Page 41 of Coronation
Outside, the wind howls, spraying the side of the trailer with another heavy wave of rain.
My heart seems weighed down when, at last, I see no otheroption than to nod. “Okay,” I agree, even as I’m still searching for the words I can feel but not articulate. “I’ll leave.”
Zelda doesn’t respond, watching as I take my phone from my pocket to text my driver. He responds immediately, letting me know he will be at the access road where he left me in two minutes.
Two fucking minutes.
The next time we see each other, it will be in a crowd of people at the garden party. I’ll be lucky to exchange a few pleasantries with her, never mind pull her away for a moment alone, and even if I could, it seems unlikely she would want it.
I tuck the device away and watch as Zelda crosses her arms, expression set and determined. She’s protecting herself, and even if I hate it, I can’t fault her for it, either. Not when I’ve made such a goddamn mess of this, blundering through our brief relationship like a bull in a china shop, wrecking every precious opportunity that I encounter.
If I were her, I would want me gone, too.
It takes a monumental effort to force myself to move. Stiff and heavy, I will my reluctant limbs into action, moving past her to the set of stairs that lead to the trailer’s front door. It’s only when my foot has found the first step that I pause, looking back to meet her eyes.
Even swallowing is difficult. “I really am sorry, Zelda.”
For a moment, she barely gives any indication she’s heard me. Then, something behind her eyes seems to change. Her bottom lip trembles.
That tiny show of hurt is akin to a dagger through my sternum.
Until this point, I’ve seen her feigned indifference and her anger, but to see this tiny glimpse of the pain I caused… I truly fucking hate myself.
The apology was merely an excuse, disguising my selfish desire to lay eyes on this woman again. Deplorable.I don’t deserve to breathe the same air as Zelda Flowers, never mind take up another second of her time.
So, for perhaps the first time since we met, I do what is best, not for myself, but for her.
I turn away, open the door, and leave.
Seventeen
Zelda
One night after a particularly grueling day of filming our first movie together, Davina and I decided to get drunk.
We sat side by side in the hotel’s bar, sharing a hummus platter and a bottle of wine, swapping unfortunate tales of our respective dating histories. It was easy to laugh about it with her, to roll my eyes at these men and pretend I was long over it. If someone had overheard, they would never have suspected that below the surface, the wounds had not quite healed.
That’s the attitude I’ve been trying to have, privately, of course, whenever my thoughts have strayed to King Benedict of Stelland over the past week.
His visit to set complicated my resolution to hate the man until the end of time, and my sudden determination likely has something to do with the prospect of seeing him again, whether I like it or not.
I considered calling out sick.
I considered throwing a diva-worthy tantrum about the humidity.
I considered hiring a kidnapper to keep me for the duration of the event.
Unfortunately, it seems I don’t have the nerve for any of those things and would prefer to torture myself rather than let anyone down. The possibility of secretly wanting to see Ben again did briefly occur to me in one of my more self-aware moments, but I dismissed it as quickly as it came. Idon’twant to see him again. He doesn’t care about me. If he was hoping for anything the day he came to set, it was a quick fuck, and I won’t allow myself to be sucked into that trap again.
I really need to get back into therapy. My deep attraction toward a man who seems pretty unanimously disliked in this country is worrying.
The entire week is a blur of distraction, mixed emotions, and giving myself pep talks in the bathroom mirror. Every day that passes seems to notch my anxiety a little higher. So, by the time I wake on the Saturday of the garden party, I’m so nauseous that just stopping myself from puking is a pretty big accomplishment.
Apparently, it shows.
“You look like you’re going to be sick,” Davina points out as we get into the back seat of yet another town car, her hair perfectly curled, and wearing a dress she probably wrestled directly off a model at the Valentino show last week. “What is your deal with this guy? When he showed up on set, you wouldn’t even look at him. Was the sex that bad?”
I would laugh if I didn’t think it would come with a pretty high chance of vomiting.
