Better yet…why didn’tIgivehima reason?
Nausea and shame churn my stomach as I make my way from the ballroom to my hotel room. I don’t know if I should be relieved or repulsed that I don’t see William and Aubrey in the lobby. If they aren’t in the lobby, I don’t have to witness them flirting or touching. But their absence means they’re probably in one of their rooms by now.
Why am I so upset? I knew this was coming. This is the price I paid for refusing to let William dissolve our bet. The price was him, and it was supposed to be worth the reward—a contract I can win with certain, summable efforts. Maybe part of me thought William wouldn’t earn any further points, despite his taunting. That he’d be unable to perform intimate acts withanyone but me. That I’d keep my one-point lead and win our bet without either of us taking new lovers.
How vain can I be?
And how can I still question my decision when I know I was right to make it? When I know I can never let romance take precedence over my career?
Because you’re wrong, some small part of me taunts as I climb the final flight of stairs to our floor. I can’t bring myself to even look at an elevator right now.
I can’t be wrong, I say back to that quiet voice.Even if I am, what’s the point if it’s one-sided? If William can’t give me a reason?
That bolsters my nerve, just in time as I reach our floor. My companions and I have a full suite, even larger than Zane’s apartment, and just as beautiful as the rest of the hotel. Each of us has our own bedroom as well as a shared common room, recreation room, and enormous bath. I stop just outside the door to the common area, taking a bracing breath in case William and Aubrey are on the other side. But as I open the door, I find the suite empty. Quiet. All the surrounding doors are closed, and I don’t dare look too long to check if there is light emanating beneath any of them. It’s not my business. It can’t be my business.
On swift feet I stride to my bedroom, slamming the door behind me without meaning to. I seek out my carpet bag at once, settling in on the edge of my four-poster bed and shoving the curtain of cherry blossoms out of the way. This room was charming when I first arrived, but now everything annoys me. Even pretty things. Especially pretty things. Like Aubrey. Like William. Very much not like me and my vile, thorny heart.
You are beautiful.
Your words are beautiful.
I grit my teeth at the echoes of William’s voice and rifle through my bag. Why did he have to say that to me? Why did he have to show me a side of him that makes my heart race, skip, and flutter?
I find what I’m looking for at the bottom of my bag. A green book with a gold-foiled title. Tenderness wars with hurt and anger as I study it. I favor the latter emotion and shove the others away. William told me to get rid of this book, so I will. I’ll take it to the ballroom right now so they can set it up for tomorrow’s auction.
With the book clenched tight in one hand, I stomp back to my door.
But as I reach it, my feet stall. My hands refuse to reach for the knob.
With a frustrated groan, I lean against my closed door and stare down at the book. That tender feeling returns, along with a sharp ache in my chest.
As annoyed as I was when William first started pestering me with this damn book, that changed at the Winter Court signing. A lot of things changed then. He kissed me during our reading ofThe Governess and the Rakeat the book club meeting. I used my free pass for the first time. And this book…
It turned into a treasure. A collection of insults, immaturity, and crude drawings. A sad smile tilts my lips as I open the title page. It’s a mess of both our handwritings.
Ed—
I like smut and drivel.
Well, I don’t like you. Or your book. Stop trying to give this to me.
You don’t have to like me to use me, Weenie.
There is also, of course, the penis I drew and labeled with William’s name, along with an assortment of page numbers we wrote to direct each other to poems we’d altered. I grin as I study each one, but as I’m about to flip to one of the indicated pages, I notice an annotation I don’t recognize. It’s in William’s handwriting, but the page number he wrote is neatly penned at the very top, standing out against the haphazard scrawls from before. Did he sneak one last edit in? And why does the ink look fresher?
I flip to the page number in question.
At the very top above one of his poems are two words.
Don’t forget
At the corner of the page is another handwritten number. 87.
I flip to it.
That you are
Another page number. 56 this time.
