Page 72 of Coronation
Try as I might to conceil it, my face must reflect the misery I felt during that time, because Zelda’sexpression is soft as she reaches across the center console to take my hand, squeezing it in wordless support.
I squeeze back, nearly overwhelmed with gratitude for this woman as I force myself to continue. “We were very poorly suited and brought out the worst in each other. I’m not proud of the person I was in that marriage. It’s important to me that you know...” I trail off miserably, ashamed to admit that the cold, callous asshole she’s seen glimpses of might very well make an appearance tonight.
“Hey.” Another gentle squeeze of my hand atop the console between us has me looking up to meet Zelda’s warm gaze. “I know you’re not that person, Ben.”
“Do you?” The question is almost a plea, but one she doesn’t hesitate to put at ease.
Zelda simply nods, lifting our entwined hands to kiss the back of mine in the way I’ve so often done hers, and in my chest, my heart seems to riot at the gesture. In the corner of my vision, I notice more modern skyscrapers and industrial-style buildings passing by outside the window, and I know we must be getting close. Nevertheless, I can’t look away from the woman seated beside me.
“Thank you for telling me,” Zelda says, her voice achingly gentle. “I know it wasn’t an easy thing for you, but it means a lot that you would trust me.”
She would be such a good mother.
The idle thought sends a deep pang of longing through me, even as my empirical side endeavors to dismiss it. I can’t help it, though. Before we met, I couldn’t have even begun to comprehend wanting someone this intensely. I was cold, and so, too, was my view on every single thing in my life. In my mind, nothing and no one was worth bringing myself more pain or rejection, so I stayed that way for forty-one years.
Now that I know… I can’t lose her. I can’t. Every time we speak, every moment we’re together, she gives me hope for what my life could be if I manage the impossible and win her heart.
If we had children, their childhood would be nothing like mine.
Beneath us, the car slows to a crawl, and unwillingly, I drag my gaze from Zelda’s face to look out onto the street. Judging by the swarm of reporters gathered around a nearby building, we joined the line of cars, waiting for our turn to enter my former wife’s illustrious gallery opening.
I blow out a long sigh but quickly find myself distracted from my anxiety as Zelda stands, stooping so as not to mess up her hair on the car’s ceiling. She clambers into my lap, her legs spread wide over mine as those painted lips curve into a playful smile. “We only have a second.”
It quickly becomes plain what her intention is when, seconds later, she lowers her lips to my neck, brushing them over my pulse point. Leaving a mark for anyone to see. Deliberately.
My cock is an iron rod in my pants by the time Zelda has scurried back to her seat, looking very pleased with herself. As possessive and jealous as I am with her, it never occurred to me that I might enjoy her staking her claim over me in return. Before I can do more than hide my stiff cock, however, the car comes to a stop.
The pair of us share a conspiratorial smile, as the voices outside the car seem to grow louder and more excited, reporters undoubtedly realizing who is inside. Then, the door is being opened, and it’s as though someone turned a television on full brightness and volume after I’d been watching it muted.
The world explodes in sound and light, and I keep my head down as I follow Zelda out of the car into the roped-off section of sidewalk.
“Zelda! Zelda, over here!”
“Miss Flowers, give us a smile!”
“Your Royal Highness, will you be attending the premiere?”
Calls are coming from all directions as camera flashes come so rapidly, they seem likely to cause corneal damage. Beyond the row of press, lights are glowing inside a bright white gallery. Anyone walking by the plate glass windows would be able to see that the space is already full of the most illustrious guests the former duchess could drum up.
We’ll be spending the evening in a fishbowl.
Ordinarily, this sort of thing would be my definition of hell. The press office has stopped even proposing events like it, knowing full well I would rather shove a red-hot poker up my nose than subject myself to this. Tonight is an exception. Or, rather, any event wherein I can keep my hands on Zelda Flowers is—and will be henceforth—an exception.
“He’dbetterattend the premiere,” Zelda tells the reporter who asked, pausing beside the metal barrier to speak to him, her smile effortless and bright. If she’s even a little uncomfortable with the scrutiny, I can’t see evidence of it. “I’ve worked very hard and will be expecting praise for my efforts. Also, very expensive flowers.” She elbows me meaningfully, beaming.
The man looks as though Christmas has come early, as he turns his attention to me. “That sounds like a threat from Miss Flowers, Your Royal Highness.”
My hand tightens on her waist. “I suppose I’d better go, then.”
There’s a chorus of laughter from the people nearest us, and Zelda allows me to guide her on toward the gallery. “Thank you,” she calls to the man over her shoulder, beaming. “I hope you have a good evening.”
“God,” I mutter venomously as the door closes behind us, and I’m struck by the unmistakable scent of my ex-wife’s perfume. I’d forgotten it, and now, the scent brings forth memories of a full decade of misery.
“Are you alright?” Zelda asks under her breath as we move farther into the gallery, taking in the collection of chic, minimalist art that covers every surface. It’s quieter in here than it was out on the street, but not by much. Voices of the guests echo off the high ceilings, and music plays from somewhere deeper inside the building. The gallery space itself is one massive room, broken up into smaller spaces by apparently random sections of wall.
Before I can respond to Zelda’s question, however, we’re spotted. “Benedict! Oh, howlovely!” I don’t wince at the sound of Julia’s voice, but it’s a near miss.
The two of us turn to find my former wife swanning in our direction, dressed in a checkered gray dress, with an enormous pair of blue-framed glasses balanced on her nose. For as long as I can recall, Julia has fancied herself a woman of great taste, and the perception of her being a blue-blooded “modernist” was how she ended up my wife in the first place.
