I was Abigail Crowne, fire starter, attention seeker, scandal maker. The Reject Princess. Unloved, uncared for, unwanted. There was only one way to dethrone a princess. As my mom said, you don’t get to stay a princess and marry a pauper, and a Crowne without a castle is just a hunk of metal.
Thirty-Three
THEO
The house was inland of Crowne Point, up on a hill so you could still see a brief glimmer of the ocean, like a sapphire line coating the horizon. It was a sprawling mansion, one of the newer ones built in the last few years. When I was a teenager first living with Abigail, this land used to be grass.
We used to come up here and smoke weed, watching the sunset.
I was certain I had the wrong name and number, but I’d double and triple checked. This was the home of Miranda Lemaire, my mother.
I knocked on the door and waited. It wasn’t long before the door opened. I don’t know who I’d expected to open it, but I’d hoped it wouldn’t be my mother. A useless hope borne from the pounding in my blood, a reminder I wasn’t ready.
Maybe I never would be.
Just a moment later, the door opened. She was pretty, with pale green eyes and long, brown hair. She looked familiar, but I couldn’t place her. I wrote it off as nerves.
Her lips parted when she saw me.
A stretched, stiff silence passed.
Say hi, idiot.
“You might not know me,” I started.
She stared at me like I was a ghost. “Theo?”
“Uh, yeah—”
She dragged me into a hug, cutting me off. I could count on one hand the number of people who’d hugged me in my life—one, Abigail. I didn’t know how to respond, so I just stayed put, stiffly accepting this woman hugging me.
My mother.
After a minute she pulled back, shaking her head. “Sorry. I’m so sorry. I never thought I would see you again. Will you come in?”
Another moment of silence.
Come in? I didn’t have a game plan for this. You prepared for nightmares. You prepared for the worst possible outcome. What do you do when your dreams come true?
“Uh, yeah.”
She brought me into a sitting room bathed in warm light, and I awkwardly took a seat, perched on the edge. I felt massive on her furniture.
She was nervous. Her hands in her lap, then beside her thighs, then back in her lap. She proposed tea, and I wondered if it was so she could have something to do with her hands. I said yes, just so I could say something. She stood, walking out of the room into what looked like a kitchen.
On the mantel were plenty of pictures—no kids, it appeared—and I hated myself for being grateful. Most were of my mom and another pretty woman with silky dark-chocolate skin and braids that looked like a crown, one on their wedding day, it appeared. I knew the woman. Everyone knew the woman. She was Penelope “Penny” Lemaire, the mayor of Crowne Point.
I realized then I knew where I’d seen my mother before, at a party. The mayor wasn’t always in attendance—for example, a local politician would never receive a July Fourth invite, but no doubt she’d been at a few. My gut bottomed out, realizing I’d once been feet away from my own mother.
I should’ve pieced it together earlier. Lemaire wasn’t exactly a common surname, but I just never imagined my own mother would be part of the rich and powerful.
And I would be a dirty secret.
Again.
I worked my thumb, waiting for her to politely kick me out, bribe me to keep my mouth shut.
She came out with a glazed wooden tray holding steaming porcelain cups.