Page 31 of Coronation
The words echo through my mind over and over again, like lyrics on a skipping record, as I make my way back upstairs. The house feels painfully empty and cold with only me in it, and the moment my feet hit the upstairs landing, I’m walking so fast that it’s almost running.
He left me here.
I won’t cry. I won’t. This has all been pitiful and humiliating enough without letting the driver see me come back outside with eyes rimmed in red. When I reach the back bedroom, though, and am hit by the scent of sex and Ben—King Benedict,that is—it gets a lot harder.
Tearing off his T-shirt, I let it fall to the floor as I stride into the small, outdated bathroom. My sink-washed dress is stiff and wrinkled, but better than the alternative, and my eyes burn as I pull it back on, staring at my pale reflection in the mirror as I do.
That first night at the party, after we had sex for the first time, I saw a hint of something in him that I didn’t like, and I almost left. Instead, I allowed myself to be persuaded into staying, thinking that what followed was a moment of vulnerability for a man accustomed to keeping his true feelings hidden away. God, it actually made me like himmorewhen, in reality, he just wasn’t finished with me yet.
Wiping my eyes with the back of my hand, I sniff, willing the tears to recede. I’m a professional actor, for god’s sake. I might not be able to stop the way I’m feeling, but I can pretend.
Even so, it takes longer than it should to get myself together as I stoop to pick up my shoes. I force the breath in and out of my lungs, slow and even, as I put them on. When I straighten up, my reflection is a different person, abetterperson.
Her shoulders are squared, her expression is flat. She looksstrong and capable, the kind of woman who calls people on their bullshit and knows when she’s being lied to. This woman would never let a stranger break her heart. She’s going to leave this place and never, ever look back.
I watch her do just that, floating through the house in unhurried, measured steps and offering the bemused driver a brilliant smile as he opens the back door for her.
It won’t last forever. Sooner or later, my character will break, and I’ll be right back to being poor, sniffling, overly emotional Zelda.
Until then, I’ll be her.
It’s better this way.
Thirteen
Benedict
When I’d agreed to Damien’s arrangement for my night of escape, I’d envisioned myself returning to Ashwell Palace, bolstered by the outing.
The amount of time that had passed since I’d felt the touch of someone other than myself was downright embarrassing. Whatever the press might report, I am a human being, a man, and I do have some needs which can’t be satisfied by my own right hand. Attending one of these parties seemed like the cleanest way to achieve such an outcome, without inviting further complications. Though infrequent, my attendance before I married Julia never failed to refresh me.
Regardless of my intentions, however, I returned more hollow and bitter than I was before, and the feelings have not abated in the two weeks which have passed since.
Distracting myself has been my only escape. The prime minister announced his resignation, which meant that my largely symbolic role in our government has lately required some actual work. For once, however, I didn’t mind it.Focusing on royal duties and taking endless, tedious meetings with various party members, all angling for my support on some matter, was easier than facing the gaping void that Zelda Flowers left in me.
Or, rather, that I left in myself.
After the better part of two years spent feeling little more than depression and bitter frustration, I can’t regret the time I spent with her. Even so, a part of me wishes it never happened at all. It would have been better if I’d found someone else that night. Someone I could have fucked and walked away happier for it. Someone I could have forgotten.
Zelda couldn’t possibly be forgotten. Not by anyone, but certainly not by me.
So far, I’ve resisted the urge to look her up online. The whole point of leaving the way I did was for it to be a clean break. That would all be for nothing if I stalked the woman’s every move like an obsessed fan, greedily consuming every paparazzi image or publicity quote as I relive the time we spent together with my hand around my cock.
I have to let it go.I knowI have to let it go. Yet, in the two weeks that have passed since I left her, my wretched brain has presented a single, troublesome question that can’t be reasoned away:What if I’d held on?
It comes to me most when I’m lying in bed at night, staring at the ceiling of my bedroom, alone and with no distractions to save me from my masochistic imaginings. As such, I haven’t had a full night’s sleep since I returned to Ashwell Palace, and my temper—which was hardly tolerable to begin with—has darkened accordingly.
Word must be spreading, too, because Preston Thomas looks as though he’s waiting his turn at the gallows when I enter the press office’s conference room for our weekly appointment. Our last two were postponed in the wake of the PM’s dramatics, and not having to see his face was thehighlight of the past fortnight. The joke is on me, however, because the sight of another slideshow ready to go on the TV makes me consider running for it.
He has to be in his sixties; it’s not like the man could stop me.
“Your Royal Highness.” Thomas inclines his head respectfully, his hands clasped behind his back. “I have the revised list of appearances ready for you. All have confirmed, and we’re just waiting for your approval.”
I grunt, sliding into my usual chair. “Lovely.”
“Yes,” agrees Thomas with a renewed air of enthusiasm, oblivious to the underlying loathing in my sentiment. “I do think you’ll be pleased. We’ve made some changes in our overall strategy and have consulted with a top crisis management firm in Switzerland. They were very impressed with the work we’d done so far, but did have some suggestions to amend our current strategy, and feel confident it will help your overall favorability amongst the public.” He leans over the table, offering me a piece of paper. On it, beneath the royal letterhead, is a bulleted list of public appearances, accompanied by dates and a few notes for mypublic demeanor.
My gaze catches on the second from the top.
