“She got here quickly,” I say, low enough so only he can hear.
“I invited her yesterday to ride with us to the funeral,” he says, his voice still heavy with sorrow. “I thought perhaps there was still one wrong we might be able to right in all of this.”
At first I’m not sure, but as I watch the pair of them hold each other, Gia running her fingers through Maisie’s tangled hair and Maisie sobbing into Gia’s neck, I can see shades of the same relief and desperation I felt the moment I saw Kit in that greenroom so many months ago. Maisie may be temperamental and deep in the throes of grief, but she is Gia’s as much as I am Kit’s, and I pull him a little closer.
“We need to put an end to this,” he says softly, burying his nose in my hair, and I nod just enough to show my agreement.
“It was Ben tying up loose ends,” I whisper. “It had to be. I refuse to believe it’s a coincidence that Rosie and Michaels died on the same day.”
“As do I,” he murmurs, but there’s a note of wariness in his voice, and I find his hand, lacing my fingers through his.
“You’re sure about this?” I say quietly. “About—going afterBen?” After everything Kit went through while we were at Oxford, after everything that nearly broke us apart, I can’t stand the thought of putting him through that again, even if it means leaving Ben to Singh. But he nods and brings my hand to his mouth, pressing his warm lips to my skin and holding it there for a beat longer than he ever has before.
“If he did this to Rosie, we’re next.” He pauses, and I meet his dark eyes. “What time is that meeting with Singh?”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Remembered: Lady Primrose Chesterfield-Bishop, 18
Lady Primrose Chesterfield-Bishop, born 7 October 2005, died at age 18 on 10 September 2024 of unknown causes.
The adored only child of Lord Stuart and Lady Lucile Chesterfield-Bishop, Rosie, as she was known to friends, family, and her half-million social media followers, was a close friend of Princess Mary and beloved by the entire royal family. She is survived by her parents, her grandfather, Alastair Chesterfield-Bishop, the Earl of Brodrick, aunts Lady Susanne Nellsworth and Lady Julianne Humphrey, and her faithful companion, rescue dog Snickers.
The private funeral takes place today, and family has asked that in lieu of flowers, donations be made to Canine Chums Charity of Surrey.
—The Daily Sun, 13 September 2024
Rosie’s funeral is held atthe church where she was christened, just outside of London. It’s a beautiful building with stained glass windows and enough seating for hundreds, but every guest has already been ushered inside by the time our fleet of Range Rovers arrives.
There’s a small but determined group of paparazzi in a roped-off section near the entrance to the church, and none of us—noteven Thaddeus—glances their way as we all head inside. It’s too much to hope for that they might be respectful, and instead they call out as we pass.
“Mary! Is it true? Were you fighting when she died?”
“Do you know what happened, Mary?”
“Helene, how do you feel knowing it could’ve been your daughter?”
“Christopher, is it true you two dated? Did it end badly?”
“Mary, will you miss your former best friend? Or are you glad she’s gone?”
It’s heinous, and I nearly break just to tell them to eat shit. But my arm is linked with Kit’s, and I can feel the tension in his grip as we approach the entrance. If I break, so will he, and considering the way color floods his cheeks, he might have more than just a few choice words for them.
We all hold it together until the church doors close behind us, and only then do I hear my sister release a soft sob. Gia is beside her in an instant and holding her close, and the pair stand wrapped together as Maisie cries into her shoulder.
“They’re waiting for us,” says Helene after nearly a full minute, and she dabs her eyes with her handkerchief. “We shouldn’t hold them up longer than we already have.”
Gia helps Maisie fix her smeared mascara before we venture into the main body of the church, where a man and a woman stand at the foot of the aisle, waiting for us. They’re both dressed in black, and while the tall man is older and washed out, with only a few wisps of hair left, the much younger woman resembles Rosie so closely that there’s no mistaking them for anything other than mother and daughter.
“Your Majesty.” The woman curtsies to Helene, who quickly reaches out to take her elbows and guide her to rise.
“Not today, Lucy,” she says before embracing her. “I am so, so very sorry for your loss.”
“Th-thank…” Lucy’s voice hitches, and her eyes flutter shut as she clearly tries to compose herself. I turn away, hugging Kit’s arm and glancing around the crowded church instead. Every single pew is full, except for the first row, and my stomach drops. I don’t know what I expected—to hide in the back, maybe, and pay my respects from a distance—but sitting front row at Rosie’s funeral knowing I’m the reason she’s dead is a form of karmic punishment I wasn’t prepared for.
I force down the nausea, however, as we all offer our condolences to Lord and Lady Chesterfield-Bishop one by one. They greet me and Kit as warmly as they do Maisie and Helene, and I’m instantly aware that no one’s told them we were there that night, or about the series of events that led up to Rosie’s death. But we know—we all know—and even Kit seems to want to keep his distance as we follow everyone up to the front pew, within feet of the white casket that’s covered in pink roses. He trails Thaddeus to the very end of the row, next to a woman who’s holding Snickers in her lap.
“Hey, boy,” I say softly, scratching him behind his ear. He wags his tail morosely and, without hesitation, climbs into my lap instead. The woman looks vaguely relieved.
