At one point, I hear footsteps in the hall. Heat rushes through me as I think about Liam opening my door. Disappointment chills me when he doesn’t.
I think about how I’d want to be told the secret I’m keeping if I were a guy. Away from the castle, maybe. I don’t know what kind of security they have in place here, but if there are cameras—and I’m sure there are, at least in some spots—there’s probably someone employed to watch and listen to them.
I rub lotion on my legs and tell myself that in the morning, after breakfast, I’ll suggest we take a walk. I’ll tell him then.
I pull up TMZ again and stare down at a picture they still have up. It’s one of Bryce, relaxing on a chair beside a pool. His family’s pool, in the Hamptons. He’s shirtless, his arms looking toned and lean in the glow of the sunlight, his light blond hair whipped by a summer breeze.
I remember that bathing suit. The navy blue one. I think I might have even picked it out. I remember a conversation he and I had back in the day about designer clothes. How necessary they were. I remember stressing out a time or two about the color of my nail-polish. It, too, needed to be designer. The show’s producers were always saying something. What was it? I rub my temple. “It’s a fairy tale.” That’s what they used to like to say.
“They want a fairy tale. Give them a fairy tale!” I smirk as I remember this one particular producer. “You can’t buy anything at Target anymore, Lucy! Don’t even drive by,” she told me.
I look around the huge, dark room. There’s a fireplace, filled with white candles. I look at the canopy over the round bed, at the slats of glass up in the ceiling. Painted glass, it looks like. Stained glass. I can’t say for sure because it’s so dark now, but I think there’s stained glass in the ceiling.
I walk over to one of the ornate dressers and run my hand over its shiny wood. There’s a hand mirror atop it. It looks silver—or maybe platinum. I realize it’s glittering because it’s encrusted with diamonds.
I look at my face in the mirror.
Not a queen’s face.
My reflection blurs, and I can feel his hands around my wrists. I can hear his words. The things he said that night…
“You’re just a fucking whore. That’s all you are. That’s all you are!”
I fold my palm over my lower belly as a tear drips down my cheek.
I know it isn’t true. I know that with my brain. But my heart still hurts. I thought he loved me. I loved him. That’s what they all forget, what I remember in these quiet, sad moments. I loved Bryce. I used to cook for him. I used to strip for him. He used to like it when I kissed under his jaw. Sometimes if I did it just right, it would make him shiver.
Why’d he say those things? Why did he do what he did that night? I know it wasn’t me. I really do. What happened was all about Bryce. About his family. About his father. About his lack of confidence, his need for control. About the drugs that he was using.
Still, I curl into a tiny ball, because the hurt I feel is mine.
*
I awaken to a running water sound. A stream? I lift my head and startle as I realize where I am. I’m in this big room. The queen’s room. Does that mean it was Liam’s mom’s room?
I straighten up and blink around. That’s when I notice sunlight streaming in from a place on the wall. A sliding door. How did I miss that? The door is open now, the curtains pushed aside. I slide out of the bed and wander over to what turns out to be a balcony. It’s not actually open, it’s got a screen door, which I push back, giving a glance back at the bed, where Grey is curled up.
I step outside into the cool morning air, and yes, I can see a sparkling stream or creek—and hear it, too. It winds maybe fifty yards away from the castle, surrounded by thick grass and shaded by trees.
A bird flies overhead. I lift my eyes up to the blue sky.
Who opened the door?
I stand there in the warm sunlight, trying and failing to figure out what time it is. I’m still a little jet-lagged. I shield my eyes and look up at the sun. I don’t think it’s noon yet.
My stomach does a brutal back-flip. God, I need to tell him. Today.
I hear a pounding sound, and turn back toward my giant room. No, not pounding—knocking. I step back into the room, glance down at myself, and grab the robe I left atop an armchair. I pull it on.
“Come in,” I call as I tie it and Grey jumps off the bed.
I’m expecting Liam. Instead, I see a woman’s pretty brown eyes. Her skin is pale, and there are freckles on her nose. The next thing I notice is her clothing; it’s an old-fashioned, black and white maid’s uniform.
Her shoes click as she pushes a giant, wooden cart into my room. It’s laden with the most amazing-smelling breakfast foods.
“Brought you some breakfast,” she tells me. Her accent is thick—much thicker than Prince Liam’s—and very Scottish-sounding.
I smile and wrap my arms around myself—one of my “uncomfortable” tells the producers were always on me about years ago.
“Thank you.”
She disappears into the hallway and returns with a table and one chair, which she promptly sets up right beside my bed. I watch her, feeling slightly helpless as she moves all the food onto the table.
Then she turns to the fireplace. “Would you like a fire?” To me it sounds like, Would yeh like eh fire?
I shake my head. “No thank you. I’m okay.”
She gives a little bow, then, as she steps back toward the door, she turns around again. “I forgot to tell you, I’m Belinda. I’ll be helping you during your stay here. If you need me, hit the button here.” She waves her hand at a panel right beside my door. “Anything you need, I’ll fetch it for you.”
And then she’s gone, and I’m alone with a mountain of amazing food. There’s a heap of something that looks and smells like sliced, cinnamon-sprinkled ham; a pile of crispy bacon; a stack of English muffins that appear deep-fried, dripping butter; a few halved tomatoes; three boiled eggs; a plate of cheesy scrambled eggs; and a platter bearing six thick, syrup-drenched waffles.
It appears she also brought me three types of juice, two mugs of coffee, a pitcher of water (with an accompanying crystal glass), several linen napkins with the royal seal sewn into them, and—finally I notice, behind the other plates—a giant platter of fresh fruit.
I run my gaze over all the food, worrying over what will be done with the leftovers. Will I look rude if I don’t eat it all? Because there’s no way I can. As soon as that thought flits through my mind, my stomach churns a little.
Oh Lord.
Grey twirls around my feet, purring.
“Not for you,” I murmur.