down, unable to stare into his burning eyes, fiddling with my thumbs. “Your shoulders will get stronger, though.”

  Silence stretched until his choked voice called to me. “Come here.”

  My heart was already close to shattering, but I couldn’t say no to him. Not because he didn’t give me a choice, but because my heart was wrapped around a wire, and he held the leash. When I was within distance, he grasped my wrist, tugging me into his lap.

  He stroked the back of my neck, looking beyond, like he wasn’t aware I was even there.

  “I had one fucking thing,” he said, still staring ahead, like he wasn’t talking to me. “When my father died, I filled the shoes as the patriarch, became the beam of support for my mother. I became a son for my grandfather…all I asked for was one fucking thing.”

  He stopped talking, brow furrowed in thought, and cautiously I pushed the hair off his forehead.

  “My mother, my grandfather, my sisters, this fucking house,” he continued. “Everyone needs a piece of Grayson Crowne. Fine, whatever, I just wanted one goddamn thing. Don’t marry my sisters off to assholes. Don’t let them marry someone like me. Which, admittedly, is like fishing for minnows in a sea of sharks.” He dragged his free hand down his face.

  “Marrying someone like you wouldn’t be so bad,” I said.

  His heavy eyes found mine, a look in them that strangled my soul.

  “Yeah, Snitch, you’d marry someone like me?” He had a sardonic, self-deprecating tone, but I saw beneath that. To the hurt. The hope. And I knew I should lie, change the subject, to put some kind of frail armor around my already cracking heart.

  “I would,” I whispered.

  Pain splintered his blue eyes.

  I’ve missed you, I almost said, missed these small moments where you trusted me enough to pull away your thorns…

  But I stopped myself.

  “Why do you share these things with me?” I asked instead. “Why don’t you let everyone know who you are?”

  He paused, then said quietly, “I felt it shelter to speak to you.”

  I frowned. Why did that sound familiar? Then—“Emily Dickinson!”

  A small smile broke his lips, and the soft, tender way he watched me wrecked me more than anything.

  “You know a lot of poetry for someone who claims to hate it,” I said.

  “Someone once told me I could fix the unfixable with poetry.”

  My heart stopped, lips parted. He was talking about Uncle! Grayson gently lifted me off him, placing me back on the couch. He stood up, adjusting his bow tie.

  He looked at his phone. “We have a funeral to get to.” He then eyed me. “You need to get dressed.”

  “Get dressed?”

  “There are only so many formal functions I can take you to dressed like a Vatican escapee. It’s hanging in my closet.”

  I followed him to his closet. Inside, amid suits and jeans and jackets worth more than house payments, a dress hung, its silver embellishments catching the light.

  It was…beautiful.

  It was also somehow so me.

  “Did you buy this for me?” I asked, stunned.

  “No,” he said.

  My heart dropped.

  “I had it made.”

  And just like that I couldn’t breathe.

  “It should fit perfectly.” His fingers lightly grazed my spine, trailing down until his hand rested right above my ass. “Silver will look beautiful on you.”

  I also knew enough to know a dress like this would require assistance to put on, but at the moment all I could think about was his hand at the small of my back, eyes blazing into mine.

  “It will show your collarbone,” he mused.

  I licked my lips, and his eyes dropped to them. “That’s okay.”

  “It wasn’t you I was worried about.”

  There was a knock on his door, and we separated. He went to one side, tangling his hands through his hair, and I went to the other.

  “She’ll help you get dressed.”

  “You let someone come here? Wait, who—” I broke off, spotting Ellie.

  “Your foot, miss,” Ellie said.

  “I’m not a miss,” I tried for what must have been the thousandth time. “I’m me, Ellie.” Ellie said nothing, holding the dress out for me. With a sigh I stepped into it.

  She buttoned up the back, and I stared into the mirror at the stranger in silver. It was an A-line, long-sleeved gown that covered my shoulders in patterns of sheer silver that shone like liquid in the light.

  It was also airy enough for summer.

  “Anything else, miss?” Ellie asked, once she’d finished. Her eyes were on the floor.

  My shoulders fell. “Ellie, please. Please talk to me. I miss you.”

  “If that’s all, I need to get back down for Ms. Abigail’s engagement.” She bowed her head and left. Tears filled my throat. Of joy. Of confusion. Of fear. I loved myself in this dress, and I hated myself in it.

  When I came out, Grayson was leaning against the wall next to the double doors, on his phone. When he saw me, his phone slipped from his hand with a clang to the hardwood, eyes steel.

