Page 64 of Thrones We Steal

Then there are the public events that require glad-handing and a smile that hurts your cheeks within two minutes of being locked into place. You can go to the royal family’s website to find a calendar of these events, filtered by family member, if you’re one of those people who likes to lurk at public events in the hope of greeting a royal. It’s one of these I’m currently preparing for, the dilemma being which dress to wear.

The entire royal family will be at this one. Apparently the Wesbourne Cancer Institute is considered important enough to facilitate an appearance from each member. God knows how many dollars it took to buy that level of importance.

Maisie shrugs, undeterred by my argument against the dress. “Let’s face it. The green is your safety net. It’s longer, sleeves to the elbows, and has a nice boat neck collar. But the yellow” —again, holding up the dress— “pushes you out of your box. Which we both know you’ve gotten too comfortable inside.”

What part of this box does she think I’m comfortable in? I open my mouth to reply, but she cuts me off.

“Come on. The color is eye-catching—you’re one of, like, three women in the world who can pull off lemon yellow. It’s knee length, which means it will show off your legs, which are looking great, by the way, thanks to that new trainer. And the dipping bodice is still modest without being prudish.”

She blatantly ignores the irritation on my face.

“I’m more comfortable in the green,” I say. She isn’t wrong. It is my safety net, but right now, safety is one thing I could use more of. The night Henry and I found the letters in Helena’s room was far too dangerous, and I’m doing my best to forget it ever happened.

“Because you’re scared to take a risk!”

“I’m not scared. The green just makes me feel more confident.” In fact, confidence is what I need in other areas too. Having their entire life upended would make anyone waver, right? Before I lost Beck, I would never have let my guard down around Henry.

“You wore it to the boat christening ceremony. The press will rip you into juicy shreds for re-wearing it, and they’ll enjoy every minute of it.”

“You’re right. It’s inhumane of me not to have considered them before. Let’s replicate the entire outfit so they have enough gossip to fill two editions.” I pluck the dress off the hanger.

“If I turn gray by the time I’m thirty, I’m blaming—and charging—you,” she says, but obediently helps me into the sea-foam dress.

I haven’t seen Beck since that godforsaken day in Henry’s office, but he’s sure to have had his fill of me since then. I can’t go anywhere—in the city or online—without being greeted by my own face. Even the post-wedding kiss is still being splashed around like next season’s fashion trends.

If he didn’t hate me before, he definitely does now.

“Which shoes?” Maisie startles me out of my thoughts, dangling two pairs of heels from her fingertips. I point to the nude Gianvito Rossi pumps. She rolls her eyes and passes them to me. “Again with the safe choice.” She slides the white slingbacks back onto the shelf.

“Sorry to bore you. Maybe you’d do better at a fashion magazine,” I say as I slip them on.

She affects a horrified look. “You know I’d rather die than leave your side. Oh, by the way, I inquired into that garden you asked about, the one that was looking a little shabby?”

I had asked her to find out why the Sunken Garden wasn’t being taken care of the day I wandered into it by accident, but I’d completely forgotten about it since. “What did you find out?”

“It seems our good prince didn’t want it touched.” She picks up the electronic tablet that goes everywhere with her, probably even to bed. She lovingly calls it her backup brain.

“Henry asked them to stop taking care of it?”

“That’s what I was told.”

This is an interesting development. My phone pings from somewhere nearby. I glance around, hoping to get lucky and find it lying on my bed. It’s not.

“Closet, second shelf from the right,” Maisie says without looking up from the tablet.

She’s right as usual, and I unlock my screen expecting to find a text from Rosalind reminding me to wear pantyhose. The woman will never forgive my visiting the Equestrian Foundation with—gasp!—bare legs.

I do not expect to see a text from Beck.

Can I see you? Winchester Park, 11am.

A thousand thoughts swirl through my head. I reach out and snag one, and it’s this: How can seeing him do anything but further complicate this mess I’m in?

Because I am a glutton for punishment, because I still miss what we had so badly it’s a physical ache, and because what else can I possibly do—I text him back.

I’ll be there. x

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