The helicopter roared over the treetops, carrying him home to a wife with shaking hands and secrets she couldn't hide.
Devyn opened his eyes.
He didn't have an answer.
And that, perhaps, was the most terrifying thing of all.
Chapter Nine
I CAN'T STOP SHAKING.
It's been hours since I came up from the passage. Hours since I stood in front of that ancient door and breathed in the unmistakable smell of decay. Hours since I climbed back up those fifty steps on legs that didn't want to hold me and pushed through the rose panel into the chapel.
I made it back to my room. Washed my hands. Changed my clothes. Went through all the motions of a normal morning, like I hadn't just discovered that something—someone—was rotting beneath my husband's estate.
But I can't stop shaking.
Breakfast was impossible. The croissants sat on the tray like accusations, and every time I tried to lift the coffee cup, it rattled against the saucer so loudly I was sure the whole house could hear.
Now I'm in the library, curled into a leather armchair that probably costs more than my old apartment's rent, and I'm holding a fresh cup of coffee that's gone cold because I can't bring myself to drink it.
My hands won't stop trembling.
I keep seeing that door. Smelling that smell. Thinking about Abigail—beautiful, angelic Abigail—fleeing down that passage on her wedding day.
But instead of finding safety...she found death.
The coffee cup rattles again, and I set it down on the side table before I drop it. My fingers are ice cold. My whole body feels wrong, like I'm watching myself from somewhere outside, unable to do anything but observe the slow unraveling.
"Your Majesty?"
I flinch so hard I nearly knock the coffee over.
Mrs. Lyme is standing in the doorway, her silver hair perfectly coiffed, her expression professionally neutral. But something flickers behind her eyes as she takes in the sight of me—the untouched coffee, the shaking hands, whatever my face is doing right now.
"Is everything all right?" she asks. "You didn't eat breakfast. I could have something else prepared, if—"
"I'm fine." The words come out too fast. Too high. "Just tired. I didn't sleep well."
She doesn't believe me. I can see it in the slight tension around her mouth, the way her gaze lingers on my trembling fingers.
“I’m fine, Mrs. Lyme. Truly.”
She hesitates. Then nods and withdraws, closing the door softly behind her.
I stare at the space where she stood and try to remember how to breathe.
What do I do?
Does 911 even work in a world where mafia billionaires are kings, what was black was white, and I stillcan’trule out that my husband couldstillbe the man who had gone insane and Abigail was running away from?
TIME PASSES IN A BLUR. I want to give justice to what the kitchen staff’s prepared for lunch, but my stomach keeps revolting, and all I can see is Abigail’s dead—
The library door slams open.
Devyn.
He's still in his business clothes—dark suit, no tie, collar open—but something is different. His jaw is tight. His eyes are blazing. He looks like he flew here, like he ran, like something chased him through the halls.
