Page 72 of A Royal Disaster
She strode down the hall toward the lift and he followed, barefoot and shirtless, Jack and Ethan on his heels.
She whirled on him with glassy eyes. “Don’t you dare follow me. If you do, I swear I’ll make such a scene Their Majesties will have you on the next flight home.”
He didn’t doubt her for a second. There was a fierceness in the set of her jaw he’d rarely seen, and he knew she meant every word. She stabbed the button for the lift, and the threat of losing her cleared his mind, bringing their month together into sharper focus.
It was like he was seeing Elena for the first time, his creative, spirited, beautiful woman. Whether she’d meant to or not, she’d changed his life in just a few short weeks. For so long, his sole focus had been his duties as heir; he hadn’t allowed himself simple pleasures like lunch in the park or an art class or even a leisurely gallery visit. Hell, he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d been allowed an afternoon to himself. Everything was scheduled, intentional, and driven by his duty to Valeria. It was that duty-first mentality that had allowed him to compartmentalize his growing feelings for Elena, but that was no longer an option. Not when the mere thought of letting her go made his chest ache with longing.
Liam played the only card he had left. The one he hadn’t known he was holding until now.
The one that would change everything.
“I love you,” he said quietly.
She stiffened, tension gripping her body. He’d never said those words to a woman before, but the rightness of it was heavy in his bones. When she turned, her face had softened. Hope flared in his chest. “And what are you going to do about it?”
Fuck. He didn’t know. What could he do? His bloody hands were tied. He needed time. Time to think. To strategize. Between the trade agreement and the Spartan deal, it might be enough. He would figure this out if she’d just—
The doors to the lift slid open and Elena stepped inside, a tear sliding down her cheek. “Goodbye, Liam.”
The finality of her words shattered his fragile hope, and reality came crashing down. She’d given him a chance to prove he loved her—to choose her—and he’d blown it. His lack of answer had been answer enough.
Bloody fucking hell.
He really was a bastard and Elena deserved better, which was why he stood silently and watched the only woman he’d ever loved walk out of his life.
HRH Left in Stitches?
Hold onto your panties, ladies. It looks like His Royal Hotness is back on the market. Mad Eyes Murphy was seen storming out of The Plaza sans shoes last night (#KeepingItClassy). Sources say the couple had a massive blowup that ended with MEM calling it quits—AFTER she chucked her stilettos at HRH. Rumor has it the hotel had to bring in a physician to stitch up more than HRH’s heart, but the reports are unconfirmed.
Either way, we’re guessing Willena will be a distant memory by happy hour. (Margaritas anyone?)
Now, we’re told the argument stemmed from HRH’s roving eye, but we’re calling bullsh*t, because, come on. Everyone knows Prince Alexander is the only playboy in the palace (and we have the photos to prove it!). HRH may have played the field in the past, but we’re giving him a pass. After all, what’s the point of being royal if you can’t have your cake and eat it too?
And let’s be honest, MEM wasn’t exactly princess material. Sure, they made a cute couple, and who doesn’t love a Cinderella story, but we’re guessing Their Majesties weren’t going to throw open the palace gates for a common American bride (she’s not even an heiress) when HRH could literally have any woman on the planet.
TBH, we figured MEM would be the one getting kicked to the curb when HRH came to his senses and started thinking with the big head. I mean, can you imagine MEM sitting on the Valerian throne? The fire at the Caridoso embassy would look like child’s play compared to the damage she could do to a palace. God save the hottie!
Chapter Twenty-Two
Liam threw back a shot of whisky, the alcohol burning a path straight to his stomach. Christ, he hoped it would take the edge off. He’d been tense as hell since Elena had gotten on that lift and walked out of his life, and nothing could help him relax. He eyed the bottle, contemplating a second drink, but Fin snatched it away before he could follow through.
“I’m not going to stand here and watch you drown your sorrows in whisky,” Fin said, eyeing the paper that lay on the bar. A picture of Lena racing out of the hotel with her bag clutched to her chest graced the cover. The bloody tabloids were already speculating about his breakup, saying their whirlwind romance had ended the only way possible—in a blaze of glory.
Whatever the fuck that meant.
It was total rubbish. The only thing they got right was the fact that it was over. There hadn’t been any stitches, and certainly no secret physician visits, but they were done, all right.
He’d seen to that when he’d been unable to answer her simple fucking question. When he’d failed to choose her. From the beginning, he’d known she wasn’t meant for him—his parents would never give their consent—but he couldn’t deny a part of him had hoped that just maybe he was wrong.
“We should be celebrating,” Fin said, trying again. “The trade agreement’s been signed. Their Majesties are pleased, and things are proceeding nicely with Spartan. What more could you ask for?”
“Elena,” Liam said simply, grabbing the bottle from his friend and pouring himself a double. When he sat the bottle on the bar, Fin sighed and poured himself a drink.
“What kind of friend would I be if I let you drink alone?”
“What kind of friend indeed.” Liam lifted his glass and Fin did the same. “She won’t answer my calls.”
Fin sipped his whisky and shook his head, as if to slough off the burn of the alcohol. “Do you blame her?”
