Suspended: A Bad Boy Rockstar Romance

by Zoey Oliver

  I slide the top picture off the pile and look at the next one. Henry and a pretty blonde woman, kissing. The palace stables are visible in the background.

  I shake my head. “Current company? No, you’re wrong. These must be old pictures.”

  “I’m so sorry, my Lady,” Sir Eldridge says, looking at me with sorrow, “but they are not. When we learned of your interest in His Grace, Mr. Kingston had one of the investigators follow him, from a distance and very discreetly, of course. We didn’t want to alert his security staff to our surveillance.”

  I pull a third picture out of the stack. Henry and the same blonde woman, this time in front of a window. I recognize the fancy arch of the window, and the unusual angle of the stone façade — the West Wing of the palace, occupied almost entirely by the Prince’s private residence. The woman is half undressed, and Henrys hands are on her waist. I notice a small, bright red splash of color in the very corner of the photograph, something on the outer wall of the palace.

  “This can’t be,” I say, but my stomach is twisting into knots, and my heart is slowly sinking into a dark abyss.

  “Again, we’re so sorry to have to share this with you, but it’s our belief that His Highness is simply looking to collect, um… well, to be the first to claim the prize, so to speak.”

  “What?” I look up, confused.

  “There are certain men who, um, collect that sort of thing. They like to be the first through the gate, if you see what I mean.”

  “It’s — it’s not like that,” I stutter, my mind running through all the times I’ve silently prayed for him to take me. He’s had ample opportunity to push me into something, but he hasn’t.

  “Perhaps not yet. He might be trying to charm you, to coax you into letting him have his way with you. But of course, that would spoil everything you’ve worked towards so far with this situation.”

  I don’t even know what to say to that, so I just lower my eyes back to the folder. I skim through the remaining pictures. I don’t want to believe it. But the evidence is undeniable. There he is in living color, caught on camera with no less than four different women, looking just like the Henry waiting for me upstairs — short, tousled hairstyle, fresh, clean-shaven face. Not the Henry from the photos and videos that have been splashed all over the news, with his formerly chin-length wavy locks and the shadow of three-day stubble across his face.

  I rifle through the pictures again until I find the one with the stables. I stare at the background. Yellow, red, and orange — autumn leaves are on the ground in the photo. Just like they are outside, right now. I shuffle through the images until I find the one of his window, obviously taken with a telephoto lens from a far distance. That red splash of color — it’s one of the Grand Harvest Festival flags adorning the exterior of the palace, flapping gently in the breeze outside as I sit here.

  My whole body shudders with pain, and I snap the folder shut as tears well in my eyes. I toss it on the marble table with revulsion.

  “Is that all? Are we finished here?” I ask quietly, blinking quickly to overcome the sting of tears biting at my eyes.

  “There is one more matter.”

  “Talk fast, please.” I rest my forehead in my hands and avoid their gaze. I am such an idiot. I am just as naïve as they think I am. I can’t believe I let myself get swept away with Henry. And somehow convinced myself I was special, that I was different than all the women before me. That he’d really turned over a new leaf. The thoughts are running through my head so fast, so painfully loud and angry, that I miss what Sir Eldridge says. I only catch Finley’s name.

  I look up at them, my eyes surely red and watery, my nose puffy from sniffling, but I no longer care. They know who I am. They know me better than I know myself. Why hide it? They’ve known for weeks I’m a gullible idiot, fueled by my reckless hormones and silly, juvenile romantic notions.

  “What did you say?” I ask sluggishly, a bone-weary tiredness settling across me. I’m tired of it all — of them, of this whole situation, of this palace, of everything.

  The advisors look at each other again, perhaps out of horror at me dissolving into a mess before their eyes, ugly crying right here in the middle of this library, or perhaps at surprise over my reaction to this news, heartbreak over a man who goes through women like children go through a bag of candy.

  “Oh, for God’s sake — stop looking at each other and just tell me!” I shout, all my manners gone, all my patience evaporated.

