They are married.
Oh. My. Oh very, very my. What glorious news. She all but danced a jig about the office. Robert, you dear, sweet man.
This,thiswas her scoop. The one that would put her back on top of the pseudo-news-tabloid world.
“Oh, thank you, Lord, thank you, thank you. You didn’t forget your little ole Gigi, did you? Not like those long nights when my daddy was out drinking. Thankyouuuuu!”
Back in her chair, Gigi hit Reply and studied the screen.
A story like this needed some corroboration, but the salaciousness of it alone was a moneymaker, enough to run it on hearsay. Robert could be her “palace source.”
If it turned out to be untrue, she’d print a subtle retraction, buried in the back of thePost.
But she’d face the wrath of Corina, such as it was for that sweet, demure girl with little fire in her bones. The toll of Carlos’s death continued to demand payment.
But wait a minute, if she was married to Prince Stephen, what was she doing in Melbourne? How long had they been married? Why hadn’t the world heard of this?
A secret royal wedding? Oh, this was too good to be true. Trembling, Gigi clicked Reply and typed her own simple message.
HOW DO YOU KNOW? DEETS.
Once the message was off into cyber space, Gigi paraded through the bull pen, suggesting an evening barbecue at her Tortoise Island home, perhaps drop the jet skis and paddleboats into the river. After all, it was the weekend.
The staff responded with an enthusiasm that pushed back the sluggishness of a Friday afternoon. They wereallin.
Gigi called home, instructing her staff to prepare for the party. Then she sashayed to the tea cart. She still had it, baby, she still had it.
TWENTY-SIX
At 8:54 in the evening, a soft light hovered over Cathedral City. The stratus of twilight scooped low and blended with the amber glow of city lamps.
Corina stepped out of the lift and onto the deck of the Braithwaite Tower, and into the breeze, the cloudless evening, the muted music of city life, and her memories.
And she was glad she came. Glad she’d texted Stephen to meet her here. The idea came to her as they drove home from Dunwudy Glenn. Meet on top of the Braithwaite.
She’d debated the idea all morning, considering it a bit melodramatic. But by teatime, she’d texted him, asking him to meet her here at 8:54.
When the nine o’clock chimes rang out, she’d hand him his freedom. She would end their marriage the way it began.
The Braithwaite was a glorious, above-the-city park with a small garden in the center, potted trees clustered between picnic tables and park benches.
The historic tower was the coveted location for surprises, for victory celebrations, for announcements, birthdays, and weddings. For blind dates and marriage proposals. For good-byes.
Cutting through the garden, Corina made her way to the forward wall and propped her arms on the railing where the view squared off with the Rue du Roi. In the distance, she could see the northern edge of Stratton Palace.
Forty stories down, the streets moved with traffic. Pedestrians snaked along the sidewalk, moving in and out of the shops, the park, on and off the busses.
From her vantage point, everything looked so small. Manageable. Sometimes all one needed was a change of perspective.
The wind driving up the side of the building played tug-of-war with her hair. Corina dug in her messenger bag for a hair tie.
How different tonight was from six years ago when she stood here with Stephen, wearing the Diamatia, her hair piled and curled on top of her head, sprayed and pinned into place. Not even the Braithwaite breeze could topple it.
Her heart overflowed with human confidence in those days, so self-assured by her abilities, youth, beauty, and wealth. On top of it all, she’d captured the heart of a prince.
Life was hers to command. Until it commanded her and drove her to her knees.
Now as she waited to meet Stephen on top of the historic tower, she had nothing to hope in but Jesus himself. The purest example of loving well.