  “What?” I looked at the dress, thinking I’d somehow already managed to spill something.

  “Nothing,” he said, voice choked. He bent down to pick up his phone, and that was all we spoke.

  I follo
wed him downstairs, my nerves growing with the orchestra’s music the closer we got to the ballroom. A voice in my head kept whispering: You’re not supposed to be here. You’re not supposed to be dressed like this. This isn’t where you belong.

  I was flying too close to the sun.

  Thirty-Five

  STORY

  * * *

  Grayson hasn’t stopped staring at me.

  I shifted on the soles of my feet, more and more insecure. “What? Is it my dress?”

  Grayson gripped his drink just as a hush overcame the crowd. The double doors opened above us, and Abigail Crowne emerged with her fiancé. Grayson tensed, then turned from me, eyes on them.

  The ballroom was beautiful, the freshly cleaned chandelier dripping from the domed ceiling. It was Tansy’s pride, vintage and imported from some long-fallen monarchy—many speculated the Romanovs. It shimmered like the sun.

  I was grateful I could again blend in. I wondered if that was why he bought the dress. Did Grayson know how important that was to me?

  Abigail descended looking beautiful, ethereal, and so, so sad. Theo was at her back, walking down the stairs like a dead man. Her fiancé? Couldn’t have looked more smug.

  Before Grayson, when I was just a servant, I’d thought these people the worst kind of entitled. They had everything, and yet they dared be angry and miserable. Now I saw them for what they really were: trapped.

  “Champagne, miss?” I turned to find a server dressed in the black-and-white uniform, staring at the floor. Andrew.

  “Andrew, I—” I stopped, remembering Ellie. I wanted to yell at him. Andrew, it’s me, Story. But I was in a silver gown, and he would never look me in the eyes, not here. Maybe not ever again.

  I looked around at all the servers.

  When this was all over, I couldn’t go back to them.

  When this was over…

  I glanced at Gray, standing ahead of me, because I was still not his equal.

  “What is my place here, Grayson?” I whispered to his back.

  Grayson turned around, his eyes locking with mine.

  “Why am I still here?” I pressed.

  I waited for him to say something like because I own you until Christmas. But a silver thin thread of hope needled. Tell me it means more. Tell me I’m not just a tool, something to use and get over.

  My heart pounded, and my lips suddenly felt so dry. I darted my tongue out to wet them.

  His gaze dropped to them. “Come with me.”

  The room faded away, the concerto disappeared, the laughter died. All that was left were his tight jaw and the burning look in his eyes. The one that made me forget all the reasons why I shouldn’t feel this way.

  “Don’t you need to stay?” I asked quietly.

  A slight smile quirked his jaw. “Who says we’re going anywhere?”

  Grayson held out his hand, and I knew I shouldn’t take it. I should put distance between us.

  I placed my hand in his.

  “Are you allowed to hold my hand?” I asked as I noticed what must have been the fifteenth person stare.

  “You have a bad habit of forgetting who I am, Snitch,” Grayson said easily. “There’s nothing on earth Grayson Crowne can’t do.”

  Still, my stomach churned uneasily. We were buoyed on all sides by stares. They couldn’t tell who I was, not in my silver gown, but I knew.

  “Where are we going?”

  He ignored me, dragging me until we were on the edge of the ballroom, almost against the gilded latticed floor-to-ceiling windows.

  “The way the ballroom is designed, from this spot, you can see everything and everyone, but you’re obscured by these two pillars.”

  He motioned to the Grecian columns with his two pointer fingers, and I followed Grayson’s stare out to the ballroom. He was right.

  “I used to come here with my dad,” he said. “No…I used to follow him, hide over there”—he pointed to a spot near the stage—“then wait for him to find me and force me back to the party.”

  I studied his wistful face. “You never talk about your dad.”

  “We’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead.” He shot me a grin, but it was sad. Darkness lurked in his stony eyes, and I wished we were different. I wished I could hug him.

  “Abigail has stars in her eyes because she was too young to remember him. But he was an asshole. He loved his real family more than us.”

  Grayson stared off into the party. I followed his line of sight to where Abigail stood next to her fiancé. She was a real princess in her lace-up, flowing white dress. Beautiful.

  Beautiful and sad.

  It should be the official motto for the Crownes.

  “When my dad died, I told my mom I wouldn’t let anything happen to this family,” Grayson continued. “I said we would always be together. I swore it as she cried on his fucking grave. We’re together. We just hate each other.”

  “You don’t hate each other,” I said instantly, but even I could hear the lie.