  I just want to get out of this room, as soon as possible. It’s getting smaller and more cramped the longer I sit here, the walls closing in, just squeezing the shame and embarrassment and heartache out of every pore in my body.

  Sir Eldridge clears his throat. “I said, Mr. Crofts with the Historical Council has finally identified the current representative of Master Goutley’s agreement, just this evening in fact. It’s Finley Prescott.”

  My mouth falls open. “What?”

  “Mr. Prescott. You know who we’re speaking of, right? The gentleman on your list of suitors?”

  I nod, blinking slowly, feeling as if I’ve stepped into a Salvador Dali painting and time is unwinding on itself, reality slanting so far sideways I can barely keep myself upright. “Yes.”

  “It’s quite a coincidence, isn’t it?” Mr. Kingston says, scooting to the edge of his seat. “I mean, what a fortunate turn of events.”

  I stare blankly at the advisors. Mr. Kingston’s words are jumbling together in my head. “I’m sorry, what does that mean?”

  “Well, it makes things just very simple, doesn’t it?” he says, grinning broadly. “Finley Prescott is one of your suitors, and as it turns out, he’s also the heir to this agreement. This is a lovely solution to your situation.”

  I breathe shallowly, a dullness setting in. Their voices are strangely muted and the colors of the room, even the flames dancing in the fireplace, are less vivid than I remember when I first came in.

  I look at Mr. Kingston for a long while. His face is distorted, and his grin looks like a cartoon drawing someone slapped over his real mouth. I realize I missed what he said. “What is the solution?”

  “This makes your choice easy. You won’t need to continue the courtship period any longer. You can announce your engagement, and we can get straight on with the wedding plans.”

  “It does make the most sense, my Lady,” Sir Eldridge adds. “What Mr. Kingston hasn’t mentioned is the downside of this news.”

  “Which is?” I’m not sure if they’re being confusingly vague or if my brain has simply stopped working under the weight of despair I’m feeling, but very little is making sense to me right now.

  “The possible complications it could cause were you to choose otherwise, my Lady,” the senior advisor explains. “Such as how disagreeable Finley might become if he’s rejected as a suitor.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’m not saying he would, but there’s always the chance he could somehow delay verification that you’ve upheld the agreement, or he could challenge it in the court just to drag things out. So, the most sensible things, from all angles, is to simply choose Mr. Prescott.”

  “I see,” I say flatly.

  Sir Eldridge’s excitement seems to be rising. “The upside of this arrangement would not matter if your children default on the contract.”

  A silent shudder runs through me. My children. My children with Finley Prescott. Acid turns in my stomach.

  “Since if there is a default, you see,” he continues, “everything — the estate, the title, any assets — it would stay in the family, it would just technically belong to your husband instead of yourself.”

  “And my parents and Spencer?” I ask coldly.

  Sir Eldridge’s smile falters. “Well, my Lady, we’ve made inquiries, and—”

  A jolt runs through me. “You’ve what?”

  “—and Mr. Prescott would be quite happy to take the Strathmore name. He’ll be good as a second son. Especially if Spencer nev
er settles down.”

  The fight goes out of me. I lay my forehead in the palm of one hand. Of course, he would take my family name. Insta-nobility — and everything that goes with it.

  “Have you enjoyed getting to know him so far?” Mr. Kingston asks cautiously.

  I shrug quietly. I don’t know how I feel about anything right now. And given how overly trusting I’ve been of Henry, I clearly shouldn’t trust my judgment, anyway.

  He tries a different approach. “Are there any other suitors that you like better?”

  I shake my head with a deflated sigh. I don’t like any of them, not really. Henry stole my heart that very first night, when he swept me into his arms on the dance floor and then surprised me with his talents on the balcony. Truth be told, he’s had my heart since I was that gangly teenager with frizzy hair and a stick figure for a body. And he’s the reason I dated so infrequently in college — I inevitably compared every man I met to Henry, and found them all lacking.

