Page 56 of Heir of Illusion

Sighing, I lean forward and rest my hands on my thighs. “I know this is difficult, but I need you to answer my questions honestly.”

Her gaze drifts to the window, peering through the gap between the curtains. From the outside, little would be visible, but from here, we can see the early risers walking past.

“Not one of my neighbors has come to check on me.” Her voice takes on a distant quality. “None of them have brought food or offered their support. They think we deserve this.”

My brows scrunch together. “Why would they think that?”

“Because we reached too high,” she says, a sad smile on her lips. “Even when Grell was stationed on the wall, he made a good living. More than most folks around here. But when he was reassigned six months ago, his salary tripled. That’s when the whispers started.”

I tense as my thoughts turn toward Baylor’s warning. “Whispers?”

“About how we didn’t deserve it. How we thought we were too good for them now.”

My shoulders slump with relief. “You mean gossip.”

She nods. “They thought they were being quiet, but I heard them. It never occurred to any of them that I’d give up the money if it meant my husband would go back to how he was before.”

“What do you mean?”

“That job changed him.” Her eyes drift in my direction, but it’s as if she’s staring right through me. “Ever since he got reassigned, he’s been different.” Her pretty features twist. “Distant. Mean.”

“Did he have a temper?” I ask, afraid of where this story is going.

Her gaze drops to the floor. “He never hurt the children.”

“But he’s hurt you?” I ask softly.

She doesn’t answer, but I know. I’ve heard similar stories from the women Della brings into MASQ. Most of the waitstaff came from similar situations.

“He’s paranoid,” she whispers. “One night last month, I could hear him from the other room. He was shouting at someone to leave him alone. I rushed in, thinking he was screaming at one of the children, but there was no one there. It was just him.”

“Mama?” a small voice calls.

Turning toward the stairs, I spy a child dressed in a nightgown. Judging by her size, she can’t be more than five years old. Her hair is the same dirty blonde shade as her mother’s. Her big eyes are full of fear as they glance between us.

“Go help your sister get dressed, Bess,” Mrs. Darby says, her voice brighter than before. If she didn’t have her children to care for, I wonder if she’d still be trying at all. “We need to leave soon.”

The little girl runs back up the stairs, and Mrs. Darby faces me once more, slumping forward with exhaustion.

“I understand how you’re feeling,” I tell her.

She snorts. “No offense, my lady, but I know who you are. What could someone like you possibly understand about my situation?”

It’s a fair question. I know how my life looks from the outside. Growing up in the palace and becoming the king’s favorite would be a dream for most people. But despite our differences, I relate to this woman more than any of the courtiers at the castle. Our lives are distorted versions of the same story.

“You used to feel lucky,” I say softly. “Your life wasn’t perfect, but it was better than most around here. Even though you didn’t grow up with that kind of stability, you started to rely on it.” My gaze moves back to the window, watching strangers through the curtains as they move about their lives. “You forgot how fragile it was, how tenuous. You gave him your love and trust… Your youth. And now you feel like a fool because, despite all his promises, he left you with nothing.”

Her eyes are wide as I return my attention to her. It’s clear she’s shocked by my words.

“So now, you hate him,” I tell her, forcing a deep breath into my lungs before I admit the next part. “But you also miss him, who you thought he was. And worst of all, you blame yourself because you should have known better. You should have remembered that good things aren’t meant for you. Believe me, Alice, I understand that kind of disappointment very well.”

Silence fills the room as my confession settles around us. After a few moments, a throat clears and we turn to find Thorne returning from the kitchen. My heart quickens, but I force it to slow down. A wave of self-disgust settles in my gut. I shouldn’t have revealed that much. I’m meant to be spying on him, not sharing my deepest secrets.

The questions in his eyes confirm he heard our conversation. He looks me up and down, as if the emotional wounds I spoke of left physical marks on my body. The urge to squirm under his inspection is strong, but I sit still in my seat. I learned long ago that the best deceptions are external. Appearances lie better than words ever could.

He clears his throat, turning his attention to the woman across from me.

“Your husband was here the night before last,” he says, the accusation dropping into the room like a bomb. “He was injured, and you helped him.”

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