No Perfect Princess

by Angel Payne

  So I worked with what I did have. As we approached the house, I strapped on a mental watering can, preparing to douse her with what I’d stocked inside it—respect and kindness as the base for a hell of a lot of direct questions. I didn’t care if it took us hours. I’d get inside that shell of hers if it took flooding her out of the damn thing.

  Or so I’d thought.

  Like the fucking fool that I was.

  Before fate chose the most ideal moment to boot me in the balls.

  We’d barely stepped inside the house before the sound of a car on gravel echoed from the kitchen. When I looked out and spied the black 750i, with one disgruntled Jamaican unfolding himself out of the front seat, I dropped my jaw—and the watering can.

  She’d really done it. I’d taken her words on the trail as desperate ramblings, not actual promises for action, but as stated, I was a fucking fool.

  A fool who watched, stunned into furious silence, as she handed her hastily packed bag off to Andre then turned for the open backseat door. I went with the word loss, not trusting myself to say anything remotely diplomatic at this point. No way in hell would I approach her about staying for the tree now. Clearly, whatever had gone down in that phone call was more important to her. Wait; no. Withholding it from me was more important.

  Trees couldn’t grow on secrets and shadows. I saw nothing except the combination, consuming her whole face, as she hesitated before entering the car and suddenly spun back toward me. Her body jerked a little, as if she sought clearance to come closer, but benevolence wasn’t mine to grant right now. I’d probably regret it later but right now, even the thought of her back in my arms was too brutal a kick in the center of my gut.

  She was leaving our tree to die before it had gotten a chance to live.

  But who was the idiot who’d let his heart twine into those roots, too?

  That was the shittiest thing to grasp as I turned and reentered the house, forcing myself to keep eyes forward and mind numb. The first goal was a success, at least until I heard the car start up again and pull away. The second? My pounding head and screaming senses bore evidence to that massive fail.

  You’re just as much to blame for this pain as she is, dumb fuck. Let yourself believe that two days without drama could grow into a lifetime of “Ozzie and Harriet”. Let yourself believe in her, period.

  Lesson learned.

  The ugly, agonizing, hard as shit way.

  Only guaranteeing I’d never let it happen again.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Margaux

  I knew it was going to be a bad day by the size of the rejected pile of outfits laying on the floor of my dressing room. The fashion dilemma was usually an accurate barometer of the direction my day would take, and from the looks of things, it had to get better from here. There were at least six or seven—or ten or eleven—ensembles down there. Thank God Sorrelle treated the care and of my wardrobe as a spiritual calling. Still, I’d make sure he received a little extra in his next paycheck to say thanks for the extra work.

  Wait. A little extra? To say thanks?

  This wouldn’t do. At all. Where was my page torn from the playbooks of Alexis Carrington, Blair Waldorf, Cookie Lyon? Screw that. Those bitches could take notes from my playbook, if they dared.

  You believe that as much as a fucking fairy tale.

  The fairy tale my life was never meant to be.

  I looked at my reflection, eyeing the woman who now stood in head-to-toe Stella McCartney. The pantsuit won by default, since it best hid the pooch from the slab of turtle pie I’d shoveled in last night. Further, the slim black pants with a matching tuxedo shawl jacket, paired with a white button-front and subdued accessories, were the ideal meeting-at-the-boss’s-house attire. On my feet were a pair of my favorite four-inch Jimmys, lending a flash of silver sparkle—and hopefully, the confidence I was so desperately lacking.

  So alert the damn press. Yes, I was having a confidence problem.

  Could have had something to do with the new sign hanging over most of my mind now.

  Pearsonville. The place that never lets you sleep.

  Pathetic much? God, it was true. I was unable to think about anyone else—even when he was the last damn thing I actually wanted to be thinking about.

  Do you really believe that at all, either?

  Not one fucking bit.

  That afternoon in the meadow had been one of the best moments of my life—followed by one of the worst. Ugh…that fight. Messy was a good description. Ugly wasn’t half bad, either. But reengaging the Margaux ice queen had been my only, desperate defense. Without all the frozen walls back in place, he would’ve inched right under my defenses again—and God only knew how many secrets he’d find waiting in the shadows.

