Chapter Eighteen
DéJà VU.
The term echoes in my mind as I wait in the corridor outside the bridal suite, right where I told Abigail we’d meet.
It seems like an eternity has come and gone since I first stood here, “relocated” to a new world and seeing her run toward me like a ghost.
But at the same time, it seems like just yesterday, with how my heart gushing out blood like it will never stop blee—
Stop it with the melodrama, Bailey.
I absently reach for my camera...and only realize that I don’t have it with me when all my hands grasp is air.
It’s only at that moment do I realize how I’ve come to use photography as a crutch.
Just snapping life away—snap, snap, snap—every time I struggle to bear with the weight of my own existence.
The hallway is all dark wood paneling and burgundy carpet, oil paintings of stern-faced ancestors staring down at me from gilded frames.
Morning light slants through the tall arched windows at that perfect angle—maybe 30 degrees above the horizon, the kind of light that makes everything look like a film still.
If I had my camera, I’d be adjusting for the warm color cast. Bumping up the Kelvin to compensate.
Somewhere beyond these walls, in the cavernous ballroom where Abigail’s wedding is about to take place, guests are filing into their seats. I can hear the distant murmur of voices, the faint strains of a string quartet warming up.
Okay, Bailey. You can do this. Just stand here. Watch for Amos. Don’t think about anything else.
I still haven’t told Abigail that I watched her die in another timeline. That I saw her body cold and still in that dungeon. But it can still change. That’s why I’m here. I have a job to do. A life to save. That’s it. After that, I’m—huh?
I blink.
Squint.
Rub my eyes so hard I probably smear whatever mascara Abigail insisted on putting on me.
But it’s still him.
The heartbreaker.
The husband who kicked me out.
Stop it, Bailey!
The Mafia King of the South is walking down the corridor toward me, his footsteps muffled by the thick carpet.
That...is how I’m going to think of him from now on.
Not by his name.
Not by what role he used to play in my life.
From now on, he’s just a king.
It’s the only way I can survive thinking of him.
Looking at him.
And remembering how it all started here.
Once upon a time.
A HALLWAY. A WEDDING. And the bride still isn’t me—
Oh God, I don’t think I can do this.
The pain is so great, the panic so terribly consuming, that I forget I have a life to save, and I just...run.
The hidden door is right where I remember it—tucked behind a faded tapestry depicting some kind of hunting scene, barely visible unless you know to look. I yank it open and slip through into the narrow passage beyond.
Stone walls press in on either side, rough and cold even through my dress. The air smells like dust and age and secrets—like opening a trunk that’s been sealed for decades. A single shaft of light filters down from somewhere above, catching the dust motes floating in the stillness.
My heart is doing its best impression of a trapped bird.
Footsteps behind me.
And then—
“I’m sorry.”
The words have the blood draining from my face.
They also have me stumbling, and that’s all he needs.
One tiny mistake on my part, and he catches me.
Turns me around.
To force me to face him, who is both my dream and nightmare come true.
“I’m sorry, Bailey.”
My mind registers the hoarseness of his voice, but my heart...is too battered and terrified of being hurt again to even try to understand where the hoarseness is coming from.
“It’s fine,” I hear myself say in a numb voice. “So if you could let me go—”
“It’s not fine,” he grits out, “and I can’t let you go.”
How can he say that when he’s the same person who kicked me out of his mansion...after telling me I’m unfit to be his queen?
“I’m sorry—”
“You’re forgiven.” I’m even willing to put that in writing. Or do anything he wants. Whatever it takes for him to let me go. “So if you could just release me—”
“I can’t. I can’t let you go.” His voice has gone rough. Like sandpaper. Like something being torn. “I don’t want you to.”
Why?
Why does he keep saying that when we both know that’s not true?
“Y-you obviously can when you...” My voice falters at the last moment, and I realize that I can’t even bear to repeat his words out loud. It hurts that much. “Y-You s-said...you...”
“I lied.”
The words just hang there. In the dim air. Between us.
“I wanted to keep you safe.” His fingers seem to involuntarily tighten, biting into my arms. “I never told you, but the other kings and I...we knew Abigail’s killer wasn’t just an otherworlder. He was one of the others—”
I start shaking my head.
“I’ve told you about their kind. Remember?“
I don’t want to hear this.
“The others...are sent to other worlds to cause chaos. They steal. Kill. Destroy. Whatever would cause the greatest pain. And that’s why—”
“Please stop,” I choke out.
“I had to throw you away—”
“I said stop!”
