Then we’re alone. Well, except for his bodyguard.
“Davis, turn around,” he demands.
Louis is on his feet before the latch clicks, crossing the room toward me.
I hold up a hand to stop him. “Don’t.”
He freezes. “Addison.”
“I can’t do this right now.” I zip my bag closed, keeping my hands busy so they won’t shake. “I need to get out of here.”
“It didn’t mean anything. You know that.”
“I know.” I finally look at him, and the anger on his face nearly breaks me. “I still had to watch this, and I still have to do this two more times this week. I can’t fall apart in front of your mother or you. I need to go process this somewhere private before I say or do something thatruins everything. Before I say something I regret. I’m not happy right now.”
He nods slowly. “I understand.”
“I’ll see you when I see you, I guess,” I tell him.
I’ve been living in a blackout zone. Even Delphine is being watched like a prisoner.
“Addison.” He says my name like it’s the only word he knows. “I miss you.”
“Then do something about it, Your Highness.” I pick up my bag and walk toward the door. “I have to go.”
I don’t look back or say another word as I leave.
The walk to my cottage takes twenty minutes, and I use every second of it to breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth—the way Kendall taught me after my first huge gallery rejection.
The gravel crunches under my shoes. Birds sing in the trees. The afternoon sun warms my shoulders, and on any other day, I’d be so thrilled about this weather in paradise.
The cottage is so quiet that my ears ring. I lock the door behind me and stand in the center of the room, waiting for the tears to come, but they don’t. I think I’ve grown numb to this.
I drop my bag on the table and move to the small kitchen, fill the kettle, and place it on the burner. The ritual of making tea is one of my favorite things to do while my mind races. I pull down a thick ceramic mug, then choose which tea I want today.
When the kettle whistles, I pour the water and watch steam rise from the cup.
I carry the tea and my sketch pad to the easel where the large canvas for the engagement portrait waits. I’ve already primed the surface for paint. Tomorrow, I’ll transfer my sketches and begin the underpainting. I’ll build the background first, the rich colors of the palace interior. Then I’ll work on Louis, layering his features with the care they deserve. But Tatiana’s face will stay blank until the last moment. She’ll be a faceless ghost beside him, a placeholder who will never really have him.
I flip through the pages I filled this morning.
Louis’s hands. Louis’s jaw. Louis’s eyes. I drew him a dozen times without meaning to, capturing angles I already know by heart.
Tatiana is there, too, but only in pieces: her posture, her neck, the fall of her dark hair.
The kiss keeps replaying in my head. I can’t shake the way the curve of her lips went upward, like a villain.
Louis is convinced she’s on his side. I don’t believe that. The last thing I want is to walk into a trap we can’t see coming. If he said it ends at the ball, I will make sure of it.
I pick up a pencil and start transferring the composition to the canvas. Lines, shapes, and perspective give me the base.
The tea goes cold next to me. The light shifts from afternoon to evening. I keep working until my hand cramps and my eyes burn. When I finally step back, Louis stares out at me from the canvas, half-formed but already unmistakably himself.
Beside him, the space where Tatiana’s face should be stays empty.
26
LOUIS
