It was my home.
Cramped, mildewy home.
And all my belongings were scattered on the floor, my clothes ripped and ruined.
“You really should’ve left, Story.”
“Ellie?” I spun, finding her in the doorway. “Do you know what happened?”
She looked at me with almost pity. “Did you think because you fucked Grayson Crowne you wouldn’t get the same treatment? Or maybe because your uncle has worked here longer than Jesus, we’d go soft on you?”
“I thought…” I looked back at my ruined belongings. “I’ve been back for over a month.”
“You were a guest, working for Ms. du Lac. But now? Welcome home, Story.”
Home.
I swished the word around in my mouth like stale soda when I got back to Grayson’s wing and hung Mrs. Grayson Crowne’s dresses up, each one more beautiful than the last. When I’d hung the last, I reached for the jewelry to accompany them.
It was time to forget about Grayson Crowne. I had bigger things to worry about. Like my uncle, or the fact that I had an entire palace of servants out for revenge.
But a bruise was already forming around my ring finger in the shape of his teeth.
The sound of the door creaking open behind me jarred me from my thoughts, and I turned, expecting and dreading to find Lottie—no, Mrs. Grayson Crowne. I all but dropped the diamond necklace I held when I saw who stood in the doorway.
“West?” I looked around, expecting Grayson’s guards to storm in any minute. “How did you get in here?”
He shrugged with a smile. “I said I would be there, Angel.”
Fifty-Nine
GRAY
* * *
When Lottie and I were finally away from prying eyes, I lifted her veil. Mascara ran black down her soft cocoa cheeks.
I exhaled. “You can’t bribe fate.”
She swiped at her cheeks but only smeared the black. “It’s nothing. I’m just really happy. Did you get my letter?”
I wiped her cheeks. “I did.”
“Is that why you were late to the wedding?” I nodded. “Did it work…” She looked up at me through her runny eyes. “Is she finally out of your system?”
That’s what I’d been trying to do for fucking months. This last month, I wanted to forever ruin that part of her that thought she could love me.
And I fucking failed.
Each taste, moment, second with Snitch just burrowed her deeper. I couldn’t lie to Lottie, but I couldn’t reassure her either.
Lottie fell to the bed, messing up the perfectly arranged roses, my silence speaking volumes.
“They think we’re fucking in here.” Lottie swiped at the roses. “I fucking hate roses. Especially white ones.”
A small smile broke. “I don’t know if I’ve ever heard Lottie du Lac use the f-word.”
“There’s a lot we don’t know about each other.”