Page 5 of Coal Hearts

“Working late is a legitimate reason to refuse—”

“Ever since you got that promotion, you’ve made it almost impossible for me to spread your legs.” He pouted and crossed his arms. He looked like a petulant brat instead of a twenty-five-year-old pharmaceutical sales rep.

I honestly couldn’t remember why I once believed I was in love with him. Once upon a time, I found his pale skin, faint freckles, and cultured upbringing a turn-on. When he’d walked into the Tower of London gift shop with his then girlfriend (a mousy girl who cringed from the meat-eating crows), I couldn’t take my eyes off him.

Seemed the feeling was mutual because he’d come back the next day and the next, which didn’t make any sense because he lived in London and had been force-fed England’s morbid medieval history since the crib.

Turned out, I was the special attraction.

For a while, he’d been sweet and mostly doting but the past year, he’d hardened and turned a little cruel. His gaslighting had also gotten terribly out of control.

“I’m proud of that promotion.” My chin tipped up like it always did when I got snippy. “It took years for them to notice me.”

“You’re a glorified office manager.”

I didn’t bother telling him how hard I worked for more responsibility. How most positions within the heavily fortified fortress were only given to the beefeaters and their kin. What I really wanted to do was work with the priceless crown jewels, but only three people in the entire world were allowed to touch them. Knowing I’d never put my gemmology qualification into use—unless I somehow became the queen—didn’t make my dreams any less real.

“Ah, I see where this is going,” Sam muttered, planting his hands on his hips like he always did when arguing with me. He believed it made him look important. I believed it made him look like an arrogant ass. “You’re still hanging on to the idea that one day you’ll be allowed to fondle their crowns and sceptres and whatever other diamond-encrusted baubles they have under lock and key.”

“Can I help that I like pretty things?”

His nose wrinkled. I braced myself for another tirade, but he exhaled heavily and dropped his hands. “You’re a pretty thing. Can I help that I like you?”

I stiffened, but accepted the olive branch for what it was. “Thank you for the compliment.”

Smiling wider, doing his best to shed the tension between us, he slid his arms around my waist and pulled me closer. We stood on the outskirts of the busy dance floor and the noisy racket classified as dance music blared far too loudly. The fact that we’d been able to argue at all was a small miracle.

“I’ve always found you gorgeous. You know that.” His hand skated up my side and played in the pin-straight, blue-black hair skimming my collarbones. Sam definitely had Irish somewhere in his lineage, but—if I believed the fairytales my adoptive father whispered to me—then I was the half-blooded descendant of a maharajah.

According to him, somewhere, somehow, a king had corrupted a maiden and created my family line. If I hadn’t been dumped outside the local hospital where my father worked as a heart surgeon, I might never have existed past a few days old—bastard child of a long-ago maharajah or not.

Luckily, I now belonged to the best people in the world, and a pang of homesickness filled me.

We’d only been in Paris two nights, and I already wanted to leave.

I miss Krish. Wonder what he’s doing right now?

Damn, this was a mistake.

This relationship.

This holiday.

I...I’m done.

I’d been done for months, yet it’d taken all my savings and a foreign country to finally admit that.

Sam brought me closer, his lips puckering to kiss me. His eyes closed in preparation for making out in a raucous French nightclub.

I braced myself.

I went to kiss him back.

Only...in the time it took for our lips to meet, a surge of bravery washed through me. The strange courage was definitely ill-advised, but I couldn’t fight it anymore.

I couldn’t stop the urge to flee and be free.

“Sam.” I swayed back, refusing his kiss. “Sam...we need to talk.”