God would not want her to marry Prince John. He knew what she did and yes, though she actually felt forgiven after Monday evening, that didn’t make her fit for a queen.
In the meantime, she lay awake long after she’d crawled into bed and stored her memories. The colors, sights, and sounds of ancient Port Fressa. The music of the ball. The timbre of John’s voice.
Over time, everything would fade—like all summer memories—but she’d treasure them for now.
On the end table, her phone chimed. Scottie texted asking to meet for breakfast.
“I want to hear about last night and also I’m extending my stay.”
“Give me twenty minutes.”
Across the room, the swan gown hung from the top of the closet, the skirt just barely touching the floor.
Gemma kicked out of bed to walk over, and traced her hand across the embellishments, down to the feathers. “Thank you.”
In the bathroom she started the shower. Princess Daffy’s stylist had lacquered Gemma’s hair something fierce. Finding the palace’s laminated apartment intercom guide, she punched in the numbers for 3C, the spare heir’s apartment. There was no answer so she left a message regarding the gown.
“Shall I bring it to you?”
With a final glance at the dress, she reached for her phone. She’d not taken a picture of it. Haley and JoJo would go bonkers.
She took a couple of shots then, on a whim, checked social media. Why not? She’d find a picture of her in the dress—there were so many cameras aimed at John last night—and send it to Hal and Jo, Mama, Daddy, and Imani. Though Imani followed the House of Blue accounts and would probably knew more than Gemma.
Finding one of the royal fan sites she checked after the prince had left Hearts Bend, she dropped to the bed when the first image on her screen was of her and Prince John walking into the ballroom. He looked stunning in his tuxedo with his rakish smile and rich, dark hair.
You love him. So, what does it matter? I’m going home.
There were a lot of comments about how beautiful she looked—thank you—but more on how stunning the dress was.
Checking another site, she squinted at the first image. It was very dark. The text below read, “Gemma Stone a stripper?”
What?Gemma slipped from the bed to the floor. “Matt Biglow…no, no, no. You promised me.”
Wait, maybe someone from her past hopped on one of these sites andsaidGemma was a stripper but without any evidence. Besides,shewasn’t a stripper. She merely played one on a fake reality show.
Drawing a deep breath, she tapped one of the hashtag to find hundreds of clips of her single performance. The one she’d spent twelve hours shooting, devoid of her soul, grateful for the merciful fall from the stage that broke her hip and miraculously ended the show’s chance of ever being seen.
News outlets, blogs, royal watchers, and fans, everyone was posting some version of the video. Thank goodness she fell before the final,um, reveal.
She’d never forgive herself for letting Matt and Sandy talk her into thatstupidshow.
Gemma looked up as a splatter of rain hit her window. Go! She had to…go. Now. Get out of here. She ran to the door before realizing she was not dressed. Nor did she have any of her things. She snatched her suitcase from the dressing room, tossed in her pajamas, and the rest of her clothes, then swooped up everything from the bathroom. Meanwhile, the shower continued to run.
Wrapping her hair in a topknot—she’d have to live with the lacquer—she stepped into the large tile-and-porcelain stall, did a five-second wash, dried, dressed, and loaded up her travel backpack.
The suite doorbell chimed when she paused for one final sweep of the room.Quiet. Don’t move.Whoever you are, don’t come in, please don’t come in.
A muffled voice called her name. Gemma held her breath, waiting.
Just let me go without being seen. Please.
No doubt the Family, the footmen, and the butlers had watched the video by now. John had seen the video. This was worse than just telling him. Now he was seeing. Even more hideous, if that’s possible, by the time she landed in Nashville, everyone in Hearts Bend would know her shame.
She was going to be sick. But there was no time.
Waiting, listening, perspiration stinging down her back, the bell ringer must’ve gone. Gemma exited the bedroom just as the suite door clicked. She was caught. Found out. The intruder was a pretty, dark-haired maid.
“Begging your pardon, miss, I thought you’d gone.”
