“So we’re over. Just like that.” It came out low and dangerous, edged with pain.
No, not just like that. You’ll never know how much my heart is breaking right now.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
I wished I could tell him I’d never been happier than when I was with him.
I wished I could tell him it wasn’t about the throne or power, and that if I could, I would give up a kingdom for him.
But I’m sorry were the only words I was allowed to say.
The emotion wiped clean from Rhys’s eyes until I was staring at steel walls, harder and more guarded even than when we’d first met.
“No, Your Highness,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
He walked out.
One minute, he was there. The next, he was gone.
I crumpled, my knees giving out beneath me as I sank onto the floor and hot tears scalded my cheeks and dripped off my chin. My chest heaved so hard I couldn’t draw enough oxygen into my lungs, and I was sure I would die right there on the hospital floor, just a few feet away from the best doctors and nurses in the country. But even they wouldn’t be able to fix what I’d just broken.
“You have to move.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your house. It’s a security nightmare. I don’t know who signed off on this location, but you have to move.”
“Have you ever been in love?”
“No. But I hope to be one day.”
“Good night, princess.”
“Good night, Mr. Larsen.”
Snippets of memories crowded my brain, and I pressed my face into the blanket draped over the couch, muffling my sobs.
“Your Highness?” Elin’s voice floated through the door, followed by a knock. “Can I come in?”
No. I would be happy if I never talked to you again.
But I had responsibilities to fulfill, and an engagement to plan.
I forced my sobs to slow until they tapered off.
Deep, controlled breaths. Head tilted up. Tensed muscles. It was a trick I’d learned that had come in handy quite a few times over the years.
“One moment,” I said after I got myself under control. I pushed myself off the floor and splashed water on my face before fixing my hair and clothes. I opened the door, my spine stiff. “What is it?”
If Elin noticed any lingering redness around my eyes or nose, she didn’t mention it. “I saw Mr. Larsen leave.”
My chin wobbled for a split second before I pressed my lips together. “Yes.”
“So, it’s done.” She regarded me with a searching look.
I responded with a short nod.
“Good. It’s the right thing to do, Your Highness,” she said in a far gentler tone than I was used to. “You’ll see. Now.” She snapped back to her usual brisk self. “Shall we go over the plans for Lord Holstein’s proposal?”
“Sure,” I said hollowly. “Let’s go over the plans for the proposal.”
41
Rhys
My first taste of alcohol burned. So did the second. By the time I made it through half the bottle of whiskey, however, it’d stopped burning and started numbing, which was the best I could’ve hoped for.
In the two days since Bridget ended things, I’d spiraled. Hard. I hadn’t left my hotel room since I returned from the hospital–partly because I had nowhere to go and partly because I had zero interest in dealing with the paparazzi. I had enough problems without getting charged with assault.
I lifted the bottle to my lips as I watched The Daily Tea. The hospital discharged Edvard yesterday, and now that the king was no longer in mortal danger, the press had dived back into breathless speculation about me and Bridget.
If they only knew.
The whiskey seared down my throat and pooled in my stomach.
I should turn the show off because half the shit they came up with was utter crap—like their claims Bridget and I had an orgy with a certain pop star couple in the south of France—but as masochistic as it was, their video clips of her were the only way I could get my fix.
I wasn’t addicted to alcohol, not yet, but I was addicted to Bridget, and now that I no longer had her, I was going through withdrawal.
Clammy skin, nausea, difficulties sleeping. Oh, yeah, and a giant fucking hole the size of Alaska in my chest. That wasn’t listed on the Addicts Anonymous website.
I can’t be with a bodyguard. I’m meant to be with a duke.
Days later, and the memory still cut deeper than a serrated hunting knife. Bridget hadn’t meant it. I knew that. The words were cruel, and she was anything but cruel. But they mirrored my doubts—about how I wasn’t good enough and how she deserved better—too much for them not to affect me.
I hit the bottom of the bottle. I tossed it aside in disgust, hating myself for sinking so low I’d turned to alcohol and hating myself even more for leaving things the way I had with Bridget.
I’d walked out on her in the heat of the moment, when the anger and hurt had overridden everything else, and I’d regretted it before I even hit the lobby.
She’d done what she thought she had to, and it fucking broke my heart, but it wasn’t her fault.
As if on cue, the camera cut to a shot of Bridget exiting the hospital with the king and her brother. She was elegant and polished, as always, but her smile looked empty as she waved to the press. Sad and lonely, two things I never, ever wanted her to be.
My chest burned, and it wasn’t from the whiskey. At the same time, something hardened within me: determination.
Bridget wasn’t happy. I wasn’t happy. And it was about damn time I did something about it.
I didn’t give a fuck what the law said. She wasn’t marrying Steffan. I’d visit every minister in Parliament and force them to rewrite the law if I had to.
Someone knocked. “Housekeeping.”
My spine turned rigid at the familiar voice.
Two seconds later, I threw open the door with a scowl. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
Christian arched an eyebrow. “Is that the proper way to greet your boss?”
“Fuck you.”
He laughed, but the sound lacked humor. “Charming as always. Now let me in so we can clean up your mess.”
I gritted my teeth and stepped aside, already regretting this day, this week, and my whole damn life.
He walked in, his gaze skimming over my half-unpacked suitcase and the remains of my room service dinner on the coffee table before resting on the empty whiskey bottle. Surprise flashed across his face before he covered it up.
“Well, this is sad,” he said. “You’re at the nicest hotel in Athenberg and you couldn’t spring for the filet mignon?”
On the surface, Christian looked like the stereotypical charming, good-natured playboy he portrayed himself to be. Even though he was thirty-one, he could’ve passed for his mid to late twenties, and he used it to his advantage. People looked at his pretty-boy face and tailored Italian suits and underestimated him. They didn’t realize he was a wolf in expensive clothing until it was too late.
“What are you doing here, Harper?” I repeated.
I knew, of course. He’d chewed me out on the phone last week after the news about me and Bridget broke, but I hadn’t expected him to fly here so soon with Magda still missing.