But I’d be lying if I said it didn’t make sense.
Everyone at Crowne Industries is bought and paid for, and Beryl Crowne’s word is law, but it didn’t used to be that way. It was famous in our family how we nearly lost everything. The string of bad business decisions and bad luck that plagued us, culminating in my father’s death. But somewhere in there, amidst all that bad luck, my grandfather became the sole decision maker of Crowne Industries.
We went from nearly losing the company, to being number one, so no one questioned it.
But maybe we should have, because it all led to the same conclusion: Beryl Crowne as king.
I pressed my palm deep into my forehead, until I saw white. I was beginning to crave power like a new type of drug so I could save her.
Is this how it started for my grandfather? Did he start out a puppet?
Across the terrace, my grandfather watched me with a lifted brow.
I didn’t know what to tell her, so all I said was, “I know, little wife.”
“You do?” She jerked to me. “Grayson, please, let me in. Why do you have so many secrets and thorns?”
She looked up at me through her long lashes, snowflakes had landed like powdered sugar on them.
Maybe she was right. I’m avoiding talking to her, had been using my lips to silence hers. Because I couldn’t lie to her, but I can’t tell her the truth either.
If we can’t run, but staying meant putting her in constant danger…then what options did we have?
“Let me in. Please, Atlas.” Her voice tore as she begged me to tell her the truth.
I was so goddamn scared. It’s a living thing inside me. I wanted to be strong for her, the prince and hero she saw, but everywhere I looked I saw dead bodies.
I saw her.
I was fucking weak, like my grandfather said.
“Tell me your fear, Grayson.” She lifted her hand like she wanted to press a palm to my cheek, then remembered where we were, and dropped it. “I see them wrapped around your heart. You’re doing the Grayson Crowne thing.”
I scoffed. “The Grayson Crowne thing—”
“Where you think if you keep me in the dark you’ll keep me protected.”
I didn’t know where to start. I wasn’t trying to lie or keep secrets, I just…didn’t know how to say it aloud.
They’ll never stop looking for her, and you fucking know it.
There is no getting out of this world, Grayson. Not alive.
Everything in me said to take her and run, but what did that mean now? Would we have to run forever?
“I don’t know how,” I said honestly.
“You can tell me anything, Grayson. Why do you have thorns on your heart?”
Because I’m afraid I’m doing all the same things that got my father killed, left me fatherless, and left me hating him.
Because I’m worried our child will hate me too.
Because after two weeks of my grandfather carefully chipping away at the lie I was raised with, I don’t know if running is even an option.
But I didn’t say that, because I can’t say that. Not even to the love of my life.
“One percent, Snitch,” I growled. “One percent. When I agreed to this, I said if there was even a one percent chance of failure, we’d do it my way. Can you really tell me there isn’t a one percent chance?”
“That’s…” She swallowed. “It was always an insane stipulation…” She paused, eyes narrowing. Probing. That fucking Snitch stare that ensnared and enthralled me, like she was ripping apart layers I didn’t even know I had.
“You’re lying,” she said. “This isn’t working. We’re lying to each other. I want to tell you everything. I want to bleed with you—” she broke off, as footfalls sounded. West was walking back to her.
Her eyes shifted back to me, and she spoke faster. “But we only get these five minutes—if we’re lucky.”
I was raised with bedtime stories of dead kings. That Crownes are owed. The Crownes take. And I would one day rule. I used to think the world stopped and turned at my word.
That was a fucking lie.
I turned slightly. Body still facing forward, my head angled to hers. Hers did the same, neck arching unconsciously to keep my stare.
“If you insist on going down this road,” I gritted. “I can’t promise I’ll still be the man you love on the other side—”
My mother clapped her hands as a servant came on to the terrace. “Ah, there’s the champagne! I was beginning to think you we’re brewing it yourself—cider for Lottie, of course,” Tansy said, making a point to single out Lottie. “Wait, is Charlotte still not down?”
“Miss me, Angel?” West wrapped his arm around Story.
Champagne was handed out, even to Story.
She held the flimsy, crystal stem, staring into the bubbling gold liquid.
“A toast,” my grandfather raised a glass of champagne. “To a new era of Crownes and du Lacs—” The servant’s blood curdling scream cut my grandfather off.
Twenty-Two
GRAY
Josephine St. Germaine lay face down below a Christmas tree on the terrace steps.
Dead.
The red and green ornaments shined garishly bright, a macabre juxtaposition as a sheet was placed over Josephine’s pale, beautiful face.
“Slipped on the ice?” My mother rubbed her neck. “Unfortunate.”
You know how unpredictable the weather can be.
Story had so many questions in her eyes but I couldn’t meet them.
A sad, bored version of “My Favorite Things” continued to play from a string quartet somewhere. Gold and silver and white ornaments glittered along the tinsel dotting the stone railing.
My mother in her final Christmas dress of the evening, chatting with Lynette like they’d been friends for decades and not bitter rivals. My grandfather and Arthur, sharing a scotch underneath a string of evergreen.
All while Josephine was carried off the terrace.
They all had agendas, both intertwined and conflicting, like thorny vines forced to grow together, pricking each other and bleeding, yet unable to grow upward without their support.
My grandfather, a megalomaniac who would tear down anything and anyone for a scrap of power. My mother and Lottie, whose motives hide under the banner of family to advance their own egos. Lottie’s father, too much like my grandpa, but without any finesse—it made him dangerous and sloppy.
They were all narcissists, so what really united them? Was it really to close the centuries-long divide between them? I didn’t fucking buy it.
Would I be subjecting Story to a worse fate? On the run, never safe, never able to pursue her dreams, always hidden. Having to hide her name, her identity, her very self.
I promised Woodsy I wouldn’t let her disappear.
Fuck.
“What an unfortunate end to an otherwise lovely evening,” Lynette said.
My mother tilted her head on a smile. “It was lovely, wasn’t it?”
“There might still be time for tea…”
Slowly everyone disappeared inside for a quick tea before bed. With West’s arm tight around her waist, Story did the same.
Against every muscle in my body, I stayed. I knew if I followed her, I’d rip her out of his hold.