8. “Fire Meet Gasoline” - Sia
“Fire Meet Gasoline” - Sia
They couldn’t have chosen a better morning for the memorial. The sky is overcast, but there’s no chance of rain, and the air is that perfect combination of brisk and clear, encouraging you to suck in lungfuls at a time.
I do and end up in a coughing fit, so maybe not the best idea.
The palace’s back gardens have been transformed into what can only be described as madness.
There are people everywhere. I don’t even want to think about the screening process they had to go through.
The dozens of TV crews set up around the perimeter give me hope that at least those who couldn’t attend will be able to watch the footage.
I push aside the curtain to get a better view through the window. The massive terrace stretching across the back of the south wing will pose as the stage for the event. It’s already crawling with personal protection officers.
“Hang tight,” Henry says from my left, where he stationed himself first thing this morning and hasn’t so much as budged from since. “You won’t be leaving this room until it’s your turn to speak.”
“Says you.”
He gives a sharp laugh. “Yeah, says me.” His attention is focused on the crowd outside, probably scanning for anyone with SHARPSHOOTER scrawled on their T-shirt.
“The area has been turned inside out and is as secure as we can possibly make it. But there are going to be some rules. First, you will act like a drunk penguin when you’re on-stage. ”
“Excuse me?”
“Do not hold still. Ever. A target moving in unpredictable patterns is harder to hit than a stationary one.”
“You want me to bob and weave?”
“Yes. I want you to drop your pen, move around, and act like you’ve drunk two bottles of that Pauillac you like so much.”
My laugh is abrasive. “You’re out of your mind.”
Henry turns from the window to look at me, nostrils flaring. “I’m serious, C. The other thing I want is for you to trust me explicitly. If I tell you to move, duck, or run, you’re going to do so immediately—without asking a single damn question. Got it?”
“I’d rather be shot.”
The hard look melts from his face, and he turns and cups my cheeks in his palms. My heart leaps for my throat. “I know I hurt you. But I will do everything in my power to prevent anyone else from doing the same.”
“Don’t like sharing your voodoo doll?”
“Damn it, Celia.” He drops his hands and closes his eyes, then lifts his hand to his earpiece. After a few seconds, he barks, “Confirmed. Exiting in thirty.”
“What’s going on?” I say.
He ignores me, and I bump his thigh with my fist. Eyes focused on his watch, he grabs my hand and twines our fingers together. Tendrils of electricity shoot up my arm. I try to pull away, but he holds on tightly. A moment later, he gives me a tug. “It’s time.”
He pulls me onto the terrace, never letting go of my hand. We are surrounded by PPOs, and it’s like walking inside a moving box. The podium is in the center, and as I approach it with my own personal football team, the crowd begins waving and cheering.
“Remember what I said,” Henry hisses in my ear before releasing me and positioning himself no farther than twelve inches from my left elbow.
Another PPO stands on my right. There is a wall of them behind me and in front of me, although the ones in front are stationed a few steps down to allow the audience to, at the very least, see my face.
The whole thing must look absolutely ridiculous, like I’m some kind of terrorist who could be taken out at any second.
I clear my throat and step closer to the microphone. “Hello. Thank you all for coming. It’s unfortunate that we’re meeting under these circumstances, but what’s the purpose of life if we don’t pull together during the hard times?”
The crowd cheers.
I wait for the noise to settle before continuing. “Wesbourne has gone through a lot. We’ve fought for and won our freedom, we’ve built a great nation, and we are not about to let an evil force steal our children from us!”
The people go wild. Henry nudges me and mouths, Move around.
I frown but make a few swaying motions while continuing my speech, expressing sympathy as well as encouragement, stressing that we need to pull together as a nation.
I can’t help but notice the faces around me, grief chiseled onto them, leaving them hard and bitter.
“To the families who’ve lost their loved ones to this fatal drug, I offer my deepest condolences.
You are not alone, and your children are not forgotten. We as a nation stand—”
Henry knocks me and the rest of my speech to the ground.
I register a sharp whiz and panicked screams. It’s like I’ve entered a dream, the kind where everything you hear is at a distance and has a hollow echo.
The breath has been evicted from my lungs by Henry’s full weight bearing down on top of me.
All I can feel is the cool stone floor of the terrace pressing against my cheek.
After what feels like an eternity but could just as easily be a few seconds, I’m hauled to my feet and sandwiched between Henry and another PPO.
