Page 159 of Hawthorne

“Have you seen her today?”

He knows damn well l fucking haven’t. She avoids me like the plague.

“She’s gorgeous, as usual.” He smirks.Wanker.

“Fuck off!”

It’s been two weeks since I got shot. For one week and a half, I was wasting away in that damned hospital. Now, I am wasting away in this stupid palace.

At least in the hospital, some people would talk to me without fear or disdain. Here—besides my annoying brother—I always find one or the other.

My mother was allowed to visit once a week, always with the supervision of the royal guardandJoshua. It was funny to see the show. She created a scene in the hospital until she got threatened to either behave and visit me or not see me again while I was in treatment.

It may seem cruel, but I felt relieved. It meant the choice of telling her to leave was being made for me.

There’s a voice inside that keeps telling me she is behind this. I just don’t know how to prove it. And while I know I wasn’t the target, knowing she’d be willing to kill Camilla just to see me take that Crown makes it even worse.

It’s probably too late for this, but I want to cut ties with her. She may be my mother, but that’s it. Even Edgar is living here now, hopping in on the manor now and then just to make sure everything is alright. Which it is. Mariah has been doing an exceptional job as the new housekeeper. So, he says…

“Did you know our clever queen has found a way to extract obsidian from one of our deserted islands without affecting a lot of the wildlife there?”

“I am not surprised,” I answer. “She majored with Honours in Conservation and Ecology Systematics.”

“I am so proud of her,” he gushes like a little kid. I fight the urge to roll my eyes.

I am proud of her, too. She’s been amazing at this ruling thing, and I honestly think she’s the best ruler our country has had in a while.

But talking about her hurts…a lot.

“It’s almost time for your daily walk,” Edgar informs me, thankfully changing the subject.

As if I don’t know.

There has been this strict schedule of meals—and meal plans—physiotherapy and walks around the palace’s private gardens.Daily, I see from ten to fifteen different people, and none of them is her.

Just as expected, a knock sounds, and one of the maids peeks inside.

“Your Grace–”

“Yeah, yeah,” I grumble, cutting her off. “I’m going.”

Edgar helps me stand, and when we both turn to her, she stammers a little bit, “Her Majesty requested both of you at the audience hall.”

What?

“Come on, brother. I think our queen has foundtheperpetrator.”

My stomach sinks. This dread slithers underneath my skin, and my brain anticipates what’s about to happen. I think I know what is about to go down, and as much as I think it’s necessary, I am not prepared for it.

My brother walks by my side, looking now and then just to make sure I don’t need help. I am still fully immobilised on my left side. Up until the stitches come out, that area must be very well tucked in. But it seems as if everyone thinks it has affected the rest of my body. When it surely hasn’t.

“Stop worrying about me,” I grit out in a low tone so the maid ahead of us can’t hear.

He scoffs, “You may be an arsehole, but I still love you.”

“I’m fine,” I half-lie.

Physically, I truly am. The recovery is going as well as expected, despite the pain, which is slowly wearing off. But the rest? I am mentally destroyed. My soul is shattered.

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