I wrap my hands around the dark onyx door handles, and pull them open.
Lights flare to life in front of me. What I thought was a simple closet is nearly fifteen feet deep and ten across. That’s not even the real surprise.
My lips part in shock, and my breath falters to a stop in my throat. This closet doesn’t hold a single shred of men’s clothing.
Racks line one side, with dresses hung carefully on white velvet hangers. Gentle pink tulle, cream silks, gem-stone velvets, all organized neatly in length and a rainbow of colors. I step in and lift one hand, fingers shaking as I carefully flip a tag that’s pinned to a spaghetti strap.
Oscar De La Renta, it reads, and I drop it like it’s hot. I reach for the next dress, and can’t contain my gasp.Dolce & Gabbana. I flick through labels.The Row, Valentino, Zimmerman?—
The blood is rushing to my head as I turn. The opposite wall is lined with neat shelves, rows of softly folded sweaters in what has to be cashmere in glowing colors, waiting to be slipped on and worn.
Whose closet is this? The picture of the beautiful woman with Royal flashes through my head. Is this her stuff?
The closet door swings shut behind me with a whisper. I whirl, and freeze. Hanging on the back of the door is a huge white monstrosity of tulle and satin. A wedding dress.
What the fuck?
I’m going to vomit all over the plush carpeting. Royal has a fiancée, and she has the nicest closet I’ve ever seen. Tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of never worn clothing, complete with tags.
Hang on. Take a breath.There’s a lot of wonderful things Royal has said to me.
There’s a lot he’s not telling you, too.
I’ve got to get out of here.
I need something to wear. In a daze, I hold a shirt up to my bare chest. It’s my size. Plus sized. Not made to fit a tall, thin Italian Barbie, but a short, curvy girl like me.
My mouth is full of ash. Royal’s girlfriend… fiancée… is my size.Guess he has a type.
I reach for a drawer and pull it open, hoping to find something normal, like Target underwear, and instead there’s a pile of frothy lace, and what I swear is a tag readingAgent Provocateur.Once again, in my size.
My heart-rate is through the ceiling. All those things he said, all the nice things he made me feel… Lies.
Rifling through drawers, I find a bra and underwear that looks normal-ish and not worth a few hundred dollars, and quickly pull on a plain sweater, and jeans. The denim is soft against my fingers, the cut flaring on my curves. When I turn, I catch sight of myself in a floor-length mirror edged with frosting-pink metal flowers blooming along the gilt frame.
Everything fits perfectly. It only twists the knife in further.
This isn’t a fairytale. Royal isn’t a handsome prince. Even if he did single-handedly double the amount of orgasms I’ve had in my lifetime—all in one night.
I reach for a pair of winter boots, black leather and exactly my size, and keep them in my hand as I sneak out of the closet and cozy up to the bedroom door. It’s cracked open, and when I peek outside, there’s no one there. Relief floods me. Getting out of here is the right thing to do. There’s a reason Royal wasn’t with me when I woke up. This was a one-night stand, and it’s time for it to end.
I pad down the hall in socked feet, keeping on the thick carpet so the flooring doesn’t creak. I need to get to the kitchen, get my coat. Call a ride—if I can find a charger for my phone. Maybe Royal will be out, and I can do my walk of shame without an audience.
We had a magical night, and now it’s over. What did I expect? I never had any luck with men, especially not on Valentine’s Day.
I’m halfway down the stairs, clutching my boobs so they don’t bounce in this new bra, when I hear low, murmuring voices floating toward me. I hold my breath and creep down the final steps.
A door to my left is pushed open a few inches, and I press myself into the wall, watching the two people inside a bookshelf-lined study.
Royal. And another guy who looks a lot like him. One of the many cousins.
I should keep to the plan and continue sneaking out, but a glimpse of Royal’s beautiful face in profile roots my feet to the rug.
Royal. His face embodies the word, regal and perfect. Just the sight of him makes heat roll through me as I remember all the things he’s done to me. All the things he’s made me feel. Oh god, I feel like I’m going to throw up again.
“Spit it out, Enzo,” Royal commands, and I jump.
The man who must be Enzo stops fiddling with a marble paperweight and puts it back on the desk.
