Chapter 11
ELEVEN
GEMMA
Something smacked into my face, and I woke with a jolt.
My temples throbbed with a hangover. The sun had melted into a snowy white sky.
It was too bright. I vaguely remembered coming home, doing more lines with the girls, but after that the night blurred.
Now, Blaire and Kennedy were in bed with me.
I shoved Kennedy’s hand off my face and sat up, leaning against my quilted headrest. In the mirror opposite my bed, I saw myself clearly. Mascara streaked. Hair unkempt and unbrushed. Lips swollen from sleep.
Messy.
I like you sweaty, Gemma. Dirty. Ugly. Messy.
Last night came rushing back in a wave of heat.
Grim knew things about me. Fucked-up things. Things I liked. Things I didn’t tell people. Things that would very much ruin my image.
Things I craved.
Sometimes when he looked at me, I could see him crave them too. I could feel those cravings twist my gut into knots, our shared addiction we never talk about.
I rubbed the mascara from under my eyes, trying to forget the night. There was always something there, something I didn’t want to admit.
Not love. Not butterflies. Some twisted, sinister need deep inside me.
But I was Gemma Crowne, America’s Princess.
My life’s map was drawn before I ever talked to him.
He was Grim, a criminal from the wrong side of the tracks.
We were never meant to be anything but this—one soul enslaved to another—because the day we finally gave in to our temptation was the moment he became my reaper.
Feeling suffocated, I shoved the heavy satin duvet off my body and got out of bed. Kennedy rolled into the spot I’d been in. I needed air, so instead of having breakfast delivered to the room like I usually did, I threw on a pair of oversize sweats and went downstairs.
My mother insisted on a full breakfast made every morning—even though we rarely ate together, let alone even touched breakfast. Flaky, golden croissants made with imported French butter, truffle poached eggs with caviar sprinkles, fruit from all over the world, and at least three types of freshly squeezed juice.
I was expecting the dining room to be empty, but my brother, Grayson, and his wife and daughter, Story and Sonnet, were seated and eating.
I immediately spun around on my heel to avoid them.
“Gemma?” Story said to my back.
Fuck.
“You’re back,” I said, sitting down and grabbing the breakfast I had every morning: hot lemon water with chia seeds. America’s Princess doesn’t stay a size zero by eating croissants.
Grayson played with Sonnet. “We got in last night—” He broke off when he saw me.
I gave him a face. “What?”
“Late night?” Grayson shared a look with Story—concern. I pretended I didn’t see it. “Are you okay?” he continued, voice soft.
Gentle.
I wanted to break it.
“Weird how everyone forgets the past,” I said.
“You used to go out more than me. You were Playboy Gray—in fact, I distinctly remember you using your now-wife as a bargaining chip in a poker match.” Displeasure warped Grayson’s face, and he glanced at Sonnet—as if a fucking one-year-old could understand me.
A little bit of the old Gray, the one before his wife, appeared.
The guy who used to come home with bloody knuckles and a nose permanently crooked from too many hits.
I leaned back in my chair, smiling.
“Hey, it happened,” Story said, trying to defuse the conversation. “But we had something important to ask you, remember?” She gave Grayson a pointed look.
The tension in his shoulders released on an exhale. “We wanted to ask you a question.”
I took a drink of my lemon water, waiting.
“Will you be Sonnet’s godmother?”
I choked on the water.
Godmother?
Story handed me Sonnet before I could respond.
A small, tiny thing. Too tiny.
I studied her scrunched face. “I don’t think—”
“You’re the reason this baby is alive.”
“Grim is the reason,” I said without thinking.
A weird, sticky tension filled the room. Almost a year ago, my grandfather went mad, Story was about to give birth, and we had nowhere to go. And almost a year ago, Grim showed up. He delivered my brother’s child on the sand. He saved us.
Maybe Grim came when I called because he felt the same twisted ache I do.
More likely it was because by saving the future Crowne heir, he had the entire Crowne family fully under his grasp.
“Are you still involved with him?” Grayson asked, voice low.
“Involved?” I feigned ignorance, forcing myself to stare at Sonnet. She made one of those adorable baby faces, so new to the world she couldn’t fathom a future where she wasn’t this wide-eyed, happy creature.
“What are you doing, Gemma?” His voice thinned in exasperation. “He kills people. He’s fucking bad news.”
“What are you doing?” I countered. “Because you got some happily ever after, you think this family is, like, not fucked up anymore?”
I don’t know when it happened, but the Crowne family once known for its dysfunction and hate had overwhelmingly become…functional. Fucking loving.
Except here I was—very much not functional, and now trusted with holding on to the tiniest Crowne.
I was lost.
Lost among my siblings and this new, wholesome, and normal family. I was always the perfect American princess to the outside world, but my family knew I was fucked up on the inside. The one with the pill problem. The mean girl.
It didn’t matter, though, because we were all messed up.
Grayson was an asshole, a playboy.
Abigail was an attention seeker, she ruined everything she touched.
Now Grayson was a loving father and husband. Abigail was a mother and wife with a thriving business. And me? I was the fucking same. I still wore sunglasses inside to hide what I did the night before.
A lump stuck in my throat. I swallowed, trying to clear it. I could see it in my brother’s eyes, in the way his brow furrowed as he watched me hold his daughter. I could see the concern in Story’s eyes as she dragged her bottom lip between her teeth.
They were worried.
Fuck them.
“Here.” I shoved Sonnet back into Story’s arms.
“Gemma!” Story called after me. “Wait!”
“Let her go…” My brother’s voice trailed into quiet as I left the room.
When I got upstairs, Blaire and Kennedy were just waking up. Kennedy had snuggled into Blaire at some point. I sat on my chaise, picking off my nail polish.
Godmother?
Pick.
“I stole a pair of your underwear,” Blaire said. “Period came early. They’re mine now.”
“How long have you been awake?” Kennedy asked as Blaire shoved her off.
Pick.
“I don’t want to remember yesterday, today, or tomorrow,” I said.
“Damn, okay,” Kennedy said. “Let’s get fucked up.”