I’m glad we see things the same way.
Your discrete cooperation is appreciated.
I felt like I should thank Aretha at this point. Because if I had not practiced the lies she wanted me to say, I wouldn’t have been able to pretend or hide anything. I would have just broken down completely and ask him...were you lying, too?
When he said he loved me, was that a lie?
And when he had that one night with me, was that when the novelty had worn off, and he realized the lie was impossible to maintain?
A knock at my door startled me from my thoughts.
“Yes?”
The door opened, and a man stepped inside. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a plain face and forgettable features. Palace staff, from the look of his uniform.
“Lady Aurora.” He bowed. “I’ve been assigned to assist you in your departure.”
“Already?” I looked at the half-packed trunk on my bed. “I haven’t finished—”
“His Highness insists on expediting the process.” The man’s voice was smooth. Apologetic. “I’m afraid there’s no more time to pack. We can have the rest of your belongings sent to you later.”
Of course.
Of course Mik’hail wanted me gone as quickly as possible.
I should have felt something at that. Hurt, maybe. Anger. But there was nothing left inside me. Just a hollow emptiness where my heart used to be.
“Very well.” I rose from the bed and smoothed down my skirt. “Lead the way.”
I followed the man out of my room and down the corridor. Past the portraits of Mik’hail’s ancestors. Past the windows overlooking the gardens where I had once pricked my finger on a rose thorn. Past all the places that held memories of him.
I kept my eyes forward. I didn’t let myself look.
We descended a back staircase I had never used before, one that led away from the main halls and into the servants’ quarters. The air grew cooler as we walked, the light dimmer. Something prickled at the back of my mind—a warning, maybe, a sense that something wasn’t right—but I was too tired to pay attention to it.
Too heartbroken to care.
We reached the garage, and the man held the door open for me.
“After you, milady.”
I stepped inside.
The garage was cold and cavernous, filled with the sheikh’s fleet of cars. My footsteps echoed against the concrete floor. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in a harsh, sterile glow.
“Which car will be—”
A hand clamped over my mouth from behind.
I tried to scream, tried to struggle, but something hard and cold pressed against the back of my head.
A gun.
“Don’t scream.” The voice was low. Urgent. “I just want to talk.”
My whole body was shaking. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.
“I’m going to let go now,” the voice said. “And you’re going to turn around. Slowly. Do you understand?”
