“Open it,” he all but grunted.
My fingers shook as I lifted the red-bow wrapped box. I nearly dropped it when I saw what was inside.
“What…how?” It was all I could manage.
Once upon a time, I fell in love with a boy who saw me—he was the only one who had ever seen me.
Until Grayson.
I slowly lifted the proof of that out of the box, hundreds of gum wrappers, brittle with time, falling through my fingers.
I never told West the secrets I told Grayson, the truth of my mother or why I was really at Crowne Hall. We were kids. That summer, while Grayson had kicked over my bucket, West had snuck me gum.
I never told him I kept the wrappers in a box like the lovesick teenager I was. After the night West raped me, it disappeared. I thought the servants had mistaken it for trash.
All this time, West had kept it.
Who was West?
The boy who remembered my poems and kept gum wrappers for over a decade?
Or the man who lied, who blackmailed and threatened me and those I loved, so I’d stay at his side?
“Do you like it?” West asked, impatience hot on his tongue.
“I don’t know what this is,” I lied, voice hoarse.
I dropped it to the ground and the wrappers fluttered like dying butterflies out of the box. I couldn’t look him in the eyes. It hurt the rusted, flaking piece of my heart that still clung to West.
He lifted my chin, forcing my eyes to his. I waited for the cruelty. The harsh words.
“Do you think lying will fool your heart, Angel?” He tilted his head, like he could read the words in mine. Pity warped his warm brown eyes, then he let me go.
“I gave you last night because it was…” He trailed off, looking for the word. “Emotional,” he ended, a cruel tilt to his lips. “But I expect your decision by dinner. Will you choose me?”
I mashed my lips together. I couldn’t make this decision alone. I couldn’t decide to sleep in West’s bed, while I’d barely spoken with Grayson.
“Your girl will be here in a moment.”
He left, smashing the wrappers beneath his black leather shoes.
The Crownes’ Christmas traditions were engraved in 24-karat gold. It was an all-day affair, with multiple outfits and hairstyle and makeup changes. Everyone invited—the du Lacs, the Crownes, and the Corrosion of Crownes, of course—used this as an excuse to try to outdo one another. Their morning belonged on the covers of magazines, but it was the one day a year in Crowne Hall where no paparazzi were allowed a press pass, where no visitors could visit, only family.
Of course, servants didn’t count as people to the Crownes. They were like…appendages. Appliances. They were always there, expected to be present, especially on the Holidays.
I was beginning to notice the mistresses were held to a different standard of dress, a higher one. Gemma could be found behind a mountain of still wrapped, color-coordinated presents, the tips of her white furry slippers visible, one long arm stretching lazily as she sipped from a crystal glass of champagne. But for me, nothing short of a crinoline would do under my velvet dress. I must have had on at least four layers of clothing.
As West and I walked farther into the sitting room, I paused on one person who didn’t fit in, neither a Crowne nor a du Lac, leaning alone on a window. I recognized his silvering brown hair and cut jaw from the horrible Labor Day weekend.
He looked bored, and a little irritated.
It smelled like peppermint cookies and salt water. Gingerbread houses replicating major architectural works of art, like the Louvre or the Tower of Pisa, dotted the windows. Built with pristine sugar glass, candles shining from inside, and frosting dripping down the sides.
It was magical.
And I felt like I had the flu.
I didn’t want the reminder, didn’t need the reminder, that West had once been something other than evil.
“This is all lovely,” some random extended du Lac family member said.
“Thank you,” Tansy replied, as though she had any part in it beyond pursing her lips at the servants.
Everyone was acting as if last night never happened. As if Grayson wasn’t ripped from me and thrown to his knees…but I don’t know why I expected anything else. It was as much a Crowne tradition to ignore the destructive wake of the elephants in the room, as it was to use gold leaf in the eggnog.
It was hard to see through the thousands of twinkling stars and snowflakes Tansy had hung from the domed ceiling, but his piercing blue stare was unmistakable.
Grayson wore a heather gray pea coat and Burberry scarf. Sexy and casual—a little bit like the Grayson Crowne I used to watch, not the one forced into suits. He was already watching me, standing beside Lottie. They were the perfect Christmas couple in her red dress and his scarf to accent.
You’re lucky, Story.
Tansy’s words echoed in my head. She’d once said I was lucky because I got to be the mistress, because I got to look them in the eyes…
I never felt more unlucky.
More cursed.
I had so much to tell Grayson, but I couldn’t. Our nights had been stolen from us, our secrets held captive. He was only feet from me, but I had to keep my words to myself.
It was driving me insane.
I was going to fall apart in the middle of this. While Arthur not-so-quietly discussed the war on Christmas, and West’s grandmother lamented the good ol’ days, when women were women and men were men.
I shifted, wishing the dress chosen for me wasn’t so tight on the arms. The waist was loose, of course, and whoever designed it seemed determined to make up for it with torturously tight lace sleeves.
“Is everything okay, Angel?” West asked.
“I’m fine.”
I’m horrible. I’m bad. Why can’t I kick West out of my chest?
“Westley,” his mother called, flowing across the marble in her pale green gown. “Your grandmother has flown in all the way from France. Come say hello.” She eyed me. “Alone.”
West followed his mother across the ballroom to meet with an aged woman with no smile lines.
I was starving.
Sometimes it felt like my little butterfly fluttered in my stomach constantly.
My feet carried me across the marble, cutting through the dangling stars, to the food. Of course, Tansy knew how to do Christmas morning. All the food was like something straight from Santa’s house. Complete with shiny, twirly lollipops and gold and glittery cookies.
I reached for one, when a hand grazed mine. I sucked in a breath.
Grayson.
I lifted my eyes, meeting his pulsing blue ones. He’d reached across the cookies, palm landing on mine and igniting a shiver and fire of goose bumps. He hadn’t moved his hand, covering mine atop the same sugar cookie.
Maybe here I could tell him my secrets, whisper I love him, and wish him Merry Christmas, and no one would know.
“Gr—”
He squeezed my hand so hard I lost my breath, it stole my voice. His eyes cut to the side, where Crownes and du Lacs, and the extended family of each, surrounded us on both sides.
This was how I would spend my Christmas with Grayson—with my husband—in stolen touches and stolen glances. In ephemeral taunts, like the scent of sugar cookies reminding me of the lips I couldn’t have. I can’t wish him Merry Christmas, he can’t kiss me under the mistletoe, but he could hold my stare for a few seconds as he glanced his fingers over mine.