Page 73 of Thrones We Steal

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“White Horse” - Taylor Swift

Someone is knocking at the door. I ignore them. They keep knocking for a few more minutes but eventually give up and go away. The sun saturates the drapes in the west window like a bucket of gold poured in from outside. It will soon turn to shades of pink, orange, and red.

I’m still dressed in my jeans and bra from last night, my sweater discarded somewhere on the floor. I’m going to burn it and all traces of Henry’s scent.

My mouth feels dry and I know without looking in a mirror that my eyes are puffy. I feel like something rising from the dead, barely alive, barely breathing, heart still cold.

It’s like existing in a dream world: you think you should be able to feel things, but you can’t because you’re trapped in another reality, one that doesn’t feel real at all because it can’t possibly be real—but the gaping hole in your chest, the one that’s impossible to ignore, is still there, still aching, still reminding you that you’re alive, even if just barely.

They’ve been coming all day—Maisie, Daphne, Rosalind, even Beatrice. The only one who doesn’t come is the only one I want to see. If he did, I’m not sure if I’d carve his heart out with a rusty spoon or demand an explanation. But it doesn’t matter because the door between our rooms remains shut. There’s only a gaping silence on the other side.

I knew, of course, that Henry can’t be trusted. It’s in his DNA. But he caught me so unawares and captured me so completely, I assumed something had changed. I forgot the most important thing: wolves are still wolves, even in your grandmother’s clothing.

How is it possible to misread so many signals?

I now recognize his concern, his thoughtfulness, his tenderness, his vulnerability—all of the things that chipped away at my resolve to keep him out—for what they actually were: traps laid for my poor heart to stumble into and be fatally ensnared by.

I am angry. Angry at him, sure. But mostly at myself. Because no matter how hard I try, I can’t murder the flicker of hope that there’s some explanation. Approximately how many times can a meat grinder be used on a heart before it finally relents and accepts reality?

I need to know why, need to understand. Does he have a phobia of commitment or does he just get off on stealing and breaking hearts? Maybe if he explains, I can move on. But more than anything, I need to see him again, to breathe him in once more, to feel his hands on me. Just once more and I can get him out of my system for good, out of my head.

I recognize the toxicity of my own thoughts, but there’s no reasoning with an addict.

I pull myself out of bed and wash my face. Makeup can’t redeem me, but it helps. I slip into my crumpled sweater, take a deep lungful of his scent—I’ll burn it later—and brush the tangles from my hair, squeezing back tears at the thought of his hands putting them there less than twenty-four hours ago.

God, when he looks at you like that, you feel like a goddess.

After brushing the wrinkles from my sweater as best as I can, I walk to his door. My heart thrums loudly enough to pass for a knock. Will he throw me out again or will he at least give me the decency of an explanation first? I quietly knock on the door and wait for the sound of his footsteps.

Everything is quiet.

“Henry?” I hate the trepidation in my voice. “Please, I just want to talk to you. I promise not to throw anything.” At least not right away.

Still no answer. I try the knob and it turns under my hand. The room is dark, all of the lights out.

Without giving a thought to what I’m doing, I walk inside and flick the light switch. There’s no sign last night ever happened. The Monopoly game has been cleaned up, the wine glasses gone, the candles snuffed out and cleared away.

It’s like the whole evening was a dream. Or more like a nightmare.

I won’t be getting any answers tonight. I turn to go back to my own suite when my eye catches on the ice bucket on the bar, the champagne bottle still inside. The ice has melted and is now nothing but a lukewarm bath. I can’t help feeling like this bottle ruined everything, even though I know that’s ridiculous. It was simply the catalyst for the next act in Henry’s game: tear Celia’s heart into a myriad of minuscule pieces.

I lift the bottle and watch the water drip into the bucket. At least he didn’t open it after I left. A small consolation.

There’s a tag strung around the neck. I swivel it around and read: Best wishes to the happy couple. It isn’t signed. Somehow William must have known about Henry and me, and as much as I dislike him personally and want to see him rot in prison for what he did to Henry, it was a thoughtful gesture.

It’s a shame to let such nice champagne go to waste. I carry the dripping bottle back to my room. I may not be getting answers, but at least I’ll have some company.

After the champagne and I become thoroughly acquainted with one another, I pull out my phone. He might be able to avoid me by not coming home, but his phone goes everywhere with him. It takes reaching his voicemail twelve times before it occurs to me that he can just as easily ignore my calls as my knocks on his door.

Damn him.

Damn the way he can shatter me with a single word. Damn the way he makes me feel electrified. Damn the way the world seems technicolor just because he’s in the room. Damn the way my heart keeps insisting just one more time. Just one more kiss, one more night, one more adventure. Once more in his arms, once more seeing that look in his eyes, once more hearing him say my name like he’s caressing the word itself.

And damn the fear that’s rising in my chest.

Fear that I’ll never be whole again.

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