The Princess and the Player

And it was a kiss, nothing friendly about it.

The back of Bella’s neck heated as she watched the man she loved kiss another woman.

James was kissing another woman.

Brazenly. Passionately. Openly. As if he didn’t care one bit whether anyone saw him.

His watch glinted in the late afternoon sun as he pulled the dark-haired woman closer, and the flash blinded Bella. Or maybe her vision had blurred because of the tears.

How long had she been playing the fool in this scenario—and was she truly the last to find out? Was everyone giggling behind their hands at her naïvety? Mr. Rowling had certainly known. This was going on in his house and as many times as she’d accused him of not knowing his son...she was the one who didn’t know James.

It all swirled through her chest, crushing down with so much weight she thought her heart would cease to beat under the pressure.

Whirling, she fled back to the car, only holding back the flood of anguish long enough to tell the driver to take her home.

But when she finally barricaded herself in her room, it didn’t feel like home at all. The only place she’d ever experienced the good, honest emotions of what a home should feel like was at the farmhouse. But it had all been a complete lie.

Still blinded by tears, she packed as much as she could into the bag she’d lived out of during those brief, precious days with James as they cleaned up the Montoro legacy. Alma could make do without her because she couldn’t stay here.

Everything is moving too fast, he’d said. He’d meant she was, with her expectations and ill-timed confessions. The whole time, he’d had a woman and a baby on the side. Or was Bella the side dish in this scenario?

Horrified that she’d almost single-handedly brought down the monarchy with her own gullibility, she flung clothes into bags faster. New York. She’d go to New York where there were no bad memories. Her friends in Miami would only grill her about James because she’d stupidly kept them up to the minute as things unfolded with her new romance.

And her brother Rafe would see through her instantly. She couldn’t stand to be around people who knew her well.

Within an hour, she’d convinced Gabriel to concoct some story explaining her absence and numbly settled into the car as it drove her to the private airstrip where the Montoro jet waited to take her to New York. It was the perfect place to forget her troubles among the casual acquaintances she planned to look up when she got there.

The shorter her time in Alma grew, the more hollowed out she felt.

When her phone beeped, she nearly hurled it out the window. James. Finally, he’d remembered that she existed. She didn’t care what he had to say, couldn’t even bear to see his name on the screen. But a perverse need to cut her losses, once and for all, had her opening up the text so she could respond with something scathing and final.

I’m home. Came by, but Gabriel said you left. When will you be back? We need to talk.

She just bet he’d come by—to tell her he was in love with his daughter’s mother. Or worse, to lie to her some more.

Bella didn’t think twice before typing in her reply.

Not coming back. Have a nice life with your family.

Now she could shake Alma’s dust off her feet and start over somewhere James and his new family weren’t. New York was perfect, a nonstop party, and she intended to live it up. After all, she’d narrowly escaped making a huge mistake and now she had no responsibilities to anyone other than herself. Exactly the way she liked it.

But Bella cried every minute of the flight over the Atlantic. Apparently, she’d lost the ability to lie to herself about losing the man she loved.

Twelve

The Manhattan skyline glowed brightly, cheering Bella slightly. Of course, since leaving Alma, the definition of cheer had become: doesn’t make me dissolve into a puddle of tears.

She stared out over the city that never slept, wishing there was one person out there she could connect with, who understood her and saw past the surface. None of her friends had so much as realized anything was wrong. They’d been partying continuously since this time last night. It was a wonder they hadn’t dropped from exhaustion yet.

“Hey, Bella!” someone called from behind her in the crowded penthouse. “Come try these Jell-O shots. They’re fab.”

Bella sighed and ignored whomever it was because the last thing she needed was alcohol. It just made her even more weepy. Besides, they’d go back to their inane conversations about clothes and shoes whether she joined them or not, as they’d been doing for hours. That was the problem with hooking up with casual acquaintances—they didn’t have anything in common.