“That’s sweet.” West adjusted the disheveled sleeve of his shirt, then reached behind him for his phone. “But you’re full of shit, Angel—”
Grayson’s bitter laugh cut him off. “I’m not surprised. I’ve been thinking this since the night you fucked him. You don’t love me.”
My gaze slammed to Gray.
I had no words, no reply.
This was an act—right?
Grayson stepped to me, blocking my view of West. He dragged a hand down the side of my face, his voice soft, his words cutting, as he whispered the fear I’d worried was truth. “Or maybe you loved me once, but there’s something terribly wrong with you, Story. Because if you loved me, then why did you ever go back to him?”
I opened and closed my mouth, blood rushing through my ears and drowning out the soft laughter and music.
He stepped back and looked at me with such disgust I could taste it. “Is the baby even mine? I guess we’ll find out when you give birth.”
“I…” My mouth was dry.
My brain screamed to keep the act up, but his words cut through me like a machete.
He’s right.
There’s something terribly wrong with you, Story.
Grayson turned to leave but West grabbed his arm before he could go. “You expect me to believe you’re done with her? After everything, you’re just going to let her go?”
“Should I let her marry you again? Or should I let her fuck you in front of me first?”
West’s grip loosened, suspicion in his eyes giving way to something else… Hope.
“Maybe I should let her leave me for you?” Grayson asked, sounding bored and put out. “Be your mistress instead of running away with me?”
Claws scraped at my chest.
I know I’d made mistakes—we both had, but Grayson had been the epicenter of every good choice and bad decision—not West. I married West because of Grayson. I fucked West because of Grayson. I was his mistress and I slept in his bed for us.
Yet as the cruel words fell from his soft pink lips, and my sins were laid bare without a soft blanket of context, I suddenly didn’t know what to believe.
For us, I whispered in my head. I did it all for us.
Didn’t I?
Grayson dragged his pink tongue across his top lip. “Or maybe she could choose you and sleep in your bed for months? Would that do it?”
West dropped Grayson. He looked at the marble, a wrinkle forming in his chestnut brow. I could see it—see him rewriting our history, painting everything I’d ever done with a brush of love. That was good, that was what we’d wanted. Yet it tasted bitter on my tongue and burned my heart. Because as West rewrote our history, it forced Grayson to erase ours.
Grayson looked me directly in the eyes. “Because if she loved me, she never would have sought you out.”
I couldn’t breathe.
Grayson walked away, but not before adding with a laugh, “Good luck, West.”
I made sure when West looked up at me, I was watching him. Even though every shard of my broken soul wanted to look at Grayson.
Trust.
I had to trust Grayson. Hopefully he’d gotten West’s phone. Every word he’d said had to have been for a reason. When I saw him again, he’d explain.
He’d have to explain.
“You really love me?” West asked, hoped.
I swallowed knives. “My heart has been in a cage, waiting for you. For years. Do you believe me now?”
He stared at me for a good few seconds. I felt naked, like he was reading secret ink in my soul. Then his eyes cracked and I saw inside of him. All of him.
I had to look away.
Across the ballroom, Grayson stood with his mother and Lynette next to a gorgeous recreation of the pumpkin carriage. I didn’t believe what Grayson said, even if his eyes were cold and he gave nothing away.
So I opened my lips to mouth our word.
Neru—
West pulled me into a violent and bruising kiss. I opened my mouth on a gasp and he slammed his tongue into mine.
“My songbird,” West groaned against my lips. “My beautiful songbird, you came back to me.”
Seconds dragged on through the mud as West devoured my mouth. I wanted to rip him off my lips—I was about to, this plan be dammed, when—
“Charlotte du Lac,” Lynette gasped. “What are you wearing?”
West broke our kiss, both our eyes snapping to the staircase, and I thanked whatever god was listening for the distraction.
Charlotte had appeared at the top of the two-story flight of stairs, in silky white pajamas. Her hair was a mess, her eyes red.
Did she sleep after I left her?
“I’m afraid…” Lottie started, stumbling down a step. “I’m afraid I’ll never say what I really mean.”
Whispers rose like the crush of soft waves outside. It only took two flashes from the photographers’ cameras for Lynnette to all but threaten their lives and the entire demolition of their family’s lineage.
And then the phones came out, the clandestine shots even the wrath of Lynnette couldn’t stop.
Lottie stumbled down another two steps. “I’m afraid I’ll always love the wrong person.”
Another three steps, whispers rising into a swell. “I’m afraid the truth will stay locked inside me.”
Her eyes locked on Grayson. “GRAYSON IS NOT THE FATHER!”
She screamed it.
Then fell back onto the stairs, gripping the banister with one hand.
Fifty-One
GRAY
Silence.
Utter.
Silence.
Until my sister’s muffled laugh broke it like shattered china.
“I tried so hard,” Lottie said, voice ragged and breathy. “I tried so hard to be your wife. So many times you still went after her… I just needed to feel wanted.”
Sorrow and disgust swamped me. “Are you saying I did this? I pushed you to this?”
She looked left and right. “No—”
“Do you have any idea what you did? What you’ve caused? If you had just told the truth from the beginning—”
I dragged my hands through my hair.
We wouldn’t be here.
I could have left with her.
None of this would be happening.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I screamed.
She was nine months pregnant and I’d spent those nine months thinking she was pregnant with my baby.
Nine months all but ignoring her.
Being a horrible father.
A disgusting human being.
And hating myself for it.
“You’re disgusting.” I turned away. “I can’t even look at you. I have no idea who you are, but you are not the girl I fell in love with—”
“Did you ever love me, Grayson?” Lottie screamed and any remaining whispers fell dead. She’d gotten to her feet, stumbling down the steps.
“Lottie, sweet pea…”
“Grayson, dear…”
I saw, in the corner of my eye my mother already starting damage control. The press herded out, the ballroom beginning to clear, as the perfect shower my mom spent months planning shattered to the ground.
This marriage they spent even longer propping up, like the dead corpse it was, finally fucking rotted to the core.