Forbidden Fate (Crowne Point 3)

“I should have realized you’d never want me the day you gave my wedding dress to her and didn’t even care enough to make sure I wouldn’t see it. My dad does that shit to my mom all the time.”

A few moments later I heard the door to the bathroom slam shut.

“Fuck!” I kicked my desk, breaking the wooden leg into splinters.

STORY

* * *

West helped me down to my room in the servants’ quarters, and I was numb enough to let him. There was that voice in my head telling me to stop.

Stick up for myself.

But I’d already slapped one person today, and my nausea hadn’t left, and now I felt light-headed. The servants still refused to feed me. I would’ve left to grab something in Crowne Point, but I just wanted to pack and get out.

West set me on the bed. “You look like you’re going to faint.”

“I’m fine. I’m just…” I rubbed my forehead, never finishing.

Every time I stood I got dizzy, like the blood was rushing too fast. Maybe it was lack of food, I don’t know.

“I should have just taken my uncle out of here,” I said quietly.

“I remember your uncle,” West said. “I don’t think he would have listened.”

“He wasn’t the same in the end. Losing his mind. Going on about coins buried beneath poetry and wishes.” I exhaled.

He arched a brow. “Coins?”

Grayson’s locket glared back at me from my dingy mirror, dangling from my collarbone and glinting atop my black dress from the little light in the room. I was suddenly stricken with an impossible choice. I knew I should leave it behind, leave all memories of this place.

When I wore it, I told myself it didn’t mean anything. It was the only nice jewelry I owned.

I never opened it.

What was inside Grayson Crowne’s heart?

West put his hand on mine, stopping my frantic packing. “Angel. My offer will always stand.”

“Are you hitting on me on the day of my uncle’s funeral, West?”

“I’m letting you know you’re not alone.”

I let out a bark of a laugh.

I was so fucking alone.

“The only person keeping me in this fucking place just died. So you can fuck yourself.”

He sat down, ignoring my ire, folding a shirt. “You need me, Story.”

“I have money,” I said numbly.

Something flickered in his eyes. “In this world…money is useless. You need power. Do you still write poetry, Story? You know I’m taking over the company soon. We run the biggest publishing houses in the East Coast. Do you think about getting published? I could get you there.”

West said it lightly, but my stomach went cold. It was nearly the exact same offer Grayson had given me months ago.

“I don’t want—”