There were years of laughter and conversation. No raised voice. No cold silences.
And then Dad left, and took Spencer with him.
I worshipped my brother. And he never treated me like an annoying little sister, like the princes often did with Lyra. He would read me stories, take me to the park, and talk to me like I was one of his friends. He always included me.
Having your family torn apart at ten years old is hard enough, but when you lose your favourite person in the world along with your father, it’s almost unbearable.
I dealt with it better than Stella. She got angry and bitter. I kept up the hope that someday Mom and Dad could be happy again. Maybe not together, but I wanted them both to smile againsomeday. I kept the hope that Dad was happy in his life, even though he wasn’t with us.
And with Spencer, I refused to give up on him. I wrote him letters. Sent him pictures of the two of us. I did the same for my father, only I was never able to send them.
Stella blamed our father, for picking the royal family over us, but even at a young age, I somehow understood it wasn’t only his fault.
I was hurt, but I managed the anger better than Stella did.
“What about your parents?” I ask Ashton.
“They reside in the same hemisphere sometimes. Sometimes not,” Ashton says lightly. He does a good job of hiding how he feels about that, but I hear the scratch of pain underneath. “My father is very busy, and my mother has her committees, and both are content.”
“That’s not happy.”
“How many happy adults do you know?” he asks. “Yes, I know that technically I am an adult, but my frontal lobe only fused together a couple of years ago, and I don’t feel very adult-like.”
I don’t know what to say about Ashton’s less than stellar home life. He’s a billionaire. What kind of normal home would he have? Homes? He must have more than one home.
He’s mentioned houses and hemispheres, and that’s unbelievable to me.
But here I am, living in a castle. Anything is possible.
By the light of Ashton’s phone, we see ice on the walls. It’s a dry cold, the kind that seeps through the soles of your shoes and works its way up. Even with the extra sweater, I’m chilled through, and the tips of my fingers are like tinyice cubes.
But finally we make it to the old cells.
“This is where we used to play Truth or Dare,” I say, stopping in front of the last cell.
“Who all played Truth or Dare? And how old were you?” Ashton wants to know. I see a gleam in his eyes.
“Young, so it’s not like what you’re thinking about.”
“How do you know what I’m thinking about?”
“I was ten,” I remind him. “I shouldn’t have even been playing.”
“Oh, come on. I’m sure it was harmless.”
“It was.” Am I reassuring him or myself? “Secrets, gossip about our parents. First kisses.”
Ashton rubs his hands together. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Who was your first kiss?”
The only thing good about the flush that rises in my cheeks is that it provides some warmth. “It wasn’t a kiss like you’re thinking about.”
“And what kind of kiss am I thinking about?”
I glance up to find Ashton studying my lips. “It wasn’t… it was sweet,” I protest.
“And I can’t think about sweet kisses?”
“I don’t know. Maybe?”