  “Tell me something about you,” Grayson said, turning to me, eyes earnest. “Something I don’t know.”

  Immediately, I knew the thing he didn’t know about me. The dirtiest part. The part I wanted to keep hidden.

  “My mother and I stole a lot,” I said quietly. “The worst thing my mother stole was happily ever afters. I lost track of how many families she ruined.”

  I waited for him to recoil, but he watched me eagerly.

  “Like, I never really knew my dad,” I continued. “I have a pretty good idea who he is, because he stuck around the longest. But he was married, so he didn’t stay. And I don’t blame him…because my mom didn’t love him. He was just another man in a long line of men we fooled and ruined. She taught me how to use my perceived innocence to trap men. That was her go-to scam. Sometimes it was guys she’d slept with once a while ago. I’d tell them I was their daughter. They’d pay us off not to ruin their family. Other times it was darker…”

  I looked away.

  I couldn’t talk anymore.

  I couldn’t go down this road.

  “If you never wanted to be your father…I never wanted to be my mom.”

  “What would our wedding look like, Snitch?” he asked.

  My eyes snapped to his. Why would he ask that? He took a step closer, forcing me to take one back, until my back was almost pressed against the glass window.

  “Tell me.”

  My brows caved with my lungs. “Why?”

  “I need to fucking know.” His voice was raw, shredded.

  A part of me yelled to lie. Tell him I hadn’t thought about it at all.

  “It would be small,” I said softly. “Not a ridiculous Crowne party. Intimate. So all we had to worry about was each other.”

  “You’d like that?” The hope in his voice splintered my heart.

  “You’d like that.”

  A sad, barely there smile flickered and died on his pink lips. When he spoke, his voice was rough, like he’d inhaled a year’s worth of smoke. “Yeah.”

  God, these moments with Grayson were so addicting. I should hate him, right? But how could I when he let me see the broken, lonely prince beneath all the thorns?

  “In the winter,” I continued, getting sucked into his eyes, into a fantasy that would never be. “So snowflakes frosted the glass like glitter. And you’d wear something just for me.”

  “Oh yeah?” He reached out, caressing his knuckle down my cheek. “Like what?”

  “A pocket square…” I closed my eyes, drowning in his touch, goose bumps shivering along my heart. “M-Maybe something green.”

  He took a deep, jagged breath.

  “I’ve got you fooled,” he eventually said, throat thick with tension.

  I opened my eyes. “I’m the only one you don’t have fooled, Grayson. You let your sisters think you don’t like them. You let the world think you’re a playboy. But you care so much.”

  Something flickered beneath the deep blue of hi
s eyes. His hand slipped from my cheek, to the back of my neck, locking me in place. His jaw clenched, gaze focused on my lips, dark and possessive.

  I put a hand to his chest, but I couldn’t quite shove him off, so it just lingered.

  This isn’t something to do for a servant. These aren’t things you say for someone you’re going to abandon in two months.

  “Why are you doing this?” I begged. “Why? Why can’t you be like this always? Do you remember what you said to me, what you did to me, back in France?”

  “Why are you giving my fiancée green pens?” he countered, grip on my neck harsh. “Why are you telling her what I like?”

  “So you’re happy. You deserve to be happy.”

  His jaw clenched. “No one has ever accused Grayson Crowne of deserving happiness.”

  I fisted the fabric of his white dress shirt before he spoke again.

  “I tell you my deep secrets, my dirty pieces of me. I can breathe when I talk to you. With you I have no weight on my shoulders. I…I fucking trust you, Story Hale.” He said it like he couldn’t believe it—and also hated me for allowing the trust to blossom.

  I looked away. “Lottie is waiting for you.”

  “And?” he demanded.

  “And she’s your fiancée.”

  “You’re fucking ripping me apart, Story.”

  I snapped back to him. “I’m ripping you apart?” Was he fucking serious?

  “For the first time in my life I can see myself throwing everything away, Snitch.” He pushed me against the window, cold glass biting through my dress. “And it’s not for the love of my life. It’s for the girl who stole it.”

  My wrist on his chest bent backward. He pinned me with his eyes.

  Me. He was talking about me.

  “Grayson?”

  I jerked my head at the voice, heart pounding for a new reason. Charlotte du Lac approached him in a pale-pink ball gown with intricate flowers embroidered in the thin tulle. The skirt was so big it looked like an overturned teacup. Her long black hair was pulled back, curls falling in waves down her back.

  It was exquisite.

  She was exquisite.

  Grayson was still looking at me—still pinning me.