28. King Lawrence
King Lawrence
By five-thirty, footsteps already echoed through the corridor beyond my chambers.
Staff went through their routines. The curtains were opened precisely halfway.
Coffee arrived black. The morning briefing sat beside my untouched breakfast exactly where it always did.
Everything was set. Controlled. Absolutely boring.
I stood at the same window overlooking the illuminated gardens just as I always did this early. Rain was more of a mist as it fell to the hedges below, and deeper into the palace, clocks chimed.
Time. Yes… Everything ran on time.
Everything but my mind.
“Today’s first engagement begins at eight, Your Majesty.” Dominique moved behind me, but I didn’t turn around. “Followed by the Heritage charity luncheon, and then of course the diplomatic dinner with—”
“Cancel the luncheon.”
A pause.
“But the press reacted favorably to your attendance last year.”
I turned, slowly, watching his eyes quickly jerk down.
“I don’t believe I was asking your opinion.”
“Of course not, Your Majesty.”
“Cancel it. I’m not in the mood today.”
“I will cancel.”
I headed over, stopping to look down at the food laid out. I picked up the coffee, taking a sip as thoughts wanted to steal me away again. I couldn’t go back there. Not so early. Not yet.
“What is my schedule leading up to the dinner?”
Dominique scrolled through his phone. “Hospital—”
My hand shot up, cutting him off from what I already knew.
Cameras would follow me through the wings while newspapers praised my composure.
They’d all speak of generosity and strength, and I’d promise miracles I couldn’t deliver.
No one would mention the fact that I barely slept anymore.
Or that every woman with blue eyes still made my pulse spike before disappointment and anger would suck me down.
“Should I cancel, Your Majesty?”
I pulled the chair out, not answering.
Routine.
Time.
Regret.
So much fucking regret.
“No.”
I stared down at my food, but I didn’t attempt to eat it. Dominique stayed glued to his phone, and my mind drifted as I picked up a fork.
“Oh. Oh.”
My eyes cut up. Not interested but more aggravated.
“What?”
“Sire.” He rushed to my side, thrusting his phone into my face. “Is this her? Is this Ms. Taylor?”
A blurry picture had me squinting and snatching the device out of his grasp.
The chair fell back behind me as I stood, and I could feel my heart racing as I took in the dark hair and pale skin.
The woman was clearly running. It was dark, and she was dressed…
oddly for the season. She was in a white slip dress and barefoot.
It had to have been cold out there. Too cold to be dressed like that.
But was it her? God, it looked like her.
“Where did you get this? When was it taken?”
“It just came in. It’s from my contact in the paper.
The image came from a security camera outside a twenty-four-hour bakery.
The baker claims he knows Ms. Taylor personally and saw her run by.
He claims she and her mother used to come in on occasion.
He swears it was her, and that she was running towards her home.
Apparently, though, this took place days ago.
No one would listen to the baker, which is why he supplied proof to the paper.
“Days ago?” My anger was evident as I pinned Dominique with a look but went back to the phone.
I zoomed in on the image. “It’s her. It has to be.
” I glanced up. “Find out for sure. I want men headed to her home right now. Send some to The Met. If they have her, you find a way to bring her to me. No excuses.”