  So yeah, I’d speared him with a few icicles, instead. And yeah, the blows had probably stung. But at least he was safe.

  Safe…from me.

  I’d tried to tell him that—in several desperate ways—but he’d seen through the ice princess and matched her by one angry ogre. He was too furious to see the conflict I went through before leaving with Andre, too hell-bent on brooding to notice the tears I’d blinked back. How could he have thought it was a decision I liked making?

  Ass. Hole.

  Right. And that was why I couldn’t stop thinking about him, right? Or block out his face every time I closed my eyes. Or stop hearing his voice in every brush of wind across the penthouse’s patio. And dammit, the songs on the radio…every stupid tune with sugary-sweet lyrics and an earworm melody taunted me all over again with memories of touching him, kissing him, squeezing my body around him…

  Dammit.

  I had it bad for Michael Pearson.

  Bad.

  Groundhog Day, anyone? Hadn’t I visited this exact moment before? And I was in no better situation right now than I was then, despite all those tingling, amazing memories. It was worse at night. Sleep had become a cold and restless battle, calmed only by the hope he was suffering the same fate. But that only eased the ache a little—because ultimately, it didn’t touch the true issue.

  The whole mess with Michael was the mess I couldn’t share with Michael.

  Trey.

  I’d met his demand by only two million dollars so far, siphoning off a combination of my own bank account plus the funds I had access to at SGC. Every day that passed had me wadded in a huger ball of tension, certain someone would catch the missing money and I’d have some ‘splaining to do worse than Lucy Ricardo with a mouthful of chocolate. But hopefully, I’d be able to chop through the legal red tape on my trust fund soon, and replace the funds before they were missed.

  In the meantime, Trey was getting impatient. He’d been back for another “visit” already, once more sneaking into my apartment, lying in wait for me after work one night. Fortunately, he didn’t leave any more “souvenirs” on my face, and the stupid sexual innuendos were left out of the conversation, too. He was all about the cash now, period. It was a little relief, but not much. The sooner this was all over, the better.

  One thing in all this was crystal clear. It had been a damn good move to lock Michael out of this equation. Now that I’d seen ever more of his rampaging lion side, there was no doubt how he’d react to Trey’s bullshit. There wouldn’t be a corner of the world safe enough for Trey to hide in.

  That didn’t assuage my guilt much. Yes, dammit—for the first time in my life, guilt was eating me alive. It was such an unfamiliar feeling I’d first thought it was bad sushi, but the shit persisted for days, especially every time I got near Claire or Kil. My stomach churned, my head spun, my whole body eventually wanted to bolt from the room. Neither of them wore sickening scents, so that wasn’t it.

  It was me.

  And it was hateful.

  I was hateful.

  I’d stolen from them.

  Of course I tried telling myself that it was all a bit silly. Even if I wasn’t a biological Stone and due some of the company’s wealth anyway, Killian h
ad enough money to wallpaper every room in the Rancho Santa Fe house three times over. And if I had the true balls, I’d have come clean from the start, informing him what was going on with his dickhead brother. But I wasn’t just having the guilts. I was battling the holy shits. Trey was getting desperate, and many times, that meant dangerous. I didn’t have the guts to drag Claire and Kil into this, not after everything they’d already suffered at the hands of Trey—and frankly, me, before I’d gotten a clue that the way to a man’s heart wasn’t necessarily through entrapment.

  Yes. Killian and Claire deserved more than a split second of happiness, the white lace and promises they’d fought so hard for.

  Freaking. Gag.

  Right?

  I’d decided then and there to go see my brother and stepsister-slash-sister-in-law after work. While sending Kil a message via inter-office chat to make sure they were still free, I’d noticed Claire was out sick again. Hmmmm. This was at least the third time since they’d returned from their honeymoon. Was something up in terms of buns in ovens?

  I’d rolled my own eyes at myself. How’s the trampoline holding, jumping to those conclusions, girlfriend?

