Forbidden Fate (Crowne Point 3)

Lottie sat on the windowsill, chewing her bottom lip, wrapped in a silk robe. The room was dark, the only light from the window, from string lights twinkling on the night-darkened lawn below.

I wanted to tell her sorry, but instead I said, “I brought your nighttime tea.”

I set the tea on a table beside her. Lottie stared out the window, her breath fogging the glass, shoulders slumped.

Whatever I said about today would sound like an excuse. The truth was, it wasn’t really about today, anyway. I still hadn’t found a way I could apologize for what I’d done.

I’m not sure there is a way.

I think you just have to let them hate you.

“We’re leaving soon,” she said lightly, softly.

I know. I counted the days until I could see Uncle. Six. Six more days.

Again the words I wanted to say got stuck in my throat.

You’re not supposed to be the villain in your own story, but every day I could see my role written clearer on Lottie’s face. The longer I stayed here, the further I cemented it…all the things I wanted to avoid.

Villainous.

Ruinous.

Slut.

“Do you have my lip gloss?” she asked.

“I never wore it. Sorry.” I handed it to her. She stared at it, then started laughing. Uncontrollably. Until her laughter turned into sobs.

I reached out to hold her, comfort her, I don’t know.

In the end, I took Lottie’s tea tray, leaving the tea.

I caught him, my ghost of love long past, an hour or two after returning Lottie’s tea. He didn’t see me or hear me when I came in, so I used that to my advantage. I leaned against the wall, watching him. Watching Grayson Crowne.

He placed what looked like a jar of peanuts on my nightstand. Fluffed my pillow.

And then he just…stayed. Inspected. He fingered the peeling wallpaper, exhaling. His head traveled to my small window, and I wondered what he was thinking.

“The servants’ quarters back home are better,” I said. “On clear nights you can see the moon.”

Grayson jumped. He turned around, eyes wide. Then he blinked, and impassivity washed over his features. He said nothing, moving to leave, brushing past me without a word.

Was he seriously going to leave like that?

“Hey!” I went after him, slamming the door before he could leave. “You left me your journal, didn’t you?”

He looked over my head at the now-shut door, still silent, as if I were an annoying wind that had closed the door.

“Did you read it?” he asked softly, eyes still on the door.

“No. And I never fucking will,” I lied. “Stop doing this.” I shoved him. “You said you would leave me to hate you.”

His eyes flashed to mine. “Stay the fuck away from Westley du Lac and I will.”

“Who are you to tell me what to do?”

“You’re right. Guess it’s not my fault you catch the eyes of all the du Lac men.”