by T. K. Leigh
“Maybe the Good Samaritan had no need for the money,” I say through a clenched jaw.
“Gabriel,” my father warns, eyes narrowed.
“But even if we somehow are able to track down this alleged Good Samaritan,” Dalton continues, “our polling shows it won’t matter. There is no scenario in which you’ll be able to save the monarchy and have the girl, too. It’s one or the other.”
I close my eyes, trying to use some of the breathing techniques Nora taught me to calm myself down, prevent myself from doing something I’ll regret. With every word Dalton speaks, it becomes more and more difficult.
“The local police chief already made a statement dismissing any claims of foul play.”
“The people don’t care about that. That’s akin to the editor of a newspaper issuing a retraction on page fifteen a week after publishing a shocking front-page story. And that’s precisely what this is. A sensationalized story, the stuff tabloids are made of. The only thing that can compete with it is if the truth is even more sensational, even more headline worthy. Which it’s not. So the best course—”
“It was me!” I shout, jumping from my chair, chest heaving, fists clenched.
“Excuse me?” Dalton asks.
“Me,” I repeat. “It was me.”
He studies me for a moment, then smiles, shaking his head. “I see what you’re doing. You think you can fix this by coming forward with some romantic tale about how you pulled her from the wreck. Make people forget her mother’s version insinuating Ms. Tremblay planned it. I—”
“No. That’s not it at all, although I did pull her from the wreck. If you were thorough with your research, weren’t giddy with excitement over the prospect of finally getting rid of Nora, you would have noticed the date of the wreck.”
He blinks, shifting through some papers, pulling out what I recognize to be a police report.
“It’s the same night Kendall Davies passed away,” I tell him. “At a hospital in Long Island.”
“Gabriel…,” my father cautions again. This time, it feels more out of obligation, as if he knows there’s no stopping this runaway train.
“I don’t—” Dalton begins.
“I’m the reason they crashed in the first place.” I point to myself. “I caused the wreck. I forced them off the road.” My voice wavers as a half-dozen eyes stare at me in utter shock. “I killed Nora’s fiancé and their unborn child!”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Nora
A breeze blows a few tendrils of hair around my face as I stare at the miles and miles of glistening, blue ocean below me. I’ve never walked this close to the edge of Anderson’s property before, choosing to remain at a safe distance. But now I’m drawn to the swirling depths. Wonder how it would feel if I were able to summon up the courage to leap.
I imagine I’d feel free again.
Then nothing.
What I wouldn’t give to feel nothing. To be numb.
But I’d never be able to do that. Not only because of Little Pickle, but also because Lieutenant O’Kelly lingers nearby, watching my every move, as if I pose a danger to myself.
After the way I destroyed the bathroom in Paris, I suppose everyone has good reason to think I do.
“My lady.” A voice cuts through over the ocean waves crashing below.
I turn around, facing the butler. I can’t even remember his name. Charles… Richard… It probably won’t matter much longer anyway.
“Her Majesty is here and requested an audience.”
I close my eyes, drawing in a steadying breath.
The last person I want to see is that woman, who I’m sure believes every single word my mother said.
“If you’re not up for it…,” O’Kelly says, expression awash in concern.
It touches me that, even though he’s employed by the monarchy, he still shows loyalty to me first.
“Thank you, Kylian. But I’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m not sure about anything right now.” I smile sadly, then follow the butler out of the gardens and into the house, O’Kelly remaining only a few steps behind me at all times.
As I walk down the corridors, it feels like all the portraits stare at me as they would a condemned prisoner heading to her execution.
With pity.
With disgust.
With just plain revulsion.
From the first time I stepped inside this house, I always felt they were judging me, silently thinking I didn’t deserve to be here. That I’d never measure up.
They were right.
“Ms. Nora Tremblay,” the butler announces.
I give O’Kelly one more reassuring smile before stepping into the study.
The space is mostly dark, dust from the hundreds of books clinging to the air. If it weren’t located in this house that’s more like a prison, I might like this room.
I focus on where Queen Veronica currently sits at a table by the window, a chess board resting on it.
She doesn’t get up when I walk in, simply stares at me with those cold, judgmental eyes.
“Your Majesty,” I say with an awkward curtsey.
It may be the last one I ever do. It’s probably why she’s here. To break the news so Anderson doesn’t have to. Doesn’t have to look into my eyes and tell me we gave it a shot, but it just didn’t work out. That he had to make a choice between the Crown and me. That as future king, he will always have to choose the Crown.
“Sit, Nora,” she says in an even tone, gesturing to the chair across from her.
There’s a part of me that wants to remain standing, one final act of defiance. But there’s nothing left. I do as she requests, peering at her with a vacant expression. Nothing she says can hurt me. I don’t think anything can now.
We sit in silence for several moments. It once unnerved me. Not anymore. Now I welcome it.
“I’m sure you know why I’m here,” she begins.