  “Then that’s settled,” Mr. Kingston says with an enthusiastic nod. “Finley is an excellent choice. Don’t you agree?”

  I look down and stare at a spot on the rug, a piece of white fuzz dotting the otherwise impeccably clean oriental pattern. “Sure.”

  “You should tell Mr. Prescott as soon as possible, then. We can arrange for a meeting this evening, if you’d like.” Sir Eldridge suggests.

  “Okay.” I don’t recognize my own voice.

  “And then you should announce the engagement later this week,” he continues, “to give as much time as possible to get the wedding planned — it should be fitting to your station, you see — and then get the paperwork and all the affairs in order.”

  “Okay.”

  Concern finally shines through in Sir Eldridge’s further promptings. “I know it comes as a bit of a shock, this news, but it’s a very good turn of events. The best outcome one could hope for, really.”

  “You’ll have to pardon my lack of excitement. I’m not feeling very well right now.”

  “Oh, of course,” Sir Eldridge says. He peers at me. “Do you need us to summon anyone? Or get you anything?”

  “No. I just need to lie down. Please excuse me.”

  I wobble a bit as I stand up before finding my bearings. I leave as quickly as I can without waiting for their reply. I make it out to the hallway without collapsing, but my knees keep threatening to buckle, and my whole body feels like it weighs several tons, and the air is thick, like I’m swimming through water.

  I push myself to keep going. I just need to make it to my room. Then I can crawl under the covers and die. I don’t know what will kill me first — my broken heart, bleeding openly in my chest over the evidence against Henry, the depressing news that I’m going to spend the rest of my life with Finley, or the fact that my confidence is completely shattered, as if an earthquake has ripped through me.

  Either way, I know I’m done for.

  Chapter 18

  HENRY

  When I reach the top of the steps, Stephen, the royal guard accompanying me, checks around the corner and radios to another security staff member positioned at the other end of the North Wing. “All clear, sir.”

  “Thank you, Stephen, that will be all,” I say and proceed to Abi’s suite as he disappears back down the stairs.

  Abi’s suite is the first door, set back at an angle due to the Victorian design of the North Wing, which was added to the palace about 140 years ago, when the style was reaching its height of popularity across the world.

  I knock quietly and bounce on the balls of my feet as I wait. Three days I’ve been without Abi, except for quick exchanges and brief, stolen kisses between my trips. It hasn’t been the same, sleeping alone in my bed without her warmth and softness for company. I need her in my arms tonight. I need to rock her body with pleasure and hear her sweet voice cry out in ecstasy, and then watch her fall asleep beside me, so beautiful.

  The door opens a crack, and someone peeks out — Emily? — and then closes again quickly. A moment later, the door swings open and Spencer steps out, with Emily right behind him, who pulls the door shut behind her.

  I look warily at Spencer, wondering how to play this, how to explain why I’m at his little sister’s door. Should I just invent a lie? Say I was looking for him?

  Spencer crosses his arms. “You shouldn’t be here, Henry.”

  “I, uh—”

  “Save it. I know what’s been going on. I just heard the whole god-awful story. But it’s over.”

  I cock my head. I hadn’t planned to go to lock horns with Spencer over this, and I don’t know how he found out, but the moment is here, and I’m not backing down. “I don’t think that’s your call to make.”

  He nods, arms still crossed. “You’re right, it’s not. It’s hers,” he says, jerking a thumb toward the door. “And she made it.”

  I look at Emily, who is staring at me with a stony expression. “What’s going on here?”

  She looks away, her face drawn tight. “He’s right, Your Highness. Abi said she doesn’t want to see you anymore.”

  “Bullshit. I don’t know what you two are trying to pull, but if Abigail doesn’t want to see me, she can tell me herself.” I move toward the door, but Emily steps in front of me, stretching her arm across the doorway.

  “Don’t,” she pleads. “You’ve done enough. Leave her be.”

  “What the fuck does that mean?”

  She gives me an icy stare. “You know exactly what it means.”

  “No, I really don’t.”

