I continue throwing everything I can find — shampoo bottles, vase with flowers, and even a few towels. When there’s nothing left, I allow my tears to overtake me as I lean against the wall and slump to the floor, hugging my legs to my chest, blood covering my feet.
The door flies open and Creed barrels inside, frantically scanning the room. But his worry is no match for Anderson’s. Glass crunches beneath his shoes as he hurries toward me and crouches down, pulling me into his arms, my sobs echoing in the sudden silence.
“It’s okay,” he soothes, kissing my temple. “It’ll all be okay. She won’t get away with this.”
I wish I could believe him. But she already has. The truth is irrelevant. In the court of public opinion, I’ve already been judged guilty.
Nothing anyone says or does will change the verdict.
Chapter Thirty-One
Anderson
“Are you sure you’ll be okay?” I ask Nora as we stand in front of my residence. The dark SUV that drove us from the airfield idles behind us, waiting for me to get back into it.
She lifts her eyes to mine, but they’re as empty as they’ve been all afternoon, all signs of life gone.
I’d never seen Nora as broken as when Creed burst through the bathroom door and my gaze fell on her defeated frame, her feet cut up, glass everywhere.
From the beginning, she had a habit of hiding behind a mask of perfectly groomed hair and impeccably applied makeup. But I was able to see it for what it was. A cry for help. A silent plea for someone to finally set her free. And not just from her sorrow over losing Hunter and her baby. But also from her mother’s torment.
Now I can’t help but think I dragged her back into the darkness. Forced her into this life where she lost another piece of who she was daily until it got to be too much and she snapped.
Thankfully, we were able to get out of the hotel without incident, the French police dispersing the assembled paparazzi almost as soon as they showed up. During the short, tension-filled flight back to Belmont, I’d grown hopeful it would all blow over. That the people here wouldn’t buy into the lies. That they’d focus on the woman who captured their hearts these past few months.
Who joined in on a nationwide search for a missing child, tromping through fields alongside a volunteer group looking for any clue as to her whereabouts.
Who donned a baseball hat and sunglasses to serve meals at a soup kitchen when she saw they were desperate for help. Something no one in the royal family would ever do, except for Esme and myself.
Who spent hours trying to respond to every letter she received, not wanting anybody to think their messages fell on deaf ears.
But when our plane landed to a swarm of media and outraged locals, I knew that wasn’t the case.
It didn’t matter the OB who delivered Ember gave an interview painting Nora in a vastly different light, claiming she’d never seen a patient so distraught.
It didn’t matter the local police chief where the accident happened also made a statement that there was no physical evidence to support Dr. Harcourt’s inferences regarding foul play.
It didn’t matter that Hunter’s parents also made a statement in support of Nora’s strong character and sympathetic nature.
The die’s already been cast. Nora’s mother gave everyone a sensational story. In the court of social media, the people are the judge, jury, and executioner. The truth is completely irrelevant.
If I thought Nora was broken before, having to drive through a city entrenched in protests, people holding signs calling her a murderer, gold digger, and baby killer, destroyed her last remnant of life.
The last thing I want is to leave her in such a fragile state, but I don’t have a choice, not after being summoned to the palace.
“I’ll be fine,” she says, her voice defeated. She lowers her head as she turns from me, her steps sluggish.
I pull my lips between my teeth, rubbing the back of my neck. I hate this. Hate watching her break down. Hate I can’t stay to comfort her. What good would it do, though? I fear our fate has already been decided.
“O’Kelly,” I bark out at Nora’s chief protection officer as he starts to follow her into the house.
He pauses, glancing at me.
I walk toward him and lean in, dropping my voice to barely a whisper. “Do not let her out of your sight. Got it?”
He nods. “Yes, sir.”
“I mean it, Kylian. Not for so much as a heartbeat.” I hold his gaze, hoping he picks up on the importance of my request. When he nods once more in understanding, I turn, sliding back into the SUV.
Creed doesn’t utter a single word during the drive to the palace, simply studies me every so often through the rearview mirror. I’m grateful for it. I’m not sure what I’d say to him even if he asked how I’m holding up. I have no fucking clue. This interview came out of left field, leaving all of us unprepared.
Although I shouldn’t have been.
Should have known this woman wouldn’t sit back and allow Nora to be happy. She’s now succeeded in doing what she’s tried to do for years.
Breaking Nora to the point where I barely recognize her.
As we approach the front gates of the palace, I keep my eyes trained forward in an attempt to ignore all the protestors assembled outside. I’d give anything to admonish each and every one of them, remind them how, mere hours ago, they adored Nora.
How quickly the tides turn.
They have fresh meat for the slaughter, and they’re more than happy to roast Nora on a spit.
During my schooling, I was often fascinated by the Salem Witch Trials. How it was possible for mass hysteria to spread so quickly, a sham of a trial being the only thing standing between the accused and a date with the gallows. Now I understand. It has nothing to do with who’s right. All that matters is who has the loudest voice.
And the mob outside the palace gates is deafening.
When Creed pulls the SUV to a stop in front of the entrance, I glance up at the building, my stomach roiling. My hand twitches, head throbs. I squeeze my eyes closed, pinching the bridge of my nose.
“You okay?” Creed asks.
“Fucking peachy,” I snip out as one of the palace valets opens my door. I slide out and button my suit jacket, about to walk up the steps when I pause, popping my head back into the car. “Listen, mate. I’m sorry. I’m—”
“It’s fine. It’s been a trying day. Just don’t forget what’s important to you. What you fought so hard for.”
It’s like he can read my mind. Like he knows the war I’ve been waging these past few days.
“I haven’t,” I tell him.
“Good.”
I turn and follow my father’s private secretary toward the executive wing of the palace. This is all distressingly similar to when Nora and I first landed in Belmont a few weeks ago.
But I have a feeling the outcome this time won’t be as positive.
When we reach the same conference room, Colonel Winters knocks once, then opens the door, stepping inside. “His Royal Highness Prince Gabriel,” he announces, then moves to the side.
I’d expected to be greeted by my father, the head of household, Dalton Peel, and my grandmother, as is typically the case whenever something like this happens.