I don’t mean to cry out. But a sob catches in my throat and the words tear out of me before I can stop them, ragged and raw and completely humiliating. The sound echoes off the stone walls, bouncing back at me like an accusation.
He freezes. His whole body goes taut.
“I don’t know if you’re just saying this because you feel guilty,” I manage, “but it’s fine.”
“It’s not.”
“I’m fine.”
“I’m not.”
“I think you’re just feeling guilty, and I’m telling you there’s no need. When...when I go back to my world—”
“You’ll marry the other man?”
My eyes go wide. How did he—
“I read your book in Hewhay.”
“Y-You—” Fire bursts in my cheeks as the most embarrassing thoughts flood my mind.
Does that mean he knows about how I used to fantasize about dating someone else’s boyfriend, never mind if it’s fictional?
And that I even have my own, um, title picked out if I were to be a Greek goddess myself?
Oh, when I think about all the things he could read in my book—
“That’s so not cool,” I blurt out. “That’s like reading someone else’s diary—”
“It can’t be your diary if you didn’t write it.”
He has a point, but...even so.
“It’s still not cool!” I know it’s the silliest thing to say, but I think...I think I’ve finally reached my breaking point, and I just...
“In fact, YOU’RE NOT COOL either!”
I just lose it.
“It w-wasn’t cool, t-the way you t-threw me out—”
“I know.”
“And said I w-was unfit—”
“Let me explain.”
I shake my head. “Just...just go back to your o-original b-bride—”
“You’re the only bride that I want.”
I shake my head even more furiously. “I will never—”
“Just give me a chance to explain,” he grates out. “I didn’t want you hurt, okay? And so I made a mistake in wanting to keep you safe. I made you leave and it was the biggest mistake of my life.” His grip tightens. “I love you, Bailey—”
“Stop.” My voice cracks right down the middle. “Just stop.”
“I will always love you.”
“STOP!”
I shove him. Both hands against his chest, pushing with everything I have, which isn’t much but apparently it’s enough because—
He drops to his knees.
Just like that. The Mafia King of the South who commands armies and makes grown men tremble. On his knees on the cold stone floor, the dust of centuries settling on his perfectly tailored suit.
“I love you.” He looks up at me, and his face is open in a way I’ve never seen before. No walls. No masks. Just him. “Forgive me, my love. Give me another chance.” His voice drops. “Please.”
Please.
Kings don’t say please.
My mouth opens—
“This is not what I expected.”
But I lose the chance to tell him that I finally believe him, and that I love him, too—
Because Amos is here, but he’s not alone.
Oh no.
He’s silhouetted at the far end of the passage, backlit by the light spilling in from whatever door he came through. Abigail is in his grip, wedding dress torn at the shoulder, and her face white with terror at having a gun pressed to her temple.
No no no.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. Keeping her alive is the reason why I forced myself to come here. But I still failed. And Abigail is still in danger losing her life.
“Now, Your Majesty...”
Should have we expected this? Should we have remembered that things can change, every time we jump worlds and timelines?
Amos suddenly tosses something towards us, and my stomach twists itself in knots when metal cuffs clatter across the stone before landing near my feet. “Cuff him. Or I kill all of you.”
My hands shake as I kneel beside my king on the close floor, and they shake even more when I try closing the metal around his wrists.
“It’s okay, Bailey.”
His voice is low and calm, and it helps steady my fingers even though a part of me is still reeling. How can this be happening? How?
“Now get back to your feet and slowly back away...”
My legs threaten to fold as I force myself to do as he asks.
“Let both of them go.” Devyn’s voice is flat as he addresses Amos. “Whatever it is you’re planning—they’re only going to slow you—”
“Shut up!”
My heart nearly leaps out of my chest at the sudden violence that sharpens Amos’ words. He looked so...in control earlier. But now it’s as if he’s just one tantrum away from pulling the trigger and killing all of us.
“Do you think you’re still in the position to issue commands?”
As Amos starts yelling at Devyn, I notice Abigail trying to catch my eye—
“You’re no king now! Don’t you see that?”
I follow the direction of the gaze.
An alcove carved into the stone wall to her left, deep in shadow, and something in it catches the thin light. A faint sparkle. Hewhay’s shimmer. And beneath it, half-buried in dust and cobwebs—
A rusty pair of scissors.
I start to bend down.
“Stop right there!” Amos swings the gun toward me.
Abigail wrenches free and runs.
Amos howls, turning to aim at her—
Devyn kicks.