Chapter Twelve
I SPENT HOURS PREPARING what I would say.
Standing in front of my mirror, I practiced the words until they stopped feeling like glass in my throat. Until I could say them without my voice breaking. Until I could look at my own reflection and pretend I believed them.
You’re too old for me.
There’s so much I still want to do with my life.
It was just infatuation.
Aretha had been so gentle when she asked. Had held my hand and wept and told me this was the only way. If Aurora truly loved the sheikh, Aretha said, then she would set him free. She would give him a reason to let her go without guilt. She would make him believe that leaving was her choice.
“Tell him you’ve realized the truth,” Aretha had whispered. “Tell him he’s too old for you. That you want to experience life before settling down. That what you felt for him was just a young girl’s infatuation.”
It killed me to even think of saying such lies, but what choice did I have?
The walk to his study felt endless. Every step I took, I wanted to turn back. Every corridor I passed, I wanted to run to my room and hide under the covers like a child. But I kept walking, one foot in front of the other, because this was the right thing to do.
The noble thing.
The thing a woman who truly loved him would do.
When I reached his door, I had to stop and press my hand to my chest. My heart was beating so fast I could barely breathe. My palms were damp. My legs felt like they might give out at any moment.
Just get through this, I told myself. Just say the words and leave. You can fall apart later.
I knocked.
“Enter.”
His voice. Even now, even when I was about to destroy everything between us, the sound of it made my chest ache.
I opened the door and stepped inside.
The sheikh’s study was bathed in late afternoon light, dust motes floating lazily through the golden beams that streamed through the tall windows.
Mik’hail sat behind his desk, papers spread before him, a pen in his hand.
He looked up when I entered, and for just a moment—just a fraction of a second—I thought I saw something in his eyes.
Pain. Longing. Love.
But then it was gone, and his expression smoothed into something cold and distant.
“Aurora.” He set down his pen and gestured to the chair across from him. “Please. Sit down.”
His voice was stiff. Formal. Like he was addressing a stranger.
He had never spoken to me like this. Not once in all the years I had lived under his roof. Even when he was exasperated with me, even when I had pushed him too far, there had always been warmth beneath his words. Affection. Tenderness.
Now there was nothing.
My throat tightened as I crossed the room and lowered myself into the chair. The leather was cold against my legs. The desk between us felt like an ocean.
Does he know? I wondered. Does he know I’m not Lord Richard’s daughter? Is that why he’s looking at me like this—like I’m something dirty, something shameful?
“I won’t make this long,” Mik’hail said. “I think both of us would appreciate brevity at this point.”
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
“Our previous commitment to marriage is no longer binding.” His tone was clipped. Businesslike. “You will be provided a regular allowance as Aretha’s sister. The palace will continue to support you financially until you are able to support yourself.”
I had come here prepared to lie to him. Prepared to tell him I didn’t want him, that he was too old for me, that what we had was nothing but infatuation.
But hearing him say these things first—hearing him dismiss what we had with such cold efficiency—
It broke something inside me, and I just found myself dragging oxygen to my lungs...because I suddenly had a hard time breathing.
“I’m...I’m pleased to hear this.”
And speaking.
It was so much harder to speak, even though I had practiced the words for so many times.
“Because I also r-realized that you’re too old for me.”
This was the lie Aretha had asked me to tell. The words she had coached me to say, over and over, until I could deliver them without flinching.
“And t-that there’s so much I still want to do with my life. So much I want to experience.”
But now, looking at the coldness in his eyes, I realized I needn’t have bothered.
“I’m glad we see things the same way.” His voice was curt. “The palace staff will assist you in your departure. Your discrete cooperation is appreciated.”
That was it.
No argument. No protest. No desperate plea for me to stay.
Aretha had worried for nothing. She had been so concerned that Mik’hail would fight for me, that he would refuse to let me go. But looking at him now—at the stranger sitting behind that desk—I saw the truth.
He didn’t just want me gone.
He couldn’t wait to be rid of me.
“Of course, Your Highness.” I rose from the chair, my legs somehow holding me upright. “I’ll begin packing immediately.”
I turned and walked to the door.
I didn’t look back.
I just focused on what I should do next like...like walking.
And...and packing.
Yes, I had to pack because he wanted me gone.
Immediately.
So, first...clothes. Then...shoes. I was doing all of these things like a robot, but it also felt like I was watching myself at the same time while my mind was somewhere far away, replaying those moments in his study over and over.
Our previous commitment to marriage is no longer binding.
I’m glad we see things the same way.
Your discrete cooperation is appreciated.
I felt like I should thank Aretha at this point. Because if I had not practiced the lies she wanted me to say, I wouldn’t have been able to pretend or hide anything. I would have just broken down completely and ask him...were you lying, too?
When he said he loved me, was that a lie?
And when he had that one night with me, was that when the novelty had worn off, and he realized the lie was impossible to maintain?
A knock at my door startled me from my thoughts.
“Yes?”
The door opened, and a man stepped inside. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a plain face and forgettable features. Palace staff, from the look of his uniform.
“Lady Aurora.” He bowed. “I’ve been assigned to assist you in your departure.”
“Already?” I looked at the half-packed trunk on my bed. “I haven’t finished—”
“His Highness insists on expediting the process.” The man’s voice was smooth. Apologetic. “I’m afraid there’s no more time to pack. We can have the rest of your belongings sent to you later.”
Of course.
Of course Mik’hail wanted me gone as quickly as possible.
I should have felt something at that. Hurt, maybe. Anger. But there was nothing left inside me. Just a hollow emptiness where my heart used to be.
“Very well.” I rose from the bed and smoothed down my skirt. “Lead the way.”
I followed the man out of my room and down the corridor. Past the portraits of Mik’hail’s ancestors. Past the windows overlooking the gardens where I had once pricked my finger on a rose thorn. Past all the places that held memories of him.
I kept my eyes forward. I didn’t let myself look.
We descended a back staircase I had never used before, one that led away from the main halls and into the servants’ quarters.
The air grew cooler as we walked, the light dimmer.
Something prickled at the back of my mind—a warning, maybe, a sense that something wasn’t right—but I was too tired to pay attention to it.
Too heartbroken to care.
We reached the garage, and the man held the door open for me.
“After you, milady.”
I stepped inside.
The garage was cold and cavernous, filled with the sheikh’s fleet of cars. My footsteps echoed against the concrete floor. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in a harsh, sterile glow.
“Which car will be—”
A hand clamped over my mouth from behind.
I tried to scream, tried to struggle, but something hard and cold pressed against the back of my head.
A gun.
“Don’t scream.” The voice was low. Urgent. “I just want to talk.”
My whole body was shaking. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.
“I’m going to let go now,” the voice said. “And you’re going to turn around. Slowly. Do you understand?”
I managed a tiny nod.
The hand released my mouth. The gun stayed where it was.
I turned.
And my eyes went wide.
The man standing before me was nothing like the composed staff member who had escorted me here. His eyes were wild, darting around the garage like a cornered animal. His hands were jittery, the gun trembling slightly in his grip. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cold.
But it wasn’t his state that made my blood run cold.
It was his face.
I knew that face. I had seen it years ago, back when Aretha first came to the palace. Back when she had a personal bodyguard who followed her everywhere, a man who watched her with an intensity that had always made me uneasy.
A man named...
Royce.
The same name as the man who had supposedly held my sister captive for over a year.
“Hello, Aurora,” Royce said, his wild eyes fixed on mine. “We need to talk about your sister.”