I leaned closer, biting my bottom lip. His eyes dropped to it, half-lidded.
Who needs to die for you to realize this isn’t a game? That your kisses have consequences.
But I wasn’t not going to do anything.
I just wanted…
Still hovering over the same cookie, I intertwined my pinky with his, and he smiled.
That. I wanted that. My Grayson smile—a hand fell on my back, like ice water down my spine.
West had returned. “Story, I don’t think you’ve met my grandmother.”
“I don’t think your mother wants me to meet her,” I gritted.
“I don’t think I give a shit,” he said simply.
Our pinkies were a tenuous connection, and I stared into Grayson’s deep blue eyes, wishing he could read the words in my head as West wrapped his arm around my waist.
“You’ve been here a while, Gray,” West said.
His smile faded when he looked to West. “There are a lot of options.”
West grinned. “Sure.”
West pulled me from the table, and my connection with Gray snapped. West steered me toward the severe woman, and I looked over my shoulder at Grayson’s dying smile.
Nineteen
GRAY
There’s a dark holiday seething beneath the surface of Crowne Hall’s Christmas. A version where my sister passed out in plaid beneath the pine needles and twinkling lights because she had taken one too many pills again.
A version where my mother drank until she pretended she doesn’t have any pain left in her heart.
A version where I—the old me—gambled for companies, islands, and people with monsters worse than me in this very room.
And now there was a version with the love of my life on the arm of a psychopath. My wife had been taken prisoner across from me, and I was supposed to open presents like nothing had changed.
“We still have so many presents,” my mother said. “Why don’t you give Lottie one of yours, Grayson?”
Everyone looked to me, waiting for me to give what I’d bought my wife and future child. My eyes landed on Story, whose hand was pulled in West’s lap. A tight grip. Too fucking tight.
My mother waved for a servant, who reached for a black box from the row of gold and black bows.
A gift, one I didn’t buy.
Lottie slowly unwrapped the bow, peeling the silk away and revealing the gift inside. A pair of silver cast, monogramed baby shoes.
“Oh, that’s lovely,” my mother said.
“A perfect gift for the new Crowne heir,” Lynette said. “You can put them in the nursery.”
“It’s lovely,” Lottie said to me with no emotion. “Thank you.”
Most of the time, I couldn’t look at Lottie, couldn’t be reminded of my failure. But there were times, brief pain-sharp moments—like now—when I can’t not watch her. When she looks like she’s already dead.
It made looking at her impossible, but for an entirely different reason.
“At this rate, there will be nothing left for the shower,” Lynette crooned when Lottie opened yet another gift for the baby—a Swarovski pacifier.
“It’s beautiful,” Lottie said softly
Story deserved these presents. Being forced to sit for over an hour as Lottie opened gift after gift made me even more determined to build a future where she could sit beside me. There was so much I wanted to say to Story, but I couldn’t. So I said it with my eyes.
I miss you.
I love you.
If possible, her stony eyes cracked, reading the thoughts I couldn’t say aloud.
“It is, isn’t it?” Lynette agreed. “That one is from Jack.”
Lottie stood to her feet, dropping the Swarovski pacifier to the floor like the box had been on fire. It shattered on the marble.
“I think you should sit back down.”
Lottie swayed on her feet, staring at the broken pacifier.
“Oh well,” my mother started with a wispy smile, on her umpteenth mulled wine. “I’m sure he can replace it—”
“I don’t want him to replace it,” Lottie snapped.
A hush came over the room, my eyes torn from Story for the first time since we started. I’d never heard Lottie speak like that.
Ever.
Like she wanted to drench her words in acid. Jack shifted uneasily across from us, on a velvet wingback. For the fucking life of me, I didn’t know why he was invited either. He wasn’t a du Lac or a Crowne.
But I’d stopped asking why when they’d stopped giving me real answers.
“Sweet pea,” Lynette said in a dulcet, pacifying tone. “I think you should sit back down.”
Lottie swayed on her feet, staring at the broken pacifier. “Why the fuck is he even here?”
“He’s family,” Lynette said.
“No, he isn’t,” Lottie gritted. “He should be home with his real family.”
Lynette’s smile flickered. “We’ve known Jack for ages; he’s basically family. You know…” Lynette turned to my mother. “There was a time when people thought Jack and I would end up together.” Lynette giggled. “But there are too many hoops when you’re royalty….”
My mother nodded along to Lynette’s story, on board with trying to lock the elephant back up in its cage.
Then my sister scoffed. “Family.”
Gemma slipped further down on her white wingback, clearly having started round ten on the pills. “Abigail was supposed to be allowed back.” She eyed Story. “The whores can come—”
“Shut the fuck up, Gemma,” I gritted.
She flipped me the bird, then looked back to Story with glassy eyes. “No offense. I guess.”
Story shrunk into her shoulders. West leaned over, whispering something into her ear. I couldn’t tell if it helped her, or hurt her.
I wasn’t sure which option fucked me up the most.
“Abigail chose to marry…” My mom waved a hand in the air, clearly done with the subject. “I’m sure we have more presents!”
Story stared at her lap, jaw clenched. I needed to know what she was thinking. What made her brow furrow like that?
“Sit down, Charlotte,” Lynette said.
“I’m fine,” she gritted, though she swayed so far she almost entirely blocked my view. I reached for her elbow to steady her—but Jack beat me to it.
He rushed to her from across where he sat on a wingback, crushing a few wrapped presents in his wake, grasping Lottie.
“Charlie?”
I paused at how Jack looked at Lottie, the gentle way he pushed hair out of her eyes. It looked…loving.
With two hands, Lottie shoved Jack off. “I said I’m fine!”
“Charlotte.” Lynette stood to her feet, hand at her heart. “Have you lost your mind?”
As Lynette stood, so did West. He grasped his mother’s elbow, holding her in place. Story glanced at him, the wrinkle in her brow deepening.
Gemma turned back to my mom. “Abigail is supposed to be here—”
“She didn’t want to come, Gemma!” my mother snapped, then shakily reached for her mulled wine, looking away.
And so the room devolved into what I’d always remembered Christmas to be: dysfunction carefully drenched in alcohol, to be forgotten tomorrow.