Flicka ran to the door to try to stop him, to make him hash it out with her so she could talk some sense into him even though her head was still spinning from the champagne, but the hallway was empty outside her door.
One of the Queen’s black-suited Secret Service men walked toward her and nodded. “Madam, I’ve been tasked with overseeing your safety tonight. Should you require anything, I’ll be at your disposal.”
Flicka shook her head. “Thank you. I’m fine.”
She closed the door, locked it, and leaned against the steel and wood.
When her knees couldn’t hold her upright any more, she slid down the door to the floor.
When her chest hurt too much to support her, she lay down on the carpeting in front of the door.
When her willpower could not hold in her grief any longer, she sobbed.
