Page 131 of Queen of Nothing

I slide out from between him and the door, then dip into the wardrobe.

There isn’t much in here for me. No entire outfit that will fit.

But I don’t exactly want to stoke any latent lust in him. So I grab a dark blue sweater off the rack. I pull on the sweater and rush back to the doorway.

Abigail is pushing a trolley in, one that jangles and jingles all the way around my bedroom, then around the corner.

Dray is out of sight, too.

Probably snooping through my things.

I tug the hem down past my backside and come out of the walk-in.

I find Dray by the desk angled in the corner, between the wall of windows that open onto the stone balcony and the fireplace.

Abigail sets out a platter of sandwiches, which I doubt she got permission from Mother to bring, and a silver tray with a crystal decanter and a couple of tumblers.

But it’s Dray that stops me in my tracks.

I set the giant, overflowing folder down on the desk when I got into my room. Practically discarded it.

In it, is the newsletter.

The one with the article.

And Dray has found it.

He holds it up, slightly angled towards the glow coming from the hearth, and—with his other hand—he waves a silent, bored dismissal to Abigail.

Her hands leave the decanter immediately, and she abandons me.

I wander over to the desk.

The sandwiches aren’t what lure me in. It’s the little bite-sized cakes beside them that tempt me.

Dray doesn’t look up. He scans the article he’s probably read a dozen times over. The bomb I threw into the Videralli then ran from.

I pause at the fireplace, like my legs suddenly think for me, and refuse to take another step towards Dray while he’s reading that.

But time has passed.

So much time. Three years.

And so there’s no ice in his voice as he says, “This was certainly the most self-destructive tantrum I have ever witnessed from you.”

A scoff jolts me. “Tantrum?”

Over the newsletter, he slides a shadowy look to me. “What would you call it?”

I part my mouth to retort, but before I can utter even a word, he’s answering for me—

“An attempt to expose the unfairness of your pampered, privileged life, all to escape what? A marriage that is arranged, as are the majority of marriages in our society.”

“Yeah, thanks,” I mumble. “I already got the lecture from my father, so—”

“This is no lecture, Olivia.” He tosses the article down and takes a threatening step towards me. “This is a warning. If you ever do anything like this again, whether it’s attempting to contact Serena, or writing an unfavourable letter,” his teeth bare around the words, “the consequences will exceed the lengths of your imagination.”

“So you won’t just slap me again?” I lift my chin, but my insides constrict. “Maybe just set Asta on me to do your worst?”