by T. K. Leigh
“Because I told you he said he does.”
She shakes her head. “No. Because he did something extremely selfless. He didn’t have to tell you the truth. He could have kept it from you for the rest of your life and you never would have been the wiser. But he thought you deserved to know.” She takes my hands in hers. “He told you about that night fully aware there was a possibility you would never speak to him again. There’s no more selfless act of love than sacrificing your needs for someone else.” She pulls her hands from mine and stands, checking her reflection in the mirror and readjusting her wig.
“You’re right to be angry, Nora. You have every right to be hurt, deceived, betrayed. But at some point, you’ll need to let go of that anger. You need to ask yourself what you want your life to look like when the smoke clears. Do you want to cling to a ghost of what will never be? Or do you want to finally live again? Finally love again?”
I stare into space, contemplating her words, unsure of the correct answer. There isn’t one. How can there be? If I admit I still harbor intense feelings for Anderson, that’s a slap in the face to Hunter’s legacy.
“And maybe you’ll find your answer as to why you’re wearing Hunter’s ring around your neck.”
My eyes darting back to Evie’s, I clasp the necklace, drawing in the comfort it seems to provide me. “What do you—”
“Are you wearing it to honor Hunter’s memory?” She narrows her gaze. “Or for another reason?”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Anderson
“Are you doing okay?” Esme’s voice cuts through my thoughts as I stare out a window in one of the palace’s private sitting rooms, waiting to be told it’s time for our formal entrance at the gala commemorating the country’s birthday.
I normally look forward to today, since it marks the beginning of the winter holiday season. But this year, more than ever, it’s a reminder that I’ll be spending yet another holiday season alone. Even the snow falling does nothing to warm my heart. I doubt anything will again.
It’s been nearly two months since I returned home to a place that doesn’t feel like home anymore. Two months of neurologist appointments, meetings with nutritionists, and MRIs. Two months of jumping whenever my Anderson North cell phone rang.
Two months without Nora.
For the first few weeks, I’d sent her flowers every day, even Sundays. Each bouquet was accompanied by another memory of her I cherished. I knew the chances of winning her over were slim, but a part of me held out hope she’d realize we were stronger than my failings.
But starting the first of November, all the bouquets I sent were returned. I had my courier keep trying, but after a week of refused deliveries, I took the hint. Nora wanted nothing to do with me. I can’t fault her. Doesn’t make it hurt any less, though.
At least I can have some sort of peace of mind that I reached out to Hunter’s parents. Told them who I was and what really happened that night. Then I donated a sizable sum of money to the foundation they’d set up in his name, which offered a small scholarship to one high school graduate who showed promise in the area of sports medicine. It won’t bring Hunter back, won’t erase the past, but I can find solace in the fact that I owned up to my involvement in his death. I’d expected them to go to the media with the story. But they didn’t. They thanked me profusely for my “generosity”. It made me feel even more guilty about the role I played in taking their son from them.
“I’m great.” I flash Esme the fake smile I’ve spent years mastering. Too bad she’s done the same, allowing her to see through me.
“Sure you are.” She glides across the room, her champagne gown flowing behind her, which brings out the gold tones in her blonde hair. “Like I’m Mrs. Claus.”
I lean in to kiss her cheek, then pass her a mischievous grin. “Is there something you’re not telling me? Are you having an affair with Father Christmas? I knew you had a thing for older men, but I—”
The door swings open, a member of the Royal Guard interrupting our conversation upon his entrance. “His Majesty, the King,” the man announces, then steps aside as my father walks into the room, wearing the ceremonial military attire required at all formal events. His gray hair is slicked back, his face clean-shaven, but I expect nothing less.
It’s one of the antiquated rules I abhor — short, trimmed hair, no mustache or beard allowed. Out of respect for the occasion, I shaved and cut my hair short again, but it will be the last time. Soon, I’ll no longer be subjected to any requirement to adhere to these strange rules that have been passed down for generations.
Creed and Zoey, Esme’s lady-in-waiting, jump to their feet. Creed stands at attention, his arms locked at his sides, while Zoey is less rigid, her hands clasped together in front of her, head bowed slightly.
“Gabriel. Esme.” My father’s greeting is proper, as if we’re his employees, not his children.
In a way, I suppose we are employees. I’ve never felt much love from this man. After he split from our mum, we were raised by our nannies, only seeing our father during formal events or perhaps a few minutes before bedtime. It was in these days that Esme and I mastered the art of putting on a show. Our entire lives have been one big show of pretending we came from a loving, doting father. Nothing could be further from the truth.
“Your Majesty,” I say in greeting.
“Father,” Esme acknowledges, refusing to call him anything else, as she’s prone to do.
He glances beyond us at Creed and Zoey, who bow and curtsey respectively.
“Your Majesty,” they say in unison.
“Would you please wait outside? There’s something I must discuss with the Crown Prince in private.”
“Certainly, Your Majesty,” Creed says curtly.
Esme nods at Zoey, wordlessly telling her to follow. Then she steals a glimpse at Creed. His stoic expression softens for a moment as their gazes lock. I notice his hand twitch, as if about to place it on her back, but he remembers their roles, keeping his arms at his side as he walks behind her out of the room, Zoey following.
