19. “Stay” - Rihanna Mikky Ekko
“Stay” - Rihanna + Mikky Ekko
Itoss my handbag onto the bed and walk into the closet.
My nostrils flare at Henry’s blatant disregard for hanging things where they belong.
All it would take is a simple toss onto a chair or drop into the laundry hamper, but he insists on discarding his socks and pants on the floor.
I guess that’s what happens when you grow up with maids just one step behind you, cleaning everything up.
I kick aside his leather jacket and grab a set of cotton pajamas from my drawer before heading to the bathroom. He’s damn wrong if he thinks I’m dealing with more than one of his messes right now.
The hot water of the shower feels good. If I close my eyes and tilt my head back, I can imagine that everything is okay.
That I didn’t just have a fight with the love of my life, that that isn’t what every conversation dissolves into these days, that we’re not both keeping secrets from each other and telling lies in the same breath.
The tension in my shoulders slowly ebbs. I picture it swirling around and spiraling out through the drain, the way my therapist suggested. Stress begone. As if that’s all it takes for it to disappear.
If I could just get Henry to understand what allowing Elizabeth and Axel into our lives is doing to us.
He’s so blinded by his desire to have a child that he can’t even see what’s happening.
Elizabeth Gable knew exactly what she was doing when she swept in with her vanilla-scented wrists and her saltwater waves and her vegan leather ankle boots.
I pump a puddle of body wash into my hands, then add a second one for good measure. Rubbing my palms together, I let the aroma of peppermint and basil fill the air. I allow myself to appreciate the softness of my curves under the lather, something I rarely take time for these days.
When Henry and I first got together, I rarely took a shower alone. He was always there, rinsing the shampoo from my hair, stroking my back with his strong hands, letting them explore other parts of my body. Nine out of ten showers ended with an orgasm against the cool tile.
But it’s been a long time since he slipped in here with me, since either of us initiated sex for a reason other than trying to get pregnant. It’s become difficult to climax lately, and I find myself faking it more and more.
My fingers have wandered down between my legs of their own volition, stroking first the soft skin of my inner thighs, then moving higher, to my apex. By leaning against the wall of the shower, I can almost convince myself it’s not my hand down there but his.
A noise startles me out of my trance, and my eyes fly open. The shower door is yanked open, and Henry is standing on the other side.
At first I think he’s going to come inside, but that’s before I notice that he’s still in his clothes, the same ones he was wearing in my office thirty minutes ago. Moisture runs down the glass door, and several drops land on his suede shoes.
It’s when my eyes are traveling upward again that I see what he’s holding. My heart lurches from my chest and bounces across the slippery tiles beneath my feet.
“What the bloody hell is this?” His voice is a study in quiet, menacing control. He holds it up so that I can’t possibly claim ignorance about what he’s talking about.
I open my mouth, but no matter how hard I try, no sound will come out.
I’ve been so careful up until now, always moving the pills to my dispenser and tossing the packaging away in one of the public bathrooms downstairs. I stand there like an idiot, water streaming over my breasts, my flat and empty womb, my frozen face.
“I—I can explain,” I manage to stammer out.
I’ve never seen his face this hard and cold, not even minutes ago when he confronted me about the private investigator. He drops the small pink compact unceremoniously to the floor. It cracks, part of the lid splintering off and skidding across the tile.
“I don’t want your soddy excuses,” Henry says. He leaves the bathroom—just walks away before I can offer a word of explanation.
I slide down against the shower wall until I hit the floor. I don’t bother turning off the water. I pull my knees up against my chest, curling myself into as tight of a ball as possible. It isn’t until my face is securely planted in the small hollow that forms that I allow my tears to fall.
Huge, wrenching sobs, the kind I haven’t cried in ages.
Months.
Maybe years.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He wasn’t meant to find out. I was going to quit taking them as soon as the timing felt right. I thought it would just be for a little while, until we got things sorted with the monarchy and the press.
But then one thing led to another, and here we are.
I was planning to choose a month on the calendar, the one that would be our “baby” month. I read summer pregnancies are especially brutal, not to mention that summer is the busiest time for the royal family, what with garden parties and walkabouts and parades.
