Total pages in book: 38
Estimated words: 36206 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 181(@200wpm)___ 145(@250wpm)___ 121(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 36206 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 181(@200wpm)___ 145(@250wpm)___ 121(@300wpm)
Everything fits perfectly. It only twists the knife in further.
This isn’t a fairytale. Royal isn’t a handsome prince. Even if he did single-handedly double the amount of orgasms I’ve had in my lifetime—all in one night.
I reach for a pair of winter boots, black leather and exactly my size, and keep them in my hand as I sneak out of the closet and cozy up to the bedroom door. It’s cracked open, and when I peek outside, there’s no one there. Relief floods me. Getting out of here is the right thing to do. There’s a reason Royal wasn’t with me when I woke up. This was a one-night stand, and it’s time for it to end.
I pad down the hall in socked feet, keeping on the thick carpet so the flooring doesn’t creak. I need to get to the kitchen, get my coat. Call a ride—if I can find a charger for my phone. Maybe Royal will be out, and I can do my walk of shame without an audience.
We had a magical night, and now it’s over. What did I expect? I never had any luck with men, especially not on Valentine’s Day.
I’m halfway down the stairs, clutching my boobs so they don’t bounce in this new bra, when I hear low, murmuring voices floating toward me. I hold my breath and creep down the final steps.
A door to my left is pushed open a few inches, and I press myself into the wall, watching the two people inside a bookshelf-lined study.
Royal. And another guy who looks a lot like him. One of the many cousins.
I should keep to the plan and continue sneaking out, but a glimpse of Royal’s beautiful face in profile roots my feet to the rug.
Royal. His face embodies the word, regal and perfect. Just the sight of him makes heat roll through me as I remember all the things he’s done to me. All the things he’s made me feel. Oh god, I feel like I’m going to throw up again.
“Spit it out, Enzo,” Royal commands, and I jump.
The man who must be Enzo stops fiddling with a marble paperweight and puts it back on the desk.
“I know what you’re planning,” Enzo says. “La Famiglia requires you to be married to inherit the throne. Is it really going to be her?”
Those words fall to the floor like billiard balls, heavy and hard, and they stop my heart right in its tracks. A cold flush, descending from my head on down my body, has me nearly shivering. I grit my teeth to keep them from clacking.
So it’s true. The small part of me that was hoping he was only storing the wedding dress in his bedroom for a friend, dies. He really does have a fiancée.
Royal sighs, and turns away from Enzo, staring into a crackling fireplace.
“There is no one else,” he says. “I can have nobody else.” He leans on the mantel. There sits another collection of photos in intricate, polished silver frames. His gaze lingers on one in particular, and my heart stutters its way through a series of painful beats.
Of course. The beautiful woman in the photo. Who else would belong at Royal’s side?
A sour taste blooms on my tongue. I’m an idiot. A plaything. Something to keep him occupied while he brooded over his impending marriage to Sophia Loren.
And the way he said it. I can have nobody else. He doesn’t want anyone but her.
Time for me to go. I tiptoe down the hall to find the kitchen, and the side room with my coat. Forget charging my phone and calling a ride. I’ve got to get out of here before Royal finds me.
I push my feet into the boots and open the door. The wind lashes me across the face, tugging at my curls and promising a frosty walk. Maybe I can get to a bus stop before I freeze to death. But nothing will warm the frozen place inside of me, the iced-over blood sluggish in my veins.
Tears bite at my lashes, welling up in my eyes. The snow crackles under my feet, the top layer frosty-frozen, and the underneath powdery and slippery.
The driveway hasn’t been plowed since the snowfall, but I shove my hands in my pockets. I’ll make it out of here on my own two feet, with the battered and tattered threads of my pride wrapped around me like a cape. I’m not his plaything. And he can’t toy with me, not anymore.
I stride forward and, not twenty feet out, my foot hits something under the snow. I go down flailing, face-planting in the cold fluff. Snow stings my eyes, and frosts my hair. I lie there for a moment, wishing I was anywhere else. Nobody in the history of the world has ever been as pathetic as I am.