Lottie was on the floor in her white pajamas, sun hitting her in slashes and lighting up her pajamas into white gold.
The dress she and my mother had demanded she wear hung in the window, seeming to glow from within.
Lottie stared at it.
“Lottie?”
She jerked to me, eyes growing into saucers, as if I were a ghost.
“Where is your girl?” I asked, looking around the room.
She settled back against the couch with a sigh. “I sent her away.”
I came to her, bending down on the soles of my feet. “Let me help you off the floor.”
“I prefer it down here.”
She kept staring at the dress.
I sat down opposite her, just next to the dress.
“I know you gave Story the password,” I said.
Her eyes slowly found mine. “Did it help? Did I fix it?”
“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “I hope so.”
She sighed, looking back at the dress.
“I broke it too, Lottie. We all did.”
Tears started to fall silently, wetting her cheeks; still, she stared at the dress.
“I’m not going to abandon you, Lottie. Or the child. We’ll make it work.”
Her face crumpled and she sniffed. She looked away, embarrassed.
My chest caved, and once again, I felt like garbage. What had I put her through these past couple of months? Every day she must have wondered if I was going to treat her like Josephine, treat our child like the triplets.
I moved forward, grabbing her hands. “We’re not our parents. They don’t have to compete. I know I’ve been horrible—”
She ripped her hands free.
“I need you to leave.” Her face broke and she turned away from me. “Please.”
“We can go down together—”
“I’ll meet you,” she cut me off.
Something was off. Really wrong.
I stood, but lingered. It was almost time to start, and she wasn’t nearly ready.
Lottie, if you could do anything right now, what would it be?
I don’t want to smile for pictures. I want to take off this dress and this tiara.
The conversation we’d had the night of our reception drifted into my mind. Words I’d said to her when I’d been filled with hope that I could be someone for her—someone better.
If she wanted out of this shower, I’d give that to her at least. No matter the consequences. It would be an apology. For the wedding I ruined, for the dream I shattered.
“Lottie,” I asked softly. “If you could do anything right now, what would it be?”
It had the opposite effect I’d hoped. My question was a bullet to porcelain. Lottie didn’t crack, she obliterated. Her sobbing echoed in the large room, her body convulsed, and she fell to the ground.
Horrified, I fell down too, hand on her shoulder.
“Lottie, what is it? Is it the baby?”
Her arm fell limply out, pointing to the door.
“G-g-g—” She stumbled to speak through crying and snot. “G-g-get o-o-out!”
I paused.
I couldn’t leave her like this.
“Now!” she screamed.
“Where is she?” my mother asked for the thousandth time.
I worked my bottom lip between my thumb and forefinger, still uncertain if I should have left Lottie like that.
It didn’t feel like it was my place to push her.
A great pumpkin carriage sat in the center of the ballroom, diamonds and twinkling lights wrapped around the metal cage. It was for Lottie to sit in, for the women to fawn over her while the paparazzi took photos.
Because this wasn’t a baby shower, it was an event—history, as both my mother and hers had said.
But the woman of the hour, Lottie, was missing. So the carriage was noticeably empty.
“Well, Grayson?”
I stared at the empty carriage.
Was it too late? Had I fucking ruined her?
What did I tell them? That I’d left Lottie combusting on the floor of her wing—her separate wing—because we couldn’t even sleep in the same room together.
That I’d gone to her only to make some kind of peace, so that my real wife and I could live happily ever after.
My mother dragged a hand down her neck. “This is why you don’t wait until the last minute to have a shower.”
“Well, we were waiting for Arthur.” Lynette looked around the room. “Who is supposed to be here.”
“I’ll go see what’s up,” I said.
“Thank God,” my mother said.
It was a lie.
I slipped through the crowd, heading toward my hiding spot.
The theme was fairy tales—because of course it was. The ballroom had been decorated to look like an enchanted forest, and lights seemed to float in the ceiling on their own.
Then I saw her—not Lottie, but Story.
She looked like she belonged in the pumpkin. Diamonds adorned the straps of her airy, pale blue dress, dripping down the open back on her creamy, chestnut skin. All that was missing was a crown.
West dragged her off the steps and through the baby shower. She could barely keep up behind him, tripping over her feet.
He hadn’t changed from the day before, still in a wrinkled suit, the white shirt stained from sleeping on sand—he looked just as off as his sister.
I was already off the wall, ready to rip West apart for dragging Story that way, when he spotted me, gaze zeroing through glittering champagne and white smiles.
He was at my feet within seconds.
My eyes shot to Story.
Did you do it?
She shook her head, brows caved, gesturing with her hand at West’s back pocket. His phone stuck out, haphazard like the rest of him.
West shoved Story forward and I caught her as she stumbled. “Fall, Angel.”
Fifty
STORY
“What the fuck are you doing?” Grayson gripped my elbow, flashing furious eyes to West.
West folded his arms. “Our girl has something to say, Crowne.”
Gray’s grip tightened on me at our girl.
“What was it you said, Angel?” West said, vicious and biting. “You choose me? It was always me? Say it again. Say it with your prince watching.”
Do you trust me? I wanted to say to Grayson. Do you trust that every word I say, is for you not him?
West would think I was fighting and falling for him. But he was not my god, and I would never bleed for him.
“I love you,” I said, my eyes on Gray—only for the briefest moment. Long enough for me to see his icy blue eyes soften. Long enough for me to question if what I was doing was right.
Then I shifted my gaze to West. “I’ve been lying to you. I still feel for you. You’re in my heart. I’ve been lying for years.”
I fought back tears, and in a way, I think it worked in my favor, because West interpreted it for him. The suspicion in his warm brown gaze lessened. I wished I could steal a glance at Grayson, beg him to know these words were for him, even though I had to look at West.
In my peripheral, I saw Grayson take a step toward West—I hoped to get his phone.
“It’s you,” I continued, voice hoarse. “From that first day in Crowne Hall when I secretly watched you, to every day after, it’s always been you—”