“Then do it.”
He stands trembling in silence for a few moments, then opens his eyes. Another flicker of pain contorts his expression, but again he steels it. “Gemma Bellefleur, I release you from our bargain. I consider it served and severed.”
There’s no rush of magic, no mysterious tingle. Nothing to denote a fae bargain has been dissolved. Or perhaps I’m just too numb to care.
Without a second thought, I turn on my heel and stride down the path.
“Gemma,” comes Elliot’s quavering voice.
I glance over my shoulder to see the plea in his eyes, but what it’s begging of me, I don’t know, and it does nothing to soften my heart. Instead, it fuels my rage. I wish I had a way to hurt him, to make him feel the pain he’s inflicted upon me. But all I have are my words. Filling my voice with all the venom poisoning my heart, I say, “Fuck you, Elliot. I hope you and Imogen rot in hell.”
37
My next days pass in solitude and silence. My bedroom at Father’s townhouse feels like a tomb and my presence in it is weighted in defeat. I try not to count the days nor the petals I know are falling in the courtyard of a certain manor on Whitespruce Lane. I try not to compare my cramped yet elegant bedroom to the spacious one I spent the last month in, nor the one I spent a single, pleasurable night in. Feigning illness, I take all meals in my room, refuse all visitors, survive Father’s triumphant glares and Nina’s pitying glances when I’m forced to be in their presence.
Despite all my best efforts to forget, when a week goes by, I know the exact tally of petals that have fallen and approximately how many remain. If my previous estimates were correct, then tomorrow is the final day before the curse is set to claim Elliot Rochester.
“I wish it would take him,” I mutter without feeling as I lay reclined in bed, my eyes scanning the pages of a book. I can hardly call it reading, considering my lack of comprehension and joy over the words I visually digest. But it gives me something to do, some semblance of a distraction. It doesn’t last, however, and I quickly find my thoughts returning to their previous musings. Elliot. The curse. The rose petals.
As much as I dread the countdown to the final petal, I welcome it with cold anticipation. For once that day passes, it will be over once and for all. There will be no wondering, no what-ifs. There will be no feverish, foolish urges to run back to the manor, wrap him in my arms, and proclaim that I will break his curse myself.
I scowl inwardly at the thought, at my reckless weakness when it comes to him. Even if Elliot deserved my affection, nothing could ever be worth sacrificing freedom for. That’s never been truer than now.
Then again, I have no reason to believe the curse hasn’t already been broken. He may have married Imogen by now, for all I know. It would be idiocy to wait until the last day, the last moment. They could have been married the day I fled the manor. Closing myself off in my bedroom, I’ve avoided as much outside communication as possible. I’ve certainly ignored every letter of Imogen’s, every request to speak to me. There haven’t been many, but she’s come to call enough to make my feigned sickness almost feel real.
I shake the thoughts from my mind and return to my book. I give it a solid effort and have almost made it a full paragraph when I’m interrupted by a brief knock on my door. It’s a knock I know well. Father.
Without waiting for me to answer, he opens my door. “Get dressed. Gavin Aston is coming for tea this afternoon, and you will see him.” Just like that, he begins to close the door.
I lurch from my bed and race to the door. “What are you talking about? I can’t have company. I’m unwell.”
Father barks a cold laugh. “We both know that isn’t true, and I’m done humoring your whims. It’s time to do your duties as my daughter.”
I stare blankly, feeling like I’m missing something. “Why is Mr. Aston coming to have tea with me?”
He purses his lips, jaw shifting side to side, making his dark mustache twitch. Then, in a rush, he says, “He’s coming to ask for your hand, and you will accept.”
He tries to close the door on his last word, but I grab the door handle. Terror and fury flood me. “He’s going to what?”
“Do not try to argue,” Father says, raising his voice. “He’s already asked my permission and I’ve given it. Now that you are back under my roof, you will do as I say. You will accept his proposal and we will put this newest scandal behind us.”
My mouth falls open. “What are you talking about? What scandal? Father, I took a job. My employment has now ended because Mr. Rochester will be taking up residence elsewhere.”
He shakes his head, a bitter laugh on his lips. “You aren’t fooling anyone, Gemma. Did you think you could come back here and return to your old ways, secretly sending off job applications and taking my hospitality for granted?”
I clench my jaw, having no argument against that. It is, in fact, exactly what I intend to do. That is, once I find the motivation to move about the house and interact with people again.
“Do you not know what they’re saying about you?”
I throw my hands in the air. “What is so wrong about a woman like me taking a job?”
His face flushes crimson, eyes bulging. “You lived with an unwed man, spent who knows how many unchaperoned hours with him, and danced with him at a private ball while he was courting Imogen Coleman. Everything is wrong with that. I don’t care if he’s secretly the king, and I don’t care if the rumors about you are wrong. The truth is, no one will hire you now, unless you plan on entering a brothel.”
His words send shards of glass through my heart, puncturing the already bruised and bloodied organ. Still, I can find no word to use against him. Nothing. The disgust in his eyes has me shriveling before him, shrinking me into a speck of dirt. How did my father become this cold, cruel man?
“You’re lucky anyone wants to marry you at all,” he says. “You will accept Mr. Aston’s company for tea this afternoon, and when he proposes, you will say yes. Otherwise, I will turn you out of the house tonight.”
With that, he slams the door shut. In his absence, I lean against the wall, finding my legs too weak to support me. I blink, but no tears will come, for I have none to spare. They’ve long since dried.
