The princess spends more time with the villain than the hero.
Eight
STORY
Two weeks had passed.
Two weeks without Grayson.
The phone was dead.
Useless.
“I heard a story about the Cinderella of Crowne Hall,” my girl whispered—my girl, because I had one now. At least I was allowed to talk to her…
“You are her, aren’t you?” she pressed.
“Why does it even matter?” I sighed. I kept getting asked this question with the same, low-voiced excitement, as if they were asking for an extra piece of chocolate after being told no.
“The Cinderella of Crowne Hall is a servant.” My girl looked away. “It would be so amazing if she’d become a mistress.”
I frowned at my girl in the mirror. More amazing than when I’d been his wife? Behind me, she fastened a silky blue dress, so beautiful it looked like it had been plucked from a painting. My curls de-frizzed, shining like satin.
I felt like I was losing myself, getting uncomfortably used to this life. A porcelain doll, silently purposeful.
Another line from Emily Brontë came to mind.
I wish I were a girl again, half savage and hardy, and free. Why am I so changed?
“You have the wrong person…that girl doesn’t exist.”
“Oh.” Her face dropped.
“I don’t know why everyone is acting as if being a mistress is such a big deal. I’m basically a whore.”
She dropped the pearls she was about to string around my neck on a gasp. They scattered everywhere. I got down to help her, when a violent flashback assaulted me. The night Grayson married Lottie.
I hate you because I know he’s going to be thinking of you tonight. The same way, maybe, you hate me. Because after tonight, he’ll be mine.
Tangled and twisted, that’s what the four of us had become.
My girl startled at me helping her. “I’m sorry, miss.”
“I didn’t mean to shock you,” I croaked.
“You didn’t…” She scooped up the rest of them. We both rose to our feet, and she went to find another necklace for me.
“Well…you did. It’s quite a big deal. You stand behind them. They don’t let just anyone be you.”
A mistress is not an excuse to lower the bar; even your father knew that.
I was weary with memories, they held my shoulders down like too much gravity. If I only knew how prophetic Beryl’s words would have been that very first day I spent with Grayson.
“So you want to be a mistress?” I asked as she came back to me.
“There is nothing more romantic than being a mistress. A prince sweeps you off your fee
t, and no one can touch you ever again. You belong to Mr. du Lac and anyone smart won’t even look at you. There aren’t many more powerful than a du Lac.”