“But he said he had two years, maybe more.”
The doctor made a face. “He has a few months, maybe, if he decides to continue treatment, but I don’t think he will. If you want to be there with him—”
“I do.” I said. “I do.”
“Don’t make any travel arrangements.”
GRAY
* * *
At the end of my hellish day, I waited for Story. Grayson fucking Crowne doesn’t wait, but I waited for Story, pacing back and forth like an idiot.
Some bullshit party was happening to distract everyone about Abigail. I looked at myself in the mirror, in my stupid fucking tux.
Where the fuck was she?
I wasn’t going to wait through another party to find out what happened to her, and I could think of only one place to find her. Halfway to the servant’s quarters, I collided with a body.
My mother.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“Nowhere.”
I skirted around her, continuing.
“She’s most likely gone,” my mother said to my back. “Let her go.”
I paused.
“What did you do?” I didn’t turn around.
“Only told her what she needed to know, what you refused to tell her,” my mother said simply. “She’s a mistress, Grayson. You’re marrying Charlotte. Those are facts.”
In that moment, resolution steeled my spine.
Before I saw Story again, there was something I needed to do.
I turned from the quarters, pulling out my phone.
All day I’d cleaned up the mess Abigail had left behind, reassuring board members with my grandfather, keeping our stock from plummeting. All the while my grandfather’s voice had been in my ear, Thank fuck for the du Lacs.
My mother followed me to her favorite room, the sunroom, just as my grandfather answered the call.
“I’m out. Wedding is off.”
Forty-Six
GRAY
* * *
Silence followed my proclamation.
Then Grandpa exploded. “It hasn’t even been a day since your sister pulled this shit!”
“This joke was unfunny when Abigail tried it; it is even less funny from your lips,” Mother hissed.