Once the elaborate double doors close with an echoing click, my father relaxes his posture and exhales a breath. “Are you serious about abdicating?” His tone lacks the formality it contained mere seconds ago.
I blink repeatedly, my mind reeling. How could he know? I’ve only mentioned this to one person, and only because it directly affects her.
“Esme,” I exhale, pinching the bridge of my nose. “She couldn’t keep her mouth shut, could she?”
“You two have always been close. Two peas in a pod, really.” My father chuckles, the sound as odd as a thunderstorm on a sunny day. I can’t remember the last time I heard this man laugh. I didn’t think he was capable.
Who is this man, and what has he done with my father? The man who never reminisced about the past. Who was notoriously stoic and unemotional.
Then again, wasn’t I trained to be like that, too? To smile when expected but never show too much emotion.
“And while she typically kept all your secrets, she also knew some secrets are too important to be kept.” Stepping toward me, he levels his gaze on me, his eyes nearly even with mine. “Think about what you’re doing, Anderson,” he says, dropping all the formalities of using my given first name, opting for the one I’ve always gone by in my inner circle. “This diagnosis must have been a punch to the gut. It was to me when you finally shared it with me. Making such a life-changing decision while dealing with the psychological effects of everything? I can’t help but think you may be acting irrationally.”
“I thought you’d be relieved,” I counter. “Then you wouldn’t have to go over my head and give the crown to Esme anyway.”
He shakes his head, his expression pained. “Why would you think I’d do that?”
I lean into him, my eyes on fire. “Because of the way you tossed out Mum!”
He stares at me for several long moments, then sighs, walking past me and lowering himself onto the
divan in the sitting area. Etiquette dictates I should also sit, since no one should stand taller than the crown. But that’s the least of my concerns right now.
“I never tossed out your mother. She left.” He gradually lifts his eyes to mine.
All I can do is blink. He’s wrong. Has it been so long that he’s forgotten the truth? Has he convinced himself of the veracity of these claims to help him sleep better at night?
“No, she didn’t. She—”
“Do you think I enjoyed watching her self-destruct? Think I enjoyed watching her push everyone away?” His distressed voice echoes in the room before he lowers it. “Do you think I enjoy watching you do the same thing?”
I’ve witnessed my father give more than his fair share of performances in the public eye. Like Esme can always tell when I’m faking it, I can detect when my father is. And right now, these emotions are…genuine.
“I’m begging you to believe me,” he implores. “I did everything to get her to stay. Told her it didn’t matter what happened. That I’d love her even if she were bound to a wheelchair for the rest of her life.”
Tears well in his eyes, his chin quivering, showing me a side of this man I didn’t think existed. Vulnerable. Defenseless. Weak.
“Nothing I said or did mattered. She was already battling depression. She never really acclimated to the pressures and scrutiny of royal life. The MS diagnosis only worsened it. She refused treatment. Refused everyone who tried to help. Then, she refused to live,” he chokes out.
“What are you saying?” I ask guardedly, stepping toward him.
He pinches his lips together, not immediately responding, as if doing so will give the truth wings and make it real. “I’m saying your mother didn’t die from MS.” He slowly lifts his gaze to mine, defeat crawling in his features. “She died from an intentional overdose, Anderson.”
I exhale deeply, running my hands through my hair as I pace along the marble floor.
“Mum…killed herself?” I can barely get the words out. It seems so absurd. Like something he made up, not something my mother would do.
A vice squeezes my heart as I relive the pain of a ten-year-old boy who was forced to mourn his mother in front of the public’s eye. Now I’m the thirty-five-year-old man who struggles to believe the woman he idolized would ever take her life. Then again, when I received my diagnosis, I considered the same thing. More than once. If I hadn’t met Nora, there’s a strong probability I may have done the same thing my mom did. Take one too many pills one night and never wake up.
“Why didn’t you tell us the truth?”
“You and Esme were both so young, Anders. It was difficult enough trying to explain to a nine- and ten-year-old their mother was gone and wouldn’t be coming back. To tell you she chose to end her life?” He shakes his head. “I couldn’t do it.”
“Couldn’t do it? Even when I accused you of abandoning her? Of kicking her out because you didn’t want to be married to someone who no longer appeared perfect?”
He shrugs, something I don’t think I’ve ever seen him do. “I made the decision years ago. I’d rather you hate me than your mother. That’s why I didn’t say anything.”
“Why are you finally saying something now?”
“Because, son, your mother gave up. Stopped fighting for everything she once held dear. Granted, her MS was severe, her decline rapid, unlike yours. Still, I don’t want that to be you.” He stands, striding toward me with determined steps and taking my hands in his.
“I should have fought harder for your mother, but I didn’t. I won’t make the same mistake with you. I’m not perfect. I’ve never purported to be. And I certainly regret some of the decisions I’ve made, especially where you’re concerned. But every decision has been with one goal in mind. Protecting you and Esme.”
