Chadwick hadn’t been there that day. As soon as his parents realized what he was doing with me, they shipped him off to a Swiss boarding school.
“Chadwick, darling.” His mother glides forward. Her icy blue eyes and high cheekbones tell of good breeding, even if her skin is a little too pale. She's probably anemic from centuries of inbreeding—she looks a little like a half-made vampire. “Who is this?” She angles herself perfectly before us, her eyes on the duke. Waiting for an introduction.
Franz supplies it. “Lady Cawthorne, may I present my brother? And his fiancée.” Her eyes barely glaze over me, dismissing me quickly. She's quick to do a half curtsy. No one here half curtseys to anyone except to the queen, but she's trying to get into the duke’s good graces, I guess.
Benedict can tell that something is wrong with me. I'm stiff and silent by his side. But his good breeding kicks in, and he smoothly does a half bow that looks way more practiced and normal. “My lady, a pleasure to meet you.” He also nods to the elder Chadwick Cawthorne, who has strolled over to stand beside his wife and son.
And I can't stop the memories from rushing back.
In a choked voice, I say, “Excuse me,” and rush off, holding my baby blue skirts, like Cinderella fleeing at midnight.
It was bound to happen. I was hurtling to the moon. It was high time something made me crash.
I escape into the powder room and hide in a stall, sinking onto the toilet with my big skirts frothing around me. It’s quiet in here, but for the faint lilting music from the live orchestra. No one else is in here. Daniel and I speculated that women fast and dehydrate themselves before entering a ballroom. From my experience, women only use the powder room to powder their noses and gossip. But at least I'm alone.
My gut churns, making me glad I haven’t eaten or drunk anything. I rise and head out to the sinks, where I carefully dab water onto my chest. I look so different from the girl I was. There’s no way Chadwick—stupid, self-absorbed man boy that he is—would have recognized me if he hadn’t had Franz’s help.
It was a set up. And it worked. I put my hand on my stomach, forcing myself to breathe. And the memory rises before me. Me, seventeen, out of my head in… love? Lust? Who even knows what those high strung teenage emotions are? The highs are ecstasy. The lows are agony. And logic and clear thinking are involved not at all.
He told me he loved me. He said it was forever. Now I know better. He was a bored rich kid, and he said what I wanted to hear so he could get into my pants. I wasn’t his true love; I was a diversion. A way to pass a dull July.
But I’d thought it was real. A fairytale written in the stars. He was rich and handsome, if a little snooty. But my teen self had regarded his arrogance with awe. I was awkward and nervous, and he wanted to be with me anyway. He was my first, and it was perfect. Until I told him I’d missed my period.
He’d frowned, then kissed me softly. Fucked me one last time. And that was the last I ever saw of him—until now. When I’d gone the next day to find him in our usual secret hidden trysting place—an unused parlor the resort staff rarely cleaned—his mother had been waiting for me instead.
“Frankie,” whines a voice, rudely cutting into my memories. My gaze is blurry. I have to wipe my eyes before I recognize who’s interrupted my reverie—Winnie Bennett. My glamorous, vapid, possibly evil doppelganger. I didn’t even hear her come in.
She has her hand on her hip. Cocks her head and looks me up and down much like Chadwick did earlier. Then she gives me a sneer.
“I don't know what he sees in you,” she dismisses me, turning to admire herself in the mirror. “Other than me, of course. Total rebound material.” She smirks at me in the mirror, then wipes away her lipstick and reapplies it. “You don't belong here.”
You don't belong, you don't belong. The phrase echoes in my head. Did they teach it at boarding school in the Swiss Alps? Because Lady Cawthorne said that to me when I was seventeen, with exactly the same sneer, right before she told me her son would no longer be seeing me. I thought it was the worst moment of my life.
I was wrong. The worst came later.
My bodice is too tight. I back away, trying to breathe. I need air. I need to get out of here.
I run blindly out of the bathroom, not caring that Winnie Bennett is gloating. She got what she came for tonight.
I race out of the mansion. The night air hits me, carrying the scent of the river with it. I stagger across the lawn, skirts slipping from my hands. I'm getting grass stains on this beautiful satin but I don't care. I don’t stop until I’m close enough to hear the water lapping against the bank.
I nearly drowned in this river a few balls ago. Someone shot fireworks at us. Maybe I should have taken it as a sign.
“Frankie,” someone calls. It's Daniel. I wipe my face, glad that Benedict isn’t here to witness this. He didn't come for me. He's probably inside, dancing with Winnie Bennett. You don't belong here.
Daniel arrives at my side. “What's wrong?” he asks and then sees my face. “Come, darling.” He holds out his arm. “We’ll get you home.”
I hope he’s using the royal ‘we’, and I can slink home with no one besides Daniel noticing, but Benedict meets us at the car. Daniel passes me to him. Before I can protest, Benedict's arms are around me. He tucks his jacket around my shoulders and bundles me into the car.
In the darkness, I scoot away, but he follows me and I let him cradle me. The car rolls past Daniel, illuminating his worried face, before heading on into the night.
“I’m sorry,” I croak, but Benedict hushes me. He palms my cheek and presses me to his shoulder. “Later. We'll talk later.”
Chapter 13
Frankie
“All right,” Benedict says once I’m showered and dressed in comfortable clothes, back in Lady Ursaline’s manor. I’m safely ensconced on a couch with a glass of scotch in my hand. I take a sip and grimace, handing the half full glass to him. He downs it in one swallow and sets it aside. Instead of taking a seat next to me on the couch, he lifts me up and sits back down with me in his lap. “Tell me what happened.”
“I should've told you from the start.” I can’t look at him. I’m grateful the room is dark, a few lamps offering pools of light that don’t touch the greater gloom. Fitting for this conversation. “I never thought it would come out. If I had—”
“Shh, Frankie. I know.”
“There was a boy,” I start slowly, “and I thought I knew what I was doing. I’d watched so many movies, so many fairy tales.” I choke up for a moment, wishing I didn’t sound so pathetic. “I thought that I knew the script. But reality isn't a fairytale. Happy endings aren't real.” I stare into Benedict’s dark eyes, wishing I could telepathically communicate the rest.
“Did he…” Benedict's face tightens.
“No,” I say quickly. “It was all consensual. I was seventeen.”
“He was older—” Benedict starts, but I cut him off with a shake of my head.
“The age of consent in my state is sixteen. And it was consensual.”