Chapter 37
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
LEXI
I slam my suitcase open on the bed next to my duffel bag, then scurry around the room, pulling my stuff from the dresser drawers and snatching things from hangers in the closet.
All the while, silent tears flow down my face, my heart thuds in my chest, and the heat of humiliation burns through my veins.
Yes, I’m hurt that Oliver thinks I should leave, even though I suggested it first and even though he says it’s entirely for my benefit.
Some irrational part of me wanted him to stand up for me, to tell me that I was wrong, that I should stay. But he clearly doesn’t even stand up for himself as much as he needs to.
More than anything, I am staggeringly disappointed that I allowed myself to get into this position.
What the hell was wrong with me? What on earth made me think I could possibly get away with a fling with a British prince, for fuck’s sake?
And why did I even want to? There’s a reason I’ve always known that someone from this kind of life is the last person on the planet I should ever be interested in.
I grab my underwear from a drawer with one hand and rap my forehead with the heel of the other. “Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.”
And although he said we’ll pick up everything when he gets back to New York, maybe I should save myself the pain of prolonging the agony and not pick up the romantic part of this arrangement.
I always knew what Oliver and I had was temporary, so it’s not like I have any right to be upset.
But the fact that my heart, which was not supposed to get involved, is cracking like the lines in a mosaic tells me it will be even worse than this if I let it go on any longer.
The inevitable end is, at most, only a couple of months off anyway.
My phone buzzes on the dresser.
BECCA
I have some info. Can you talk?
I immediately press the video call button.
“Hey.” She’s sitting on our sofa, the white stick of a Chupa Chups sticking out of her mouth. Without being able to see it, I know it’s the strawberries-and-cream flavor because there’s a huge box of them in the cabinet over the fridge.
She screws up her eyes and leans closer to the screen, yanking the lollipop out of her mouth with a smack. “Your mascara’s smudged. Are you crying? What’s wrong?”
I drop the underwear into the case and swipe my cheeks with the back of my hand. “It’s nothing. I’m just packing to come home. It’s fine. What’s the news?”
“You don’t look fine. But okay. I have a college friend who works at the rag that published those pictures of you.
She told me they didn’t get them from your old toady boyfriend.
They weren’t even trying to dig up any dirt on you.
Someone just called them out of the blue and offered the photos.
Apparently it was an older British guy. That’s weird, right? ”
“Hang on.” I rest the phone against my pen case on the desk and grab a tissue from the box to blow my nose.
“I know who the guy was. The senior staffer here who’s trying to ruin me.
Guess he went digging in my past, found Mr. Toady, offered him a nice tidy sum for the pictures, then shopped them around himself. ”
Becca’s mouth hangs open like she’s lost the use of her jaw, showing off her strawberry-pink tongue, before she says, “You think the Palace was conspiring against you?”
“You make it sound like I’m living in a Regency romance novel. I promise you, it’s not even close to that glamorous. As far as I know, Buckingham Palace knows nothing. I think the guy here went rogue and acted on his own initiative because he loathes every pore of my being.”
“What an asshole,” she says. “By the way, sidebar, that is an incredibly cute dress. You look absolutely fucking gorgeous.”
“Oh God, the dress.” I look down, almost surprised by what I’m wearing. “I forgot I had it on. I sure as hell can’t leave in it. The Asshole-in-Chief would have me arrested at the airport for theft. And no doubt he’d have a photographer there to capture my full indignity to share with the media.”
I reach back, scrambling for the zipper.
“Is that why you’re coming home a couple of days early? Because they’re all assholes?”
“Kind of.” Fuck this zipper. And my inability to reach around my own back.
“Plenty of fodder for the book,” she says. “Snippets of stuff like that would be social media marketing gold for the release. You know, vindicating Oliver’s decision to move away.”
Finally the zipper budges. “Giles, the Chief Asshole, found out about the book. Someone went through my fucking computer. And now he’s threatening to tell Oliver’s parents and the king and queen about it if Oliver doesn’t tell them himself immediately.”
“He did what?” Becca hisses. Then in a sudden change of tone adds, “Oooh, nice undies. You must have had those stashed for a while. Never seen them draped over the side of the tub drying.”
She’s right. Had I brought barely worn nice underwear with me because at the back of my mind I was hoping Oliver might see it?
I step out of the dress, then hang it up in the giant wooden wardrobe that looks like the portal to Narnia, grab a pair of jeans and a crewneck I’d already packed, and shove my body into them. “The whole thing is a fucking nightmare.”
“By which you mean you like the boy more than you wanted to like the boy.” She jabs her candy at me.
“Shut up.” Which obviously means yes.
I trot to the bathroom to grab my toiletries, Becca’s voice becoming too distant for me to hear.
The vase and silk flower on the windowsill catch my eye. Instantly, my anger, frustration, and the twist in my heart from getting too involved with Oliver drive me to snatch it up, turn on the tap, and fill it with water.