I close my eyes, another puzzle piece snapping into place. “The accident. That’s why you didn’t tell me about the role I played.” I slowly face him. “Is that right?”
“You were in such a dark place after Kendall’s death. I was worried the truth would send you over the edge. Wanted to wait until you were in a better place mentally. Didn’t want a repeat of…” He trails off, then returns his gaze to mine. “I had every intention of eventually telling you. I just never found the right time.”
I stare at the cream-colored walls surrounding me, crown molding framing them, making everything appear pristine and perfect. But as I’ve learned throughout my life, appearances can be deceiving. You may think you know the full story, but there are always truths hidden beneath the surface that can shatter your world.
Like my truth shattered Nora’s world.
“Listen to me, Anderson.” My dad’s firm voice forces my gaze back to him. “I don’t want you to give all this up because you think your future is uncertain. I’ll let you in on a little secret. All our futures are uncertain. I could die tomorrow. But I’m not going to let my fear of the future control my decisions in the present. And you shouldn’t, either.”
He places his hands on my biceps, offering me a reassuring smile. “I understand you haven’t gone public with your diagnosis yet, and I won’t tell you what to do, when to share it. You must decide that for yourself. But I can tell you that you’re in a unique position. You can give a voice to this illness. You can give hope to other people with MS.” He takes my hand in his once more, squeezing hard, his voice filled with passion and intensity. “You will have a future, Anderson. You will live a long life. And you will find the happiness your mother didn’t think she’d ever have. You can still have it all. Including the crown.”
I shift my eyes forward, wishing I could summon the hope and confidence he seems to have about the situation. I may still be able to have the crown, but I’ll never have it all.
Not anymore.
Chapter Forty
Nora
“I had a great time tonight,” I say as I come to a stop outside the door to my building, smiling up at James.
After Halloween, I realized I couldn’t continue to wallow in my pit of despair, wishing things had ended differently between Anderson and me. If I’ve learned anything from all the curveballs life has thrown at me, it’s that I can’t change the past. But I can make decisions today to have a better future. So that’s what I’ve been doing.
Or at least attempting to do.
But nothing seems to work. Nothing seems to have the power to erase Anderson from my memory.
James is nice enough. Handsome. Successful. A complete gentleman. He’s the type of guy any woman would fall over themselves to date. And a few waitresses at the restaurants he’s taken me to on our handful of outings have done precisely that.
But it’s missing that spark. That something I can’t explain. That sensation of my soul connecting with another person.
I fear I’ll never experience that again.
Then again, a part of me doesn’t want to experience that again, especially when the fall from so high can be debilitating.
“I did, too.” He leans his arm against the wall behind me and curves toward me, his lips brushing mine.
I close my eyes, desperate to feel something, anything when his tongue swipes with mine, his hand grasps my hip, his arousal presses against my stomach. But I’m empty, going through the motions expected to make everyone around me think I’m okay. That I’ve moved on.
Like I did with Jeremy.
Is James my new Jeremy? Will I keep pretending until things spiral out of control, then the next thing I know, I’m marrying a man I don’t love, hoping it will mend my broken heart?
We repeat what we don’t repair.
Chloe’s words from all those months ago echo in my subconscious, coming out of nowhere, knocking the wind from me. Is that what I’m doing? Am I simply repeating the same mistakes I made instead of trying to repair my shattered heart? But how can I even attempt to repair that? How can I mend something that’s missing a huge piece?
“Invite me upstairs,” James begs before d
iving in for another impassioned kiss. “Can’t you feel how desperate I am for you?”
He pulses against me, moving his lips from mine, traveling along my neckline, but it doesn’t excite me. His clean-shaven jaw does nothing for me, except make me long for Anderson’s goatee and wandering hands.
“James,” I whimper, but not out of pleasure. It’s more apologetic. Contrite. Remorseful.
He hears it, too, and stops, pulling back. Then he sighs. “You’re breaking it off, aren’t you?”
I hesitate, parting my lips. Then I nod. “I’m sorry. It’s not you. You’re great. And I want to like you. I really do. I wish…” I look up at the December sky, Christmas decorations lighting up the city. This is normally my favorite time of year, especially in Manhattan. It always feels so magical.
This year, I can’t help but feel like part of my soul is missing.
“I wish I weren’t still clinging to the past,” I admit, surprising myself with my confession of the truth I’ve fought to hide.
“I wish you weren’t, too.” He grabs my glove-covered hand and brings it to his mouth, leaving a light kiss on it before releasing his hold on me and stepping away. “Whoever he is, I hope he realizes how special you are.” He holds my gaze for a protracted moment. Then he turns and disappears around the corner.
“I think he did.” I smile wistfully as a tiny snowflake lands on my eyelash.
Hunter once told me it was good luck, that I should make a wish. I always told him there was no such thing as luck, that everything in life happened for a reason. But something in the air tonight tells me that maybe a little good luck is precisely what I need right now. So, instead of brushing off the snowflake, I pause for a moment and make a wish.
It doesn’t matter if I know it will never come true. For the first time in months, a slight twinge of hope flutters in my stomach. I pray this will be a sign of good things to come, of finally starting the next stage of my life.
