I never wanted to be my father.
Twenty-Six
STORY
* * *
I froze when Grayson opened the double doors, nervous that he would be upset with what I was doing. But he was in a trance. He walked to the center of the room, grabbed a vase that must have been worth thousands, and chucked it at the wall.
It shattered into thousands of gilded white porcelain pieces and then we descended back into silence. Thorny, leaded silence. Gray stared at the spot now scratched on his matte white wall where the vase had shattered, breathing heavy. His shoulders strained, his jaw even tighter.
My Atlas.
In him I saw me—not Story, but Storybook—the little girl forced to seal secrets to keep her mother’s world afloat.
Then his eyes found me, and they turned to ice. “What are you doing?”
I looked at the small mountain of clothes in my hands. “Packing.”
“No shit, why?”
“I succeeded. Lottie wants you, right? You’re getting married.”
He stalked to me like a predator about to eat its prey. I stepped back, hitting the back of the couch. Like the first time I’d come to him, my things started to tumble off my little mountain.
“Should we talk about how you know that?” Grayson growled. “You really have a knack for hearing shit you shouldn’t.”
I attempted to ignore him, tried to pick up what had fallen, when he grabbed my wrist so tight I opened my hand and the cotton shirt fluttered down.
“We were in the middle of something.”
This was never going to end any other way. With Grayson Crowne marrying the love of his life, and me forgotten. The stupid thing was I had been starting to forget. Pretend maybe things could be different.
“Deal’s finished. I’m out.” I broke off, voice disappearing down my throat as his knee separated my thigh, his hand slammed above my head.
He quirked his head, eyes narrow. “I thought you didn’t want this to end?”
“You’re getting married,” I said, keeping my voice even.
“That’s not what I asked.”
“Are you asking me to be your mistress, Mr. Crowne?”
My chest hurt, but I wouldn’t let him see the pain.
The second choice. The girl behind the girl. Good enough, but not worthy. My mother’s daughter, after all.
His eyes flashed. “Why are you calling me that?”
“That’s who you are to me. Who we are to each other.”
I could’ve sworn I saw hurt flicker in his blue gaze, but it was so quickly replaced with contempt, I couldn’t be sure.
“How much is a Snitch’s cherry worth?” He raked his blue gaze over me. “Ten seems fair.”
I sputtered. “Ten thousand? I’m not having sex for ten—”
He rolled his eyes like I was an impudent child, letting go of my wrist so I fell. Once again, my little mountain of personal items scattered at my feet.