23. “I Can Do It With a Broken Heart” - Taylor Swift
“I Can Do It With a Broken Heart” - Taylor Swift
The rest of my afternoon turns hazy. Preston and I are working on a strategy to handle the press once the news of Henry’s DNA test results make headlines. The people will eat this up. They don’t care about the nature of the news, as long as it feeds their ravenous appetite for drama.
I’m confident they favor Henry over me. He’s always been Wesbourne’s sweetheart, their golden boy. They live vicariously through him, fantasize about him, and envision what their lives might look like if they had his luck rather than their own.
They’re happy enough to greet me at social outings and when I’m presenting a plaque, but they don’t lie awake at night dreaming of the possibility of a night with me.
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Preston says when I voice that last sentiment out loud.
We’re both sitting on the floor of my office.
Maybe I was inspired by Henry playing with Axel earlier, because an hour into this meeting, I kicked off my heels and sat down on the rug in front of the fireplace.
After an arched brow that pointedly questioned my sanity and a shrug that said “what the heck,” Preston joined me.
His legs are splayed out, one knee bent and supporting his elbow. That thick, dark hair is once again breaking the rules by flopping over his forehead. He brushes it aside and meets my eyes. “I mean it.”
“I am the equivalent of a bucket of ice water on anyone’s fantasy.” I read over the notes in my hand once more.
Preston laughs abruptly, as if I’ve said something surprising as well as ridiculous. “Why do you say that?”
“Have you read what they say about me?”
“That’s my job.”
“They call me the Ice Queen. Ring a bell?”
He smiles and shakes his head, causing his hair to move back into its favorite position over his eye. “So you don’t show emotion easily in public. Who cares?”
“Everyone, apparently.”
He lowers the pages he’s holding to the floor and scoots closer. “Just because the press takes particular pleasure in ripping your reputation to shreds, does not mean the people share their views.”
“You don’t need to try to make me feel better.”
“Maybe I want to.” He reaches out and toys with a strand that has fallen over my shoulder.
Goosebumps spring up along my spine. I don’t need this. I don’t need some cheap validation to make me feel like a better queen, a better person. But that doesn’t make it any less nice or appreciated.
“They don’t judge you for the actions of your family, you know,” he says, still twisting the hair around his finger.
I keep my eyes lowered, not wanting to look at him. “Have you watched the news recently?”
“I’m not saying the press doesn’t lump you all together before flaying you, but the average Joe out there doesn’t think of you like that.”
“You can’t know for sure.”
“Sure I can.” He drops my hair and lets it fall back against my shoulder. “I’m one of them, after all.”
“You are hardly a commoner,” I say with a smirk. Preston’s family has immense political connections, part of the reason the press office has benefitted so greatly from having him on board.
“My mother’s family runs a small grocery in the village of Laurent. Ever heard of it?”
I fiddle with a thread on my skirt. “No, but that doesn’t make you an expert.”
“Maybe not,” he says quietly. “Maybe I’m just speaking for myself, then.”
There’s something in his tone that causes my heart to pick up speed. It’s not that I long for adoration from a man. It’s more that I haven’t felt worthy of it in a long time. Preston is the first man to look past the garbage of the past few years and recognize who I am at my core.
He places a finger below my chin and gently lifts it. His eyes are full of warmth and something else I don’t want to think about. He moves his hand to my neck, and heat spreads where our skin touches. “You’re an incredible woman,” he whispers. “And so beautiful.”
He lowers his head and presses his mouth against mine. Like last time, my body goes rigid. This isn’t right, but I don’t know what to do. His tongue traces the seam of our lips, encouraging me to open and allow him to explore my mouth. I resist, keeping my mouth closed.
When his hand slowly slides down on a clear path to my breast, I push him away. “No, I’m not doing this.”
He hangs his head and nods. “I can wait.”
Wait for what? For Henry to divorce me? For me to fall out of love with him? For it to feel anything other than weird and revolting to taste someone else’s mouth?
I’m not sure why I’m the one who’s been cursed with a moral code. While Henry is probably sleeping with Elizabeth, I can’t even kiss another man without guilt eating away at the base of my spine.
Who cares if Preston and I don’t have feelings for each other and this could never be anything more than an inappropriate workplace romance? I need something to get my mind off the mess my life has become, and he is offering the perfect distraction in an attractive package.
But I know that the real reason things could never progress between us has nothing to do with physical attraction, the fact that I’m married, or the inappropriateness of sleeping with an employee.
It has everything to do with the fact that Henry has ruined me.
I will never be able to look at another man and feel desire that even comes close to rivaling the tsunami of what I feel for Henry.
This is why the people will relentlessly cheer for their prince consort.
Not because he has a strong moral code or brings about change for the betterment of everyone, but because he’s a magnetic powerhouse.
