Page 110 of Heavy Crown

“Well, it happened.” I stretch the folder out, smoothing the creases, and I open it. “Whatever was going on between us is over. I promised Simone I wouldn’t embarrass her. As the future king, my word must mean something. I promised her. Your interference at this point isn’t helpful; it’s acidic.” My jaw is so tight it’s aching with all the things I’m not saying.

“You both seem miserable.”

“And maybe we are,” I say. “But it’s a misery she chose, and now we’re on different paths. There’s no going back. I made a commitment to Simone, to my country, and I will honor both.” Even if it kills something inside me to do it.

“When we played Truth and Tequila the night of Nick’s bachelor party, you told me you planned to give Rory the one thing she wanted above all else.”

“I tried,” I say, and weariness creeps into my voice. “I tried. Turns out what she thought she needed most in the world wasn’t something she wanted from me.” I’m staring at the folder in my lap, but the words are swimming together. To stem the emotional tide, I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Where’s your folder?”

“Locked in my brain. Desmond gave it to me first thing this morning, and I had nothing better to do. So I memorized it.” He shrugs and stuffs another scone in his mouth. “Youngest child problems.”

“Must be nice,” I say.

“How so?”

“To never have to worry about anything except what’s in front of you.” That’s never been my life, and it never will be.

forty

Rory

Sometimes being in the royal kitchen is a lot like being transported back in time. There’s no television in here, but since the referendum vote closes at the end of my shift, Joyce has the national radio station blaring. They’re providing up-to-the-minute results. Unless there’s a last-minute surge, it’s a lot closer than I expected.

Given how hard Brice, Alex, and Nick have been working on community outreach, media blasts, and framing the narrative as both personal and for the people, I anticipated a landslide win. Or at least not a victory or loss this narrow.

Each update ratchets up my stress level. Since I understand how much this result means to Alex and his family, I’m brimming with anxiety. None of this directly impacts me anymore. I won’t be living here. Alex and I are over forever. Tears well at the brutal reminder.

“You all right?” Joyce murmurs next to me while I form dough for my scones.

“Fine. Why?” The next update blares from the speaker, and I avoid eye contact.

“Haven’t seemed like yourself for a few days. Bethany said you were unwell at the wedding?”

Days? When was the last time I felt like myself? Years? Time is marching on, but keeping track of it drags me further away from Alex. I count my time in dollars and cents now.

Of course Bethany told Joyce about my breakdown in the kitchen after my run-in with Alex. Claudio sent me home in a huff and said I wouldn’t be receiving my full pay because he couldn’t allow someone emotionally unstable into the wedding fray. What would the guests think?

I had no desire to return to serving, anyway. One taste of the gossip circulating the crowd—about Alex, Simone, and me—left bitterness on my tongue.

The reduced pay puts me behind on my escape from Bellerive. Another half week of regular work has been tacked onto my exit plan.

“Rory?” Joyce tugs me out of my thoughts. “If you’re not okay, I wouldn’t blame you. I’m on your side.”

While she’s been careful not to say anything disparaging about Alex, she’s been attentive to me in the kitchen, alert to any changes in my mood. She’s become better at reading me than my own mother ever was. A deft touch is what Alex told me about her once. Not just in the kitchen, apparently.

The reminders of Alex cause my stomach to swoop low. Everything in Bellerive circles to him. Even when I venture off the estate for groceries or to meet Posey for a drink, people snap furtive photos, whisper words I can’t hear. The only way to return to obscurity is to leave.

“I wasn’t okay at the wedding,” I admit. “But I’m feeling much better. My departure is set back, though. I was counting on that money.”

Joyce purses her lips. “I’ll see what I can do with the schedule. Did you want some overtime?”

“Do you have any?” I’m exhausted, but if she can get me the hours to leave earlier, I’ll take them.

“Let me check. I might be able to move some people around as long as you’re not particular on the type of work.”

“Thank you,” I breathe out. The weight that’s been crushing me since Simone appeared out of that limo eases slightly. As soon as I have some distance from this place, I’ll start to feel better.

“Are you eating? You’ve lost weight, and you didn’t have it to lose.”