  Besides, she was out—but not slacking. Our latest marketing partner had turned into a giant pain in the ass, meaning she had a lot of on-site handholding with their company president. That was likely where she was. Claire wasn’t the best at inputting details in her shared calendar.

  The sun was long-gone by the time Andre pulled up the drive of their monster house. I’d called during the journey and received a thorough chew-out from Big Brother about my “nasty” habit of working past hours. I’d promptly replied with creative new vernacular. Had his workaholic ass really tried that? Besides, what the hell did I have to go home to except another piece of turtle pie that was literally the size of a turtle? My point exactly.

  Kil’s valet, Alfred, welcomed me with a warm smile and showed me to the family room. Killian and Claire had made some great changes to the home’s décor since they moved in, warming up the rooms with lighted crown molding, some new area carpets, and a breathtaking shot from their wedding day centered over the mantle.

  After I walked in to embrace Claire, I sat with her on the plush leather couch, exclaiming. “Sister mine; the place looks magni—” I stopped myself while catching a new look at her. “But whoa, you really don’t.”

  She lifted a wan laugh. “That bad, huh?”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you know the paste that the gross kid in third grade always made a small meal out of?”

  She raised a hand. “Stop. Please. I can’t.”

  Shit. She really couldn’t. Now that guilt and I were on close personal terms, a wave of it hit when her complexion turned from white to green. “Oh, little bear.” I clasped her hand. “I didn’t know you were this bad. Why didn’t Killian just cancel with me?”

  “Be—because I wanted to see you.”

  “Gutsy girl,” I quipped. “Even when you look this shitty.”

  “Thanks, Mare. You have such a way with words.” She suddenly rose. “Excuse me. I’ll be just one second.” She dashed by me to hit the bathroom just in time. When I tried to follow, she slammed the door in my face.

  Left with little choice but to stand sentry, I leaned against the wall until Alfred reappeared. “She may be a while, Miss Asher. Come. I brought your favorite.”

  “A while?” I punched back. “Well, how long has she been as bad as this?”

  “A while.”

  Fume. “What? And Kil hasn’t taken her to a doctor?”

  “Oh, a doctor’s following up with her.”

  I pivoted and advanced on the man. Don’t fuck with the girl in the five-inch Jimmys. “Okay, listen Yoda. You want to elaborate on—” I lowered to the couch again. “Oh hell, that latte smells good.”

  The armor of Alfred’s face finally cracked a little. “I’ve picked up a few clues about how you like it.”

  He certainly had. It was the best damn latte I’d ever had. I seriously needed to send Sorrelle over here for a few days of boot camp. Maybe he could lose some of his poodle attitude and gain some starch in his step, Alfred style. The thought of it made me almost snort latte foam.

  “What’s so funny?” Claire came back and quickly curled up on the sofa again, pulling a luxurious faux-fur throw around her.

  “I was thinking of having Alfred train Sorrelle a little bit.” We both had a good laugh, although Claire winced, seeming more in pain than actually laughing.

  I pulled her feet into my lap and starting rubbing, a tradition from our girls’ nights together. “Okay, out with it. What the hell’s going on with you? Did you catch Ebola on the honeymoon?” I bolted upright with mock panic. “Shit. Do I need a hazmat suit?”

  Claire gave another weak laugh. “Knock it off, you crazy bitch.” After I made a point of visibly sobering—and giving her the spill-it-or-face-my-wrath glare—she took a deep breath and murmured, “I’m pregnant.”

  I shrieked and hugged her. “Bun in the hot Stone oven! I knew it!”

  She looked a little alarmed. Clearly, she and Kil were waiting on springing the news on the rest of the world. “You did?”

  “Well, I wasn’t sure, sure. Okay, pretty sure. But I know you better than a lot of people, so—” I shook my head, dazed and excited. This was so the twist my life needed. “I’m going to be an auntie! Fuck me sideways.”

  “Well, it wasn’t sideways,” Claire returned. “Hmm. Maybe it was. He’s pretty creative…”

  “Stop!” I held up both hands. There were things about Killian Jamison Stone that no longer interested me. After Claire indulged a real giggle, I hugged her again. “Congratulations, Claire! I’m so thrilled for you both!” I glanced down at her slender frame. “It must be pretty early though, yeah?”

