Page 117 of Thrones We Steal

Bloody hell. They’re all conspiring against me.

I mash my pillow into a thicker lump under my head. I close my eyes and count one hundred sheep (the most futile exercise ever created). I climb out of bed and into downward-facing-dog position for a few minutes. I sip the lukewarm tea Daphne left on my bedside table. I even try reading a few pages of a novel, but after five minutes I can’t recall a single word.

I unplug my phone from the charger. I tell myself it’s only so I can sleep.

Desperate times, desperate measures.

I send the text.

Where is he?

37

“Helium” - Sia

Maisie arranges a private flight to England for me the next morning. The royal jet is only available for official Crown business, and unfortunately chasing my husband across the Atlantic doesn’t qualify. She also books the Presidential Suite at The Lanesborough. The Royal Suite is not available, presumably booked by Henry himself. Bea said it’s his preferred hotel, and I try not to think about how she knows this.

Twelve hours later, I’m crossing the ocean, bound for London. And hopefully some closure.

Getting into Henry’s suite will be more difficult. I’m nervous he gave his security team orders to deny me access. When I mention this to Daphne, she suggests asking his valet for help.

“We are friends, of a sort.” A blush stains her cheeks.

“Ah,” I say. “Assure him I’m willing to overlook any workplace fraternization if he helps me.”

After checking into my suite, which is even more opulent than my rooms in the palace, I change out of my wrinkled travel outfit and into the emerald green dress Henry loves. It can’t hurt to look good, right?

I stand on shaky legs and take a deep breath.

It’s showtime.

* * *

Daphne texted Henry’s valet soon after our arrival and assured me he will get me access to Henry’s suite. We wait in the hotel corridor outside a single door leading into Albright’s set of rooms in the suite. The door opens and Albright steps out, holding the door ajar. I whisper my thanks and slip past him into the inner hallway.

I studied the floor plan of the suite on the website so I know the door on my left opens into a large living and dining room, with a study and the master suite beyond it. Should I knock? It’s probably better to just go in than to risk meeting one of his PPOs.

I really haven’t thought this through.

The state room is empty. I thank the plush carpet for muffling my footsteps. I tiptoe—not easy in heels—past a set of closed double doors leading to the foyer. That must be where his security team is. They aren’t going to appreciate my craftiness. I’ll have to get Henry’s word that no one will lose their job over this.

On the far side of the room, another door is camouflaged with the same intricate gold trim as the walls. As I walk closer, the sound of talking becomes distinguishable. I misstep and nearly go down on my ankle. It never occurred to me that he might not be alone.

Forcing one foot in front of the other, I approach the door and press my ear against it. I can hear Henry’s low voice—my heart stutters at the sound—but I can’t make out what he’s saying. I wait to hear if the other person is male or female, but there’s nothing but silence.

He speaks again, pauses, then says something else. He must be on the phone. I nearly sink to the floor. So far, so good. Now it’s just a matter of facing him. The thought leaves me even shakier than I already am.

I opt to enter without knocking and crack the door open. The room is decorated in a cozy matte red and wood, the walls trimmed in gold, the furniture all red upholstery. Henry stands across the room, facing away from me toward the window, his phone held to his ear. He’s wearing a white shirt tucked into navy trousers. The ambrosial scent of him infuses the room and nearly collapses me.

“What do you mean? Nothing has been done?” he says into the phone.

I close the door softly and lean against it, drinking him in like a lovestruck teenager. It’s been five days since I’ve seen him. Missing him is a physical ache. He picks up a crystal tumbler on the desk beside him.

“That doesn’t make any sense. Get me more info.” He turns around and lifts the glass to his lips. As he does, his eyes light on me standing in the doorway. The shock registers on his face, and he lowers the tumbler again without taking a drink.

“Keep me informed.” He ends the call without taking his eyes off of me. “Celia.” It’s an exhale. He narrows his eyes and studies me from head to toe. “I have so many questions, I don’t even know where to begin.”

“While you’re figuring it out, I’ve got one of my own.” I push away from the door and take a few steps into the room. My fingers close around the annulment papers in my bag, and I pull them out. “You filed for divorce without saying a word to me?”

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