Chapter 33 #2
“Sorry!” comes a bright woman’s voice from behind me. An American woman’s voice. “We were surrounded the moment we walked in there.” The speaker brushes past me, and my mouth falls open, staring in disbelief at the addition to our little group.
Queen Zelda, who is dressed in a neat black collared dress and pearls, stops short at the sight of Damien holding her daughter and beams. “Oh my gosh, this is the cutest. Keep her for a bit, Dam, you two need some time together.” Then, glancing over at me, her smile slips. “Sorry, I don’t think we’ve met.”
The only noise I seem to be capable of producing is a high-pitched squeak.
“Zelda, Leo, this is Blair Porter,” offers Damien, and though I don’t look at him, I can hear the tightness in his voice. “She’s—I’ve been working for her family for the past few months.”
Working for my family.
His words make my chest ache and my eyes burn, but finally, I have enough sense to step away. “I’m very sorry to bother you, Your Royal Highness,” I whisper, addressing the queen, and sink into a brief little curtsey.
“No bother at all,” she replies kindly. “It’s very nice to meet you, Blair.”
I can barely breathe through my shock as I draw back. “Pardon, I mean excuse me—Oh, god. I’m sorry. I should go.” And, ignoring my mortification, I make a break for it.
Before I’ve even made it halfway back up the hall, before Damien calls after me. “Blair.”
My pace doesn’t slow.
“Blair,” Damien tries again, sounding more panicked now.
I don’t look back as I reach the last door and tear it open, reemerging in the crowded sitting room I’d wandered away from only a few moments ago. It closes behind me with a quiet click, and I pause beside it, my heart hammering.
Damien doesn’t follow.
It’s saying a lot that the room full of high-profile mourners for Princess Araminta now feels like a sanctuary.
I stand beside the door for a long time, breathing shallow breaths in and out through my nose, struggling to process what just happened. My suspicions about who Damien is and his connections to the royal family have only grown more confusing and disjointed as time went on. Now, though…
While I may not have much firsthand experience in loving, close families, I’ve seen enough from the outside to know that’s what Damien has.
The queen and Prince Leopold care about him—love him—and suddenly, all the scattered clues I’ve gathered about Damien Mallory’s identity over the past months have turned into a theory.
A far-fetched, impossible theory that fits.
“Blair?” From her place amongst a circle of well-dressed middle-aged women, my mother has spotted me. She raises her eyebrows expectantly, and I force myself away from the wall to join her, smiling robotically as I’m introduced to each in turn.
“What is wrong with you?” she hisses under her breath when the other ladies have turned away, temporarily distracted by a platter of miniature puff pastries.
I swallow with difficulty, not looking at her. “I’m not feeling well.”
Mom sniffs. “Too much wine? You should return to Thornhurst.”
I don’t care enough to defend myself.
“Fine.” As I begin to move away, however, Mom’s hand snatches my wrist, stopping me in my tracks. Automatically, I turn, meeting her eyes. They’re the same shade of dark green as my own, but even on my worst day, I’m not sure I’ve ever looked into a mirror and seen so little warmth.
Her mouth pinches, but after a moment of silent indecision, she drops her hold on me without offering an explanation.
I blink, still not moving. “Is everything okay, Mom?”
In an instant, her expression transforms, turning from icy to fond in the blink of an eye. “You’re so sweet to check on me, darling, but please go home; you look exhausted.”
My mother hasn’t called me darling since I was very small, and despite myself, the crumb of affection has my heart lifting. “Are you sure?” I ask, genuinely hesitant about leaving her for the first time.
At least until a voice comes from behind me. “I wish my daughter were so devoted. You are so fortunate, Lydia.” I glance over my shoulder, and the moment of connection I’d felt with my mother turns to smoke, as I see her friends have all returned their attention to us.
Of course her love would only be for show.
“I am,” Mom tells them. “Blair has been such a comfort to me during this terrible time.”
A round of affirming commentary follows this, before I’m finally allowed to escape with a last kiss on my mother’s cheek. I feel like a ghost as I move through the crowd, passing my father, sister, and future brother-in-law without saying goodbye.
It’s not until I’ve folded myself into the back of the waiting car and we’re pulling off down the drive, that I breathe freely.
Resting my forehead against the cool glass, I stare outside at the long line of vehicles, just like mine, parked and waiting for their very important owners to finish pretending to mourn Princess Araminta Ashwell.
I squeeze my eyes shut as—for the first time in twenty-six years—I begin to wonder whether the money is really worth it.
If I were given a choice, I think I would prefer people love me while I’m alive and miss me when I die.