  She nodded. “Just six weeks or so. But hell’s damn bells. I can’t keep anything down. It’s been awful.”

  “So where’s that asshole brother of mine?” I peered around, even listening for the telltale signs of Kil-is-in-the-house. “Why isn’t he here watching over you?”

  “Because I ordered him out.” She snorted and pinched the bridge of her nose, a move borrowed directly from her husband. “He just makes it worse sometimes. He…hovers.” She smacked me with a pillow when I answered that with a snicker. “Not funny. He hovers, Margaux. It’s bad.” She waved her hand when I didn’t relent. “Go see him. He’ll be glad you know at last. I refuse to make an official announcement until I’m further along. It’s been eating him alive, not having anyone to share the excitement with.”

  I rose. “You’ll be all right?”

  “Sure. Alfred’s right around the corner.”

  “Where?”

  “Upstairs in the second guest room, if I have to bet. He’s been spending every free moment in there. Dog with a damn bone.”

  I gently tucked the throw around her so she was nice and snug. It probably drove her crazy but she was too sick to do anything about it, so I really fussed.

  After laughing my way out of the room, I climbed the slightly curved staircase, affording a sweeping view of their new home. Killian had really outdone himself this time. I gazed down into the formal dining room, dominated by a table set with places for twelve but likely expandable to sixteen, next to an antique sideboard and a pair of designer rolling serving carts. At the top of the stairs, a landing was set with high-back chairs of shiny leather, arranged in a semi-circle around a dark oak coffee table. It was all sumptuous but comfortable. I was impressed.

  Thumping music pulled me forward. The room it came from was where I’d find Killian. He always had music blaring if he wasn’t too deep in thought.

  After passing several closed doors, I arrived at the one throbbing with an old Hall and Oates classic, Private Eyes—accompanied by an off-key warble that made me damn glad Kil hadn’t pursued a singing career.

  I opened the door and popped my head in.

  And blinked. Then again.
r />   Best blackmail moment ever. Either that, or a hallucination nobody would ever believe.

  Mr. CEO.

  Mr. Billionaire.

  My big brother.

  Spread out on the floor like a toddler himself, surrounded by every piece of conceivable baby gear on the market—and probably a few that weren’t.

  “Picture worth a million words.” I shouted over the music.

  His head jerked up, reading glasses perched on the end of his nose and befuddlement ruling his eyes. Both sleeves of his Ledbury Royal Twill Worker were rolled to the elbow as he spread an instruction sheet out, its five languages a mish-mash of words. When he saw me, a dazzling grin split his lips. He grabbed the remote and lowered the volume with a fast jab.

  “She told you.”

  “She sure did. Congrats, Papa Bear.”

  He lunged, catching me in his arms and twirling me around at least three times. I was squealing too hard to keep accurate count. By the time he set me back down, I was laughing pretty hard at his excitement. “Well, what a sight you are to behold, Mr. Stone.”

  “Thank you very much, Miss Stone.”

  I dignified that with a hard whack to his shoulder and nothing else. Back to the important subject in the room. “I had no idea you wanted a baby so soon.”

  “Neither did I. But when Claire told me, I couldn’t believe we weren’t on it sooner.”

  “On it sooner? As in, less than a month after your damn honeymoon?”

  He let me laugh, and even joined in. “This shit is so much fun already. You have no idea.”

  “No, I don’t. Let’s keep it that way. Especially because you’re so goddamn adorable right now, I may go join Claire for her next puke-out.”

  “Bitch,” he teased.

  “Butthead,” I countered.

  I swiveled before placing a careful step to my left, praying not to hear the crunch of plastic beneath my toe. “Okay, seriously, Kil. You need to pace yourself here. It’s really early.” I raised my brows, circling around again. Bouncers. Play swings. Bottle warmers. Safety gates. Stuffed animals. And a train set? That wasn’t all of it. The crib and a half-dozen other items were still in boxes.