Fuck Giles.
If there’s someone monitoring that bug right now, I hope they wonder what the hell the glug glug noise in their ears is.
It’s a destructive and pointless act, but it is also a little bit satisfying.
“Oh, there you are,” Becca says when I return to the room. “Running away is always a subtle way to avoid an issue.”
“I was getting my stuff from the bathroom.” I hold up my toiletries bag before tossing it into the duffel, then search for a pair of socks.
“Let me know what time you’ll be home. I’ll wait up with caramel brownie ice cream.”
Now my twisted heart swells with gratitude for the love of Becca. And, despite everything, I smile as I look at her face. “That would be amazing.”
A message flashes above Becca’s head on my screen, then vanishes before I can read it. I only catch the name.
“Hang on, I just got a text from Julian.” I open up my messages. “If Giles has gotten to him already and told him he’s found me out, I’ll fucking ki—”
JULIAN
Sorry to bother you with bad news on a Saturday. But I’m afraid the war correspondent’s job has gone to Lee Regus. Out of my hands. Orders from on high. We’ll talk when you get back.
I don’t even realize I’m staggering backward until the backs of my legs hit the bed and I drop onto it, just missing the suitcase.
“What’s wrong? What did he say now?” Becca asks. “Are you about to faint? You look like you’re about to faint. Or are you going to puke? You also look like you might be about to puke. Lex, are you okay? Seriously, talk to me.”
It does indeed feel like every drop of blood has drained from my body and every ounce of life has been squeezed from my soul.
“The war correspondent’s job that was mine? It isn’t mine anymore.” My voice is weak, pathetic.
“What? Even Julian can’t be enough of a jerk to not give you the job he promised you if you write the book. Right?”
“He’s been told he has to give it to Lee Regus.”
“Nooo.” Becca’s suddenly on her feet, lollipop held in the air like a warning flag, shaking her head. “Why would they do that? That dude wouldn’t know a story if it smacked his whole freaking face off. And believe me, I’ve felt like doing that a few times.”
“Because he’s the owner’s son, of course.” Now I might actually throw up. “The nepo babies win again. Who cares about having skills when Daddy can give you whatever fucking job you want? Who cares about experience and talent when you never have to earn your place in life for a single second?”
Becca’s sitting again now. “Well, he’ll die on his incompetent ass out there with no coattails to hang on to.
Here, in the office, he can coast on the backs of others.
Out there, in a war zone, with no one to do the work for him, he’s bound to fuck up and get found out.
Or shot. Then they’ll have to give the job to you anyway. ”
“But I won’t be working there anymore for them to give it to.”
“What are you talking about?”
“They’re closing the Deskus, so this means that after the book, I have no job.”
“Fuck it all then,” she says. “No point writing the book if the new job they promised you for doing it has gone. Walk away from that too. Give the finger to The Current, to Julian, to the fucked-up royals and their staff, and go plant a new stake somewhere your talents are more appreciated.”
“I can’t. I have to finish the book. I need to be able to pay rent until I can get a new job, and who knows how long that will take.
I’ve never been unemployed. Never left one job until I had the next lined up.
So this is financially terrifying. As is the thought of looking for something new.
If I carry on with the book, they’ll at least have to pay me.
Plus, Oliver’s side of the story needs to get out there. ”
And wanting to do a good job for Oliver, to try to get his detractors to see that he’s not the lazy, partying, waste-of-space they think he is, feels equally as important as keeping a roof over my head and food in the fridge.
That’s not something the me of a few weeks ago would have said—the me who was repulsed by the very idea of collaborating with a royal.
Becca silently puts the candy back in her mouth and sucks on it, holding onto the stick.
“I guess even you have run out of ways to find a positive side to this,” I say.
She pulls out the lollipop.
“Well, I do have whiskey to go with the caramel brownie ice cream,” she ventures with a half-smile.
My head drops forward. “Yup. That’s where we stand. Pretty much nothing more useful I can do than get drunk and eat sugar.”
There’s a knock on the bedroom door.
“Miss?” It’s Dane’s voice. “Your flight is booked. It leaves in three hours. I’ll be waiting at the front door to take you to the airport whenever you’re ready.”
“Gotta go,” I say to Becca. “Text you when I land.”
I shove the phone in my purse, then my trembling hands attempt to yank the zipper closed on my case.
“Now is good,” I try to say to Dane, but the words squeak out of my tight throat. This whole situation is anything but good. But there’s nothing I can do about it.
After clearing my throat, I try again. “I’ll be right there.”
I sling my purse and duffel bag over my shoulder, slide the case off the bed and roll it toward the door.
I force myself not to look back at the room in the castle with the four-poster bed that’s played a big part in the last two unworldly weeks of my life.
Instead, I head forward.
Into absolutely nothing.