Page 46 of Coronation
After an age, she seems to shake herself, tearing her gaze from mine to the grassy ground beneath our feet. “I should go. The party started ages ago. They’ll be wondering where I am.”
There are a thousand things I’m aching to tell her, apologies and pleas, but—dear god—I’ve done enough. I wanted her to understand, to see thatI’mthe problem here, not her. Why would she believe that when I’m not even the first man to treat her in such a way?
Even if I do feel so much more, it changes nothing. We barely know each other, I’ve hurt her more times than I can stomach, and no matter how deeply I wish it weren’t the case,we have no fucking future.
I am the worst kind of monster, and every bit as selfish and cold as my father before me. There is nothing to be done but let her go. For good this time.
So, instead of begging, I only nod. “I’ll show you the way.”
Neither of us speaks as I lead the way toward the back exit of the labyrinth, walking side by side down familiar corridors of green. Somehow the journey takes half the time it ought to,as if the harder I cling to the minutes we have left, the faster they slip away.
We stop at the exit, which runs parallel to the stone wall that surrounds the entire perimeter of the palace grounds. The garden party is hidden from view, but we can hear it now, notes of merry chatter and music carried back to us on the wind.
A deep, painful sense of loss spears through the center of my chest as I look over at Zelda, who stands silent and obviously exhausted beside me. Her dark hair is loose around her shoulders, and as I watch, she lifts a hand to tuck it back behind her ear, revealing the freckle I noticed that day in her trailer.
I never did get to kiss it, and now, I’m certain I never will. This connection was a moment in time, and that time is over. I will continue on as I always have, a hollow, bitter man, and Zelda Flowers will be out there in the world, making movies and falling in love with other men. Men who aren’t me.
Someday, I’ll be out in public, and a magazine cover will catch my eye. I’ll stop, already feeling the bone-deep grief of finally confronting a terrible inevitability, one that will have lingered at the back of my mind since this precise moment. I will look at a picture of Zelda Flowers in a wedding dress, and, as whatever remains of my icy heart shatters, I’ll know it’s no less than I deserve.
My gaze rakes over her delicate profile, greedily devouring every detail of how she looks in this moment, our last alone together. In a matter of seconds, she will turn away, and that will be it.
Zelda’s hand presses flat to her stomach, her eyes on the ground, and still neither of us moves. “Do I have dirt? On my back?” she asks quietly, turning for me to check.
Drawing forward, I lower my gaze, following the elegant column of her neck, down to the curves of her body visiblethrough her dress. A body that I kissed, and held, and fucked, but not nearly enough.
“You have a bit,” I tell her quietly. “May I?”
Zelda nods, and her shoulders are stiff as I reach out, brushing away the twigs and grass clinging to the garment. There’s more, lower, and I sink to my knees, extracting the debris from just above the hem of her dress. Her bare thighs are inches from my fingertips, and just as I’m about to rise again, I still, staring as a drip of my cum travels over the delicate ivory skin between her legs.
Fuck.Fuck.
My first instinct, the one wholly inappropriate given the circumstances, is to gather it up with my fingers and push it back in.
Instead, I pretend not to have noticed.
Getting to my feet, I lean down, pretending to check the knees of my trousers as Zelda hurriedly wipes it away with the hem of her dress. When we’ve both straightened up, and I know there is no more reason for us to be here, we look at each other.
“Zelda.” Even saying her name is excruciating. “I’m sorry.”
For a moment, I think she’s going to respond. She stares at me, something in her pale eyes that I can’t quite place. Then, I watch as that unknown thing dies, and, without another word, Zelda Flowers turns and walks away.
In the minutes that follow, I seem to be existing by habit alone, going through the motions of civility while my consciousness is elsewhere, stuck on a loop of moments that begin and end with her.
The crowd parting at that party, only to find myself standing before the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
Her body spread out beneath mine at Fernmoor House, tugging my hair, moaning my name.
Dancing with her in that pub and kissing her under the stars after.
Watching her at work, capable and strong.
Sitting on the couch in her trailer as she got ready to leave for the day, careful to remember every detail.
Lifting my head to find her standing in the center of the maze, staring back at me with round eyes.
It shouldn’t be enough. The time we shared barely equates to a few days, and yet there is no denying that something fundamental inside me has been altered.
I move through the garden party in a daze, murmuring words of greeting to guests. They appear before me, one after another, their mouths moving as they regurgitate different combinations of the same words, meaningless, trite compliments, or commentary on the fine weather we’ve been fortunate enough to have.