He has a way of winning over the most adamant of naysayers with nothing more than a flash of that trademark grin and a wink of those dark, bottomless eyes.
It’s completely unfair.
There’s a knock on the door, and Preston lurches backward.
We’re both still on the floor, attempting to scramble to our feet when it opens and Henry walks inside.
If there was any doubt in my mind as to how this looks, it’s cleared up the minute I see his face.
His eyes narrow, and his nostrils flutter as he looks over Preston’s rumpled appearance and my shoeless feet.
A jolt of something I can’t quite identify shoots through my body. Fear? Excitement?
I look down at the papers strewn around on the floor. “Maybe we can finish our meeting later?” I ask as Preston scoops them up.
Nodding, he shoves the stack under his arm. “Just let me know what time.”
It isn’t until he’s walking through the door that I regret not asking him to stick around. The look on Henry’s face is terrifying.
“Meeting?” he says, closing the door. There is a distinct mocking tone in his voice.
“Yes.” I smooth down my skirt. “We have those occasionally.”
“And do you always have meetings with your staff on the floor?” He takes three steps closer. His presence is so full, like he’s the ocean and there are millions of organisms finding life inside him.
“Only the ones I particularly like.”
His eyes narrow even further. “You are walking on thin ice, Celia.”
“Funny. I wasn’t aware I’d left the fight ring.”
My desk presses into my back. Visions of Henry laying me across it choose this moment to remind me of the way it feels to have him skirting his hands over every curve of my body, whispering my name like a prayer into the soft spots.
I wish desperately that I could busy myself with something—anything—to keep my eyes off him and my hands from wanting to reach for him, but I can’t. His powerful magnetism is at play, keeping me pinned right where he wants me. My heart pounds.
“Is he getting more than a paycheck?” There’s a steel backbone in each of Henry’s words.
“You mean other than a nightly massage and his own private suite?”
A muscle in his cheek twinges, and his jawline becomes even more defined, if that’s possible. “This isn’t funny.”
“I couldn’t agree more.” Crossing my ankles, I lean back against the desk.
Henry comes closer, close enough that I can see the tiny scar on his chin from falling out of our shoddy excuse for a treehouse when we were little. “Do not fuck with me, Celia. Did you sleep with that pig?”
Biting my lip, I keep my eyes focused on him. His brow is furrowed with deep lines, and I can almost smell the anger rolling off him. I know he’s analyzing the tiniest of my movements, so I give a barely perceptible shake of my head.
His eyes close, as if he’s trying to control his emotions before he speaks. But when he finally opens them, he doesn’t say anything.
“Would it matter if I had?” I ask.
He blinks several times. “What kind of question is that?”
“A serious one?”
He shakes his head like he’s trying to figure out who I am and what’s going on. “Of course it would matter. You’re my wife.”
“Could’ve fooled me.” Before he can respond, I add, “How’s Elizabeth?”
“How the fuck should I know?”
“Maybe because you left me for your new family?”
He shakes his head again and turns toward the window. “I’m not having this conversation with you.”
“You’re the one who started it with your ridiculous accusations.”
“I have been telling you for a long time that your press secretary wants nothing more than to get you out of your clothes, but you never believe me. And now I walk in and find you two on the floor in a position that left little to the imagination.”
“We were working,” I snap, guilt eating at me.
“So you’re telling me he didn’t make a single move on you?” Henry steps close enough that I can smell the spearmint on his breath and the pine of his deodorant.
“Did Elizabeth?”
He looks genuinely confused. “Did she what?”
“Make a move on you!” Why does he insist on being so utterly clueless? The woman would have married him the first time he looked at her; I’m sure of it.
“I don’t have any bloody idea. I’m too busy trying to keep my wife from sleeping with her secretary.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “That’s ridiculous, and you know it. I would never sleep with Preston.” The thought makes me want to be violently ill.
“I don’t know anything anymore,” he says.
“You can’t come in here and accuse me of things like that.” My mouth fills with the bitter taste of shame.
“Yet you’ve been doing the same thing to me ever since our wedding. With Libby in the picture, you finally have a face to put with your empty accusations.”
I hate the way he says her name. I hate the memory of her perfect teeth and her perfect skin and her perfect hair. I hate that he’s right.
“Why are you even here?” I say.
His eyes soften just a fraction. “My mum said you were at her flat.” When I don’t say anything, he adds, “I’m sorry you saw that.”
“Elizabeth lets you have Axel?”
“I asked if I could introduce him to my mum. She had to work, so she arranged for me to pick him up from school.”
“That’s nice.” There’s a tightness in my throat I’d do anything to eradicate.
“The last thing I want to do is hurt you, C,” he says.
A sad smile works its way onto my lips. “Too late.”