“But even if we somehow are able to track down this alleged Good Samaritan,” Dalton continues, “our polling shows it won’t matter. There is no scenario in which you’ll be able to save the monarchy and have the girl, too. It’s one or the other.”
I close my eyes, trying to use some of the breathing techniques Nora taught me to calm myself down, prevent myself from doing something I’ll regret. With every word Dalton speaks, it becomes more and more difficult.
“The local police chief already made a statement dismissing any claims of foul play.”
“The people don’t care about that. That’s akin to the editor of a newspaper issuing a retraction on page fifteen a week after publishing a shocking front-page story. And that’s precisely what this is. A sensationalized story, the stuff tabloids are made of. The only thing that can compete with it is if the truth is even more sensational, even more headline worthy. Which it’s not. So the best course—”
“It was me!” I shout, jumping from my chair, chest heaving, fists clenched.
“Excuse me?” Dalton asks.
“Me,” I repeat. “It was me.”
He studies me for a moment, then smiles, shaking his head. “I see what you’re doing. You think you can fix this by coming forward with some romantic tale about how you pulled her from the wreck. Make people forget her mother’s version insinuating Ms. Tremblay planned it. I—”
“No. That’s not it at all, although I did pull her from the wreck. If you were thorough with your research, weren’t giddy with excitement over the prospect of finally getting rid of Nora, you would have noticed the date of the wreck.”
He blinks, shifting through some papers, pulling out what I recognize to be a police report.
“It’s the same night Kendall Davies passed away,” I tell him. “At a hospital in Long Island.”
“Gabriel…,” my father cautions again. This time, it feels more out of obligation, as if he knows there’s no stopping this runaway train.
“I don’t—” Dalton begins.
“I’m the reason they crashed in the first place.” I point to myself. “I caused the wreck. I forced them off the road.” My voice wavers as a half-dozen eyes stare at me in utter shock. “I killed Nora’s fiancé and their unborn child!”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Nora
A breeze blows a few tendrils of hair around my face as I stare at the miles and miles of glistening, blue ocean below me. I’ve never walked this close to the edge of Anderson’s property before, choosing to remain at a safe distance. But now I’m drawn to the swirling depths. Wonder how it would feel if I were able to summon up the courage to leap.
I imagine I’d feel free again.
Then nothing.
What I wouldn’t give to feel nothing. To be numb.
But I’d never be able to do that. Not only because of Little Pickle, but also because Lieutenant O’Kelly lingers nearby, watching my every move, as if I pose a danger to myself.
After the way I destroyed the bathroom in Paris, I suppose everyone has good reason to think I do.
“My lady.” A voice cuts through over the ocean waves crashing below.
I turn around, facing the butler. I can’t even remember his name. Charles… Richard… It probably won’t matter much longer anyway.
“Her Majesty is here and requested an audience.”
I close my eyes, drawing in a steadying breath.
The last person I want to see is that woman, who I’m sure believes every single word my mother said.
“If you’re not up for it…,” O’Kelly says, expression awash in concern.
It touches me that, even though he’s employed by the monarchy, he still shows loyalty to me first.
“Thank you, Kylian. But I’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m not sure about anything right now.” I smile sadly, then follow the butler out of the gardens and into the house, O’Kelly remaining only a few steps behind me at all times.
As I walk down the corridors, it feels like all the portraits stare at me as they would a condemned prisoner heading to her execution.
With pity.
With disgust.
With just plain revulsion.
From the first time I stepped inside this house, I always felt they were judging me, silently thinking I didn’t deserve to be here. That I’d never measure up.
They were right.
“Ms. Nora Tremblay,” the butler announces.
I give O’Kelly one more reassuring smile before stepping into the study.
The space is mostly dark, dust from the hundreds of books clinging to the air. If it weren’t located in this house that’s more like a prison, I might like this room.
I focus on where Queen Veronica currently sits at a table by the window, a chess board resting on it.
She doesn’t get up when I walk in, simply stares at me with those cold, judgmental eyes.
“Your Majesty,” I say with an awkward curtsey.
It may be the last one I ever do. It’s probably why she’s here. To break the news so Anderson doesn’t have to. Doesn’t have to look into my eyes and tell me we gave it a shot, but it just didn’t work out. That he had to make a choice between the Crown and me. That as future king, he will always have to choose the Crown.
“Sit, Nora,” she says in an even tone, gesturing to the chair across from her.
There’s a part of me that wants to remain standing, one final act of defiance. But there’s nothing left. I do as she requests, peering at her with a vacant expression. Nothing she says can hurt me. I don’t think anything can now.
We sit in silence for several moments. It once unnerved me. Not anymore. Now I welcome it.
“I’m sure you know why I’m here,” she begins.
“It’s not to discuss who I favor in the upcoming derby?”
She gives me a reproachful glare, her distaste for my sarcasm obvious. “You’ve put this family in a difficult position.”
“I believe that honor should be given to my mother.”
“Perhaps.” She waves her hand at the chess board. “Do you play?”
“I know the basics.”
“Very well.”
She grabs two pawns, one black and one white, closing her hands around them. She hides them behind her back and mixes them up. When she extends her hands back toward me, I tap her left one. She opens it, revealing black in her palm.
I take the black pawn and return it to the board, awaiting her first move. She pushes one of her pawns forward two squares, which I also do when it’s my turn.
“Regardless of the veracity of your mother’s claims,” she continues, her focus mostly on the board, “her version of events is out there, and there’s only one person who can clear your name in this so-called Kangaroo Court that appears to have convened in this country.”
“Who’s that?” I ask cautiously after taking my turn, unsure how much she knows about that night.
According to Anderson, his father ordered Creed to keep the truth a secret from everyone, including Anderson himself. Until a year ago, he had no recollection of his involvement in the crash due to several moments of temporary blindness that caused him to swerve the car he drove into the wrong lane, forcing Hunter and me off the road. It wasn’t until Creed realized who I was that he finally came clean to Anderson. But I’m still not sure how many people Anderson has shared the truth with, apart from Esme. And, of course, Hunter’s parents when he confessed his involvement to them. But being the kind, forgiving people they are, they never went public with it.