  Spencer puts his hand on my shoulder. “You need to go.”

  I knock his hand off me. “I’m not going anywhere without talking to Abigail.”

  “What part of this don’t you understand? Look, have your fun, okay? Just not with my goddamn sister.”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “Do you think I’m fucking stupid? What, did you sprout feelings all of a sudden? I don’t fucking buy it. I know you. I know how you operate, because I do the same damn thing — but I don’t fuck with your family, Henry.”

  “I’m not playing games with her, I swear.”

  Spencer rubs his face and sighs. When he looks back at me, his eyes are full of fury. “Don’t you get it? She’s getting married, Henry. Married. So, whatever this is, whether you started it, or she did, it was a game — a stupid, reckless game. And now, Abigail’s a fucking mess over it, thanks to you.”

  “What? What did I do?”

  Spencer laughs bitterly. “You were just being you, Henry. That’s all. I just never thought you’d stoop this low, though, to go after my own sister.”

  “I need to talk to Abi,” I insist, my hands clenching into fists. “I don’t know what the fuck happened, but if I can just talk to her, I’m sure it can be sorted out.”

  Emily shakes her head firmly. “No. I’m sorry, Your Grace, but she gave me explicit instructions to not let you in.”

  “I don’t believe that.” I cross my arms and plant my feet. I’m not going anywhere until Abi tells me herself.

  “Your Highness, look at me, please,” Emily implores, her voice strained.

  I shift my gaze to her. She looks utterly distraught, and a sinking feeling creeps over me.

  She takes a deep breath, exhaling dejectedly. “I’m telling you the truth. And I need you to hear this, for her sake, okay? Abi doesn’t want to see you — not now, not tomorrow, not ever.”

  I stagger backward, my heart beating erratically in my chest. The look in Emily’s eyes — the deep well of anger and sadness, it’s genuine. Something has happened to Abigail, something terrible… and it’s somehow ruined everything.

  I lean against the wall, feeling dizzy. “I don’t understand…”

  “Please, Sir. If you actually care about her at all, just… just leave her alone. That’s the best thing you can do for her.”

  “Come on,” Spencer says. “Let’s go.”

  He clears his throat, but I don’t move. I
nstead, I stare at Abi’s door, willing her to open it, to pop out and yell, “Gotcha!”

  I say a silent prayer. A plea for this to turn out to be a horrible joke. But the door doesn’t open, and Emily’s sniffling quietly now, sagging against the frame of the door as she looks at me with a mixture of disgust and pity.

  “Fine,” I say quietly, resigned. “I’ll go.”

  Spencer trails me back around the corner, his eyes trained on me intently as I press the door to the elevator. No point in sneaking about on the stairs anymore. As the elevator lights tick through the numbers to Abi’s floor, I pull my phone out and type a quick message to Pierre:

  ‘No detail needed the rest of the evening.’

  I turn back to look at Spencer. His hard gaze softens a bit as we stare at each other.

  “I hate that it came to this, Henry.”

  “Me, too.” I lower my eyes to the floor, truly ashamed for perhaps the first time in my life, and this time I’m not even sure what I’ve done, but I know it’s my fault. I’ve wrecked too many things. Karma has finally caught up with me, and hurt Abigail in the process.

  “Can I ask you something, as an old friend? Why Abigail? Why mess with her, out of all the women falling at your feet? Was it just for bragging rights?” he asks. “Or to piss me off?”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  The elevator dings, and the doors slide open. I stand still a moment longer, thinking about Spencer’s question.

  “Then what? Just tell me the goddamn truth, Henry. You owe me that much.”

  “She’s the one,” I say quietly.

  “What?”

  I step into the elevator. Spencer is still staring. “Are you fucking with me?”

  I exhale, the air leaving my body like a deflating balloon. “I didn’t realize it at first, but I know now.”

  Spencer steps forward, his head cocked at me suspiciously. I stare back, my expression flat. A heavy weight is plummeting through me, pulling on every muscle in my body like a tide of gravity flooding in.