“It’s not to discuss who I favor in the upcoming derby?”
She gives me a reproachful glare, her distaste for my sarcasm obvious. “You’ve put this family in a difficult position.”
“I believe that honor should be given to my mother.”
“Perhaps.” She waves her hand at the chess board. “Do you play?”
“I know the basics.”
“Very well.”
She grabs two pawns, one black and one white, closing her hands around them. She hides them behind her back and mixes them up. When she extends her hands back toward me, I tap her left one. She opens it, revealing black in her palm.
I take the black pawn and return it to the board, awaiting her first move. She pushes one of her pawns forward two squares, which I also do when it’s my turn.
“Regardless of the veracity of your mother’s claims,” she continues, her focus mostly on the board, “her version of events is out there, and there’s only one person who can clear your name in this so-called Kangaroo Court that appears to have convened in this country.”
“Who’s that?” I ask cautiously after taking my turn, unsure how much she knows about that night.
According to Anderson, his father ordered Creed to keep the truth a secret from everyone, including Anderson himself. Until a year ago, he had no recollection of his involvement in the crash due to several moments of temporary blindness that caused him to swerve the car he drove into the wrong lane, forcing Hunter and me off the road. It wasn’t until Creed realized who I was that he finally came clean to Anderson. But I’m still not sure how many people Anderson has shared the truth with, apart from Esme. And, of course, Hunter’s parents when he confessed his involvement to them. But being the kind, forgiving people they are, they never went public with it.
“We both know who that is, Ms. Tremblay.” She pins me with a glare before returning her attention to the board. “I wasn’t involved in the initial aftermath. Following Ms. Davies’ death, Gabriel wasn’t in a good spot. So my son handled the situation as
best he could with as minimal blowback on the royal family as possible.”
“He kept his involvement quiet.”
“Yes. There was a referendum vote that year, as well, much like now. Granted, it didn’t have as much support as it does this year, but still… It was a risk we couldn’t afford. And now we find ourselves in the unique situation where clearing your name would entail throwing one of our own to the wolves. And despite the opportunity this life has afforded him, I have no doubt Gabriel would happily sacrifice himself for you.”
I nod, no question in my mind he’d do just that. That he’s probably contemplating doing it at this very moment.
“Unfortunately, doing so would complicate matters. Not only will the people of this country essentially learn that the royal family was involved in covering up a crime seven years ago, but we also have an extradition treaty with the United States, which would require us to hand Gabriel over if the district attorney decided to charge him with any crime in connection with his arguably reckless driving that resulted in the death of two people. I’m not certain of the penalties for manslaughter in New York, but I assume it will most certainly include prison time.”
“Prison?” I squeak out, my mouth growing dry. That thought hadn’t even crossed my mind. “It was seven years ago. Surely, any statute of limitations has run out.”
“Unfortunately, it hasn’t. While the statute of limitations would generally be five years, in many jurisdictions, it’s suspended during any period the alleged offender isn’t physically present in the state.”
I look up from the chess board, my breathing growing shallow as dread settles deep in my stomach.
“You’re most likely doing the math in your head right now,” she remarks, making her next move with confidence and determination, her white pieces beginning to circle my king like a shark. But I still have a few moves up my sleeve.
I hope.
“He hasn’t been in New York for a total of five years,” I murmur.
“Precisely.”
“So if he were to come forward…” I trail off, shaking my head. “Isn’t there some sort of immunity?”
“To some extent, yes. As you should have learned during your training, the royal family does enjoy some immunity. But there’s no diplomatic immunity for causing a car accident and fleeing the scene of a crime. It’s irrelevant that he may have also saved a life that night. In the eyes of the law, he took a life. Technically, two.”
“But his MS,” I argue, grasping at straws. “He had temporary blindness. That must be a defense.”
“It’s possible. But not a guarantee. That would be up to the judge or jury to decide. Who can very well decide that Anderson was negligent in getting behind the wheel in the first place upon leaving the hospital where his girlfriend had just died. Even went so far as to threaten and assault his chief protection officer in order to do so.”
I study the board, trying to strategize several moves ahead on both our parts, searching for a way out of this corner I seem to be stuck in.
“I can tell you His Majesty and the Privy Council are having the same discussion with Prince Gabriel as we speak. And they’re also telling him the choice he has to make.”
“And what’s that?”
“The one we must make every day of our lives. Between our wants and our country’s needs. He can either love you or love his country, but it appears he can’t do both.” She leans closer. “Do you really want to be the reason he throws away everything he’s worked so hard for?”
I rest my elbows on the table, despite my etiquette training that I shouldn’t, and dig my hands through my hair, searching for an alternative, both in life and on this board.
“Do you really want to be forever remembered as the woman who destroyed Prince Gabriel’s career?” She leans closer. “Who forced his hand? Who sent him to prison? Because if he comes forward with the truth of that night, there’s a strong likelihood of that happening. Not to mention, this entire monarchy could become ancient history.” She pauses, lifting her eyes to mine. “Unless…”
“Yes?” I press, hope building inside me that she has another way out of this mess. An option that will allow me to keep Anderson and clear my name.
