A bell to ring when I needed to distract myself. The truth was what she’d said to me earlier, when she was on my lap before the party.
I cared.
I cared most for the one person I wasn’t supposed to care about. I cared when she was sad. I cared when she was angry. I cared when West du Lac looked at her. I fucking cared. I was starting to think she cared too.
“Is that really all this is to you?”
“Yes.”
The memory slammed into me. I’d fucked up. I’d reacted. Another person who’d stolen their way into Gray Crowne’s heart just to rip it out. I opened and closed my fists, wishing I had something to punch, when obnoxious laughter echoed down the hall.
Abigail’s fiancé was laughing with two assholes I vaguely recognized.
Perfect.
Whatever had happened to Abigail, this fucker had something to do with it. I wasn’t a good big brother. I was a fucking asshole, but I could be a dick to my sister, because she was my sister.
I pushed the two assholes out of the way and gripped Abigail’s fiancé by the collar with one hand, dragging him to my face. They made a move to intervene, but I shot them a look, and suddenly they were very interested in something on the opposite side of the hall.
“The fuck did you do to my sister?”
He laughed. “Oh, like you fucking care.”
I twisted the material at his throat until his face reddened.
“I didn’t do shit, Crowne,” he coughed.
I wanted to punch him. I wanted to let go of all my anger until his pretty boy face was raw and bleeding. This kid had always been a fucker, even back at boarding school. All he ever wanted was to be part of us. He used to follow us around, and we’d let him, only so we had a fall guy.
“She ditched me for her dog,” he choked out. “Check your fucking phone.”
Keeping his collar gripped tight beneath my fist, I fished around my pocket for my phone. The Finsta hashtag abbyslostdog had apparently been trending for hours, a photo of my sister Gemma kissing Abigail’s dog, Theo.
I glared at him a second longer, then tossed him to the side, making him stumble backward.
“I’m in, Crowne,” he yelled at my back. “I’m finally in.”
Fuck him.
Fuck that dog.
Fuck this family.
I pounded down the hallway until his choking laugh dissipated. He was like Story, like everyone else, a user. I stopped short a few halls away from my wing. That wasn’t Story.
Fuck.
Story wasn’t that asshole. She wasn’t malicious. Story wasn’t conniving. She would set herself on fire to keep someone warm. Which meant my brutally honest nun had lied.
I tangled my hands in my hair again, catching a glimpse of myself in a mirror. My blond hair was wild, unkempt. My bow tie was undone, hanging askew off one side. Lipstick stained my shirt from when Lottie had rested her head on my shoulder while dancing.
“I’m sorry,” I said aloud to my reflection.
It sounded weak.
“I’m sorry?” I tried again.
Worse.