They all but carry me into the palace, and from there, we wind through the corridors until we reach the garage.
I’m hoisted inside one of the large black SUVs.
Henry crawls in behind me, and the car screeches out of the gates.
My head is throbbing. I wonder briefly if the impact gave me another concussion. Henry is panting beside me, and a glance at his lap shows his fisted hands are trembling.
“What happened?” I ask.
“There was a shooter.” The thin veneer of calm in his voice is threatening to crack from strain.
“How did you . . . ?” I can’t even process what just happened, let alone how he knew it was going to.
“I saw a flash and acted on instinct.”
“From where? I thought the palace was secured.”
“It was. It came from one of the buildings next door. He must have been using a long-range scope.”
“How did you know it was a gun?”
“I didn’t, but I wasn’t about to take the chance.”
“They were aiming at me?”
Shoving his fingers into his hair, Henry exhales. “Yes.”
The breath rushes from my lungs. I feel dizzy.
Someone actually tried to kill me. Henry was right. That means the car crash wasn’t an accident either. If it hadn’t been for his suspicions and protection, I would be dead right now.
I fold my arms across my stomach and lean forward. Nausea washes over me. I consider asking the driver to slow down, or at the very least not take the curves so fast, but no words come out. My body sways of its own accord.
Strong hands slide across my shoulders and under my legs, and Henry pulls me into his lap. I curl into the security of his chest, the scent of his pine-and-amber cologne bringing more comfort than I could have imagined. He rubs his palm over my back in circles.
The trembling starts in my bones. Once it rises to the surface of my skin, it’s impossible to stop. He tugs me closer, tucking my head under his chin, and says quietly, “Breathe, baby. Breathe.”
I try to obey, but my chest is constricted. All that comes out is tiny gasps. Henry continues moving his hands over me and encouraging me to inhale slowly. When it becomes clear that it’s not enough, he pulls back and takes my face in his hands, forcing me to meet his eyes.
“C, I need you to breathe. Deep, calming breaths.”
I shake my head, still gasping. “I can’t.”
“Do it with me.” His chest expands, and I try to follow suit, but short, pulsing breaths are all I can manage.
“I almost died.” It’s nearly a wail.
“But you didn’t. And you’re safe now, okay? Everything’s going to be okay.”
“If you hadn’t been there, if you hadn’t—”
“Shhh.” He cuts me off and buries my face in his chest again, his heartbeat thrumming through my body. I try desperately to match my breaths with it.
“What if they come after me again?”
“They’ll have to get through me, that’s what.” The words rumble through him. His hands are still on me, their rhythmic strokes calming my pulse.
The car slows and pulls into an underground garage. “Where are we?” I ask.
“The Atlantis,” Henry says. “We don’t know yet if the palace has been compromised.”
Fresh chills break out over my skin, and I shiver.
Five months ago, I lost my family’s estate and the only home I’ve ever known.
The palace isn’t what anyone would describe as homey—nothing with fifty-five private apartments, more priceless art than the Louvre, and five hundred staff members could be. But at least I feel—felt—safe there.
I must be shaking again, because Henry’s arms tighten around me as we wait for the all-clear to exit the vehicle.
I’m still sitting in his lap, and I realize with surprise that this doesn’t bother me.
His hands haven’t stopped moving since he pulled me onto him.
That’s probably the only thing keeping me from a full-blown panic attack.
Several minutes later, there’s a crackling in his earpiece. I listen to the vibration of his response without comprehending the words. He pulls the earpiece out and shifts me so I’m upright. “The penthouse is clean. We’re good to go.”
We get out of the car and walk to the lift amid a sea of PPOs. They should have asked me to wear a suit and tie so I’d blend in. My fuchsia dress is like a billboard advertising my every move.
The elevator hums with tension as we ride to the top floor. The PPOs riding with us murmur among themselves. Henry is still holding me tightly against his chest, and the only thing I’m focused on is his heartbeat and slowing my breathing.
When we reach the penthouse lobby, Henry stops to talk to the man I assume is in charge of his security team, keeping me curled against him like a small child. After this brief exchange of short, clipped sentences, Henry leads me inside.
His flat is just as I remember it, but none of it has any impact on me. My head is still throbbing, and I’m still trying to wrap it around the fact that someone tried to kill me. Twice.