I was leaning toward a spring or even winter delivery.
Either one would have gotten me out of carrying an extra twenty pounds during those rough months when you’re already sweating buckets.
My doctor said it might take some time for my body to conceive after stopping the pills, so I was planning for that as well.
Originally, I earmarked this month as the one, but when my calendar filled with more events than ever before, I decided to wait. It’s not like I told anyone but myself anyway. My first duty is to my country. I can’t let her down. Things will slow down eventually.
When next month’s calendar grew as full as this month’s, I decided we could wait another year. Better that than risk the summer pregnancy thing. No one wants to see me walk the streets of Wesbourne with a watermelon under my dress.
And now Henry knows my secret.
God, I should’ve hidden it better, should’ve never kept the pills in my bag in the first place. How did he even find them? Was he going through my things? Did he suspect something? Maybe Elizabeth planted an idea in his head. She might be the reason behind all of this.
I get to my feet. That woman will not win. She is not getting her claws into my husband or my life. Whatever she thinks will be the outcome of this whole scandal, she’s wrong. If she thinks she can beat Celia Chapman-Payne, she’s about to find out differently.
I turn off the water and step out of the shower. It isn’t until I’m squeezing the moisture from my hair that I discover I forgot to grab underwear from the closet.
“Henry?” I call out.
There’s no answer.
I try again, but I can’t hear anything. The bastard’s ignoring me.
Grabbing a fluffy white bathrobe from a hook, I wrap it around myself.
I walk through the bedroom, which turns out to be empty.
My handbag is on the bed, tipped onto its side.
I have a sudden flashback of tossing it there on my way to the closet.
It must have fallen over and spilled its contents across the duvet, including the prescription refill Maisie stuffed inside earlier.
Bloody hell.
I walk through the closet to get a pair of panties, but something feels different. Missing. As I’m turning to leave, I’m struck by what feels off in the room.
Henry’s jacket isn’t on the floor anymore.
He must have finally decided to act like an adult.
I open the doors of his closets to make sure he hung it up properly, but I can’t find the bloody thing.
I search every single cupboard, but it’s not there.
I even check my own on the off chance he got disoriented.
Confused, I wander back into the bedroom. The jacket isn’t here either, and neither is Henry. I check the rest of the apartment as a choking sensation grabs hold of my throat. I refuse to acknowledge it.
He wouldn’t leave.
When the apartment proves empty, I try calling him. It goes directly to voicemail. I send him a message. Where are you? Several minutes go by, and he still hasn’t opened it.
I return to check the nightstand on his side of the bed. Dread claws its way from my belly to my throat. I clamp a hand to my mouth to keep from vomiting it across the carpet.
His personal car keys are gone.
I don’t have a second to lose. I sprint down the corridors in nothing but my cashmere bathrobe, hoping no one will see me, but trusting that if they do, they won’t recognize me.
Getting to the quad requires navigating two flights of stairs and a maze of corridors to the back exit. I know I’m going to be too late, that he’s already long gone, driven off into the night by my deception in that rumbling black car of his.
I run into the quad anyway, not realizing until I do that it’s pouring outside.
I scan the lot for Henry’s vehicle, knowing I won’t find it.
When I spot a pair of taillights near the Ambassador’s Entrance, I almost don’t register them, but when I do, I bolt across the wet grass and soggy gravel to where he’s just sliding into the luxurious onyx interior.
He doesn’t see me at first, but when I slap my palms against the slick window, he jolts and lowers it.
“Celia, what the hell are you doing out here?”
“Are you going to her?” I say, raising my voice over the rain.
“What?” His brow wrinkles in confusion. “To who?”
“Elizabeth!” I shout. The wind whips at my robe, and I clutch it tighter around myself.
“Why the fuck would I be going to her?” He looks at me as though I’ve lost my bloody mind, and maybe I have, but all I know is that I can’t lose him, can’t do this without him, and if that means accepting that he has a son, fine, because I’ll do it.
I’ll do anything if it means keeping him, keeping what we had and what we don’t have anymore, for the hope that we might someday find it again.
“You need to go inside,” he says, facing the windshield and not me.
“We can do DNA testing,” I say. “On Axel. Find out if he’s really yours.”