“What’s the sportsmanlike thing to do when there’s no path to victory in chess?”
I blink, my throat tightening as I look between her and the board where she has my king caged in with no possible way of winning.
From the moment I heard my mother’s interview, saw the vitriol spewed against me online and in protests here in Belmont, I feared this was how it would end. But now that it’s here, that reality has sunk in, that there’s no way to untangle myself from this spider’s web, it pains me in a way I didn’t think possible.
“Of course, my original offer from several weeks ago still stands. The royal family takes care of its obligations.” She glances at my stomach before returning her eyes to mine. “In the game of chess, my darling girl, sometimes you have to sacrifice your queen in order to save the king.”
I blink, staring past her, the room feeling like it’s closing in on me.
When I was younger, I had a dog named Max, a goofy Golden Retriever. After my father died, Max was always by my side, offering me the support and compassion my mother refused to bestow upon me. When Max got sick several years later, it felt like I was losing my dad all over again. At least with Max, I had time to prepare. I was able to have a few good days with him before the vet came to our house to put him to sleep.
At the time, I thought it would make things easier.
It didn’t.
It doesn’t matter how much you prepare for an inevitability. When you reach that point and have no choice but to say goodbye to someone you love and cherish, it rips you to shreds.
Just like this is ripping me to shreds right now.
My hand trembles as I gradually bring it toward my king, placing my pointer finger on top of it. The instant I do, I know there’s no going back. I’ve touched the piece, so I have to play it. Anywhere I move will eventually put me in check. So I make the only move I can.
My eyes trained on hers, I carefully place my king on its side.
Tears stream down my cheeks, but Queen Veronica doesn’t seem affected in the least by the fact that she’s all but asked me to rip out my heart and present it to her on a golden platter.
“I resign,” I manage to choke out.
Then I push back from the table, keeping my head lowered as I storm out of the room, not so much as looking back to curtsey.
I have no obligation to do so now.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Anderson
Weariness fills me as I trudge through the halls of my residence after what felt like a marathon meeting with my father and the Privy Council. No matter what I proposed in order to dig the royal family out of the mess Nora’s mother created, it still boiled down to the same thing.
Nora or my country.
I can’t have both.
If I choose Nora, come forward with concrete proof of her mother’s lies, I’ll put my freedom at risk, which would eventually fall back on the monarchy for covering up the death of a young man and his unborn child.
But if I choose the monarchy, I lose part of who I am.
I’ll lose my heart.
As I step into the formal living room of our private quarters, I have no idea what I’ll walk into. No idea what choice to make. No idea if Nora will even still be here or if she’s already been forced out during my absence, my decision made for me.
Thankfully, that’s not the case, a lone light illuminating her on the couch, back straight, shoulders squared, legs at an angle and crossed at the ankle.
Just like she was trained.
Then I notice the suitcase beside her, the blue tanzanite ring sitting on the side table. My heart squeezes, throat closing up.
“I contemplated leaving a few hours ago,” she says flatly. “But I thought I owed it to you to say goodbye in person.”
“Your grandmother came to see me.” She stands. “We played chess.”
“Chess?”
“Yes. Chess. But even before her visit, I knew how this would end. I think I’ve known for a while but was too stubborn to admit it.” She smiles sadly. “I think we both were.”
“It doesn’t have to,” I plead, stepping toward her. “We’ll figure out a different way. In chess, you can’t just look one move ahead. You plan for the next four or five. If we just do that—”
“There is no move, Anders. Someone must be realistic here. Someone has to admit it’s over. That it’s been over since that plane touched down.”
She laughs under her breath. “It’s been a while since I’ve played chess.” A small smile tugs on her lips as she swipes away a few tears. “Hunter loved to play. He’s the one who taught me. Do you want to know why he loved the game so much?”
“Because it involves strategy.”
“Yes, but that’s not the only reason. It’s because it mimics life. Like you said, it’s not about making a decision based on what’s in front of you at this very moment, but on things you can foresee happening down the road. Because of that, I know this is the only option.”
“It doesn’t have to be.” I clutch her arms, clinging onto the last shred of hope.
“Chess is a game of absolutes. How you use those absolutes to dominate the board is where the strategy comes in. But no matter how you use those rules to your advantage, one thing remains absolutely certain.”
“And what’s that?” I ask softly.
She peers up at me through tear-filled eyes. “You can’t sacrifice your king and still win the match.”
Dropping my hold on her, I hang my head, the ache in my chest excruciating. It doesn’t matter that I’ve been at war with my diagnosis lately, torn between not wanting to saddle Nora with a husband who will become increasingly dependent on other people every day and selfishly wanting to keep her with me. It’s one thing to end things on our own terms. It’s another when that decision is made for us.
