Forbidden Fate (Crowne Point 3)
I exhaled a shaky breath.
“There’s only one person keeping me here, and when he dies, I’m not staying around for another prince peddling his lies.”
Except a small, tiny piece of my heart wanted to go back to West. Wanted to make what happened between us okay. Because then, maybe, I wouldn’t have to look back on that memory with sadness.
It might wash away the stain.
“If you’ll excuse me,” I said. “There’s a wife missing her garter.”
West gripped my elbow. “Not even for revenge?” He thumbed my chin. “We can make him regret everything.”
Two
GRAY
* * *
“Can I get a photo of the couple of the century?”
A man dressed in an ill-fitted tuxedo held up a camera to take a picture of us.
The wedding of the century. At least, that’s what was getting shoved up my ass from every angle, written in twenty-four karat gold on the six-foot wedding cake, spelled in diamonds across tables and walls, trending across social media because mother had paid for millions of bot accounts.
The Crowne-du Lac merge was the biggest marriage to happen in our world and my mother wasn’t going to let anyone forget it—or maybe it was an attempt to draw their attention from the blurry girl I’d brought to the engagement party, leaked in photographs online. We were the wedding of the century, the couple of the century.
“You could at least pretend to smile,” Lottie whispered. “It’s not like we don’t know how to pretend.”
Every Crowne is taught a wedding is just another business deal.
I had hoped to avoid that fate, but here I was.
I grasped Lottie’s hand, trying to offer her some kind of support.
She shot me her pretend smile. Sad, hollow, willowy. Fuck.
The paparazzo looked at his camera. “Perfect. Look how happy you are.” He snapped another few pictures and left, disappearing into the crowd.
We were seated above everyone, and I felt like some kind of royalty at a feast.
We had an entire year of this facade, an entire year of photo ops and pretending. Of paid paparazzi and paid magazine covers that were staged to look organic. Shit, we didn’t even get a fucking weekend to rest. This weekend we were headed to Asheville to celebrate Labor Day with Lottie’s family.
We were going on a veritable royal tour.
The food was made by some Michelin chef, a fucking steak I had to scarf down. It shouldn’t have bothered me. I did this all the time.
They think your favorite food is steak…
“Rare, like you like it, right?” Lottie asked.
I shot her another winning Grayson Crowne smile.
Our wedding planner appeared before us, and she bobbled her head in front of our long table for a good three minutes before I realized she was talking to us.
“It’s our first dance,” Lottie said quietly.
“Oh shit.”
I stood, offering my hand to Lottie so we could make our way into the center of the ballroom. The music started, and bright-white camera flashes went off one after the other. My eyes connected across the room, and I tripped over my shoe, into Lottie.