He’d become a blurry Polaroid. His small frame—in a light suit as always—and curly gray hair, cropped close to his dark skin, just out of focus.
What had I become to him? My mother, maybe.
My uncle tried to warn me before he’d brought me in, but I had nowhere to go. My mom was dead. To my dad’s side of the family, I didn’t exist. My uncle was the only living member left.
A moment passed. I could feel my uncle watching me, and then he asked the only question he could: “Mr. Grayson...you called?”
Not Why do you have a servant on her knees? What are you doing with my niece?
Those were questions I would have to deal with, and his unasked questions burned into ruinous answers the longer he watched, the longer I didn’t stand up.
“You should start with the bed. Strip it.”
“Of course, sir.”
More shame swamped me. Grayson didn’t make it sound like we’d slept together, but he didn’t not either.
Grayson placed an untied sneaker beneath my nose. “Tie my shoe.”
“What?” I jerked my head up, meeting his stony blue eyes. “You can’t be serious.”
Grayson swiped a measured hand over his forehead, pushing messy blond hair from his brow, his glare pinned on me. I was once again hit with how devastatingly handsome he was, the kind of looks that ruin.
“When I say jump,” he said.
I bit the tip of my tongue, anger flooding my chest as I leaned forward, and my fingers shook on the laces. That was when I finally met my uncle’s eyes, as I tied Grayson’s shoe.
Shame drenched my soul in oil.
I wanted to tell him I was sorry. I was doing this for us. So I could stay, so I could be near him. I was doing this because of him. There was more to this than met the eye. I’d stolen something priceless and I had to give it back. He would understand that. He’d instilled me with that value, one my mother conveniently left out.
In the end I looked away.
I tied the final lace, and Grayson pulled his foot back so quickly I nearly stumbled.
“Woodsy?” Grayson asked when he realized my uncle was still there.
Ever the composed one, my uncle straightened his spine and turned from me to Gray. “Mr. Grayson, I will finish my job tomorrow.”
“Sure, whatever.”
A spark of surprise shocked my spine. Sure, whatever to a servant who’d basically just said he didn’t feel like cleaning. I knew they had a unique relationship, but if I ever said that to Abigail, I’d be kicked out faster than I could blink.
I listened to my uncle’s retreating footsteps as nausea grew like a weighted balloon inside me. I hadn’t realized how much I’d depended on the hope I could keep my shame internal and secret until now.
I couldn’t do this.
I couldn’t fucking do it.
What was I thinking?
Grayson gripped my chin. “Do you know what today is?”
“T-The Swan Swell,” I stammered.
“Time to test that big ear of yours.”
Seven
STORY
* * *
All my years at Crowne Point I’d never been to a Swan Swell party at the Hall. It happened every year and was one of their more extravagant events. A little-known dirty secret: while we have a native swan population, more beautiful swans were imported to swim in the fountains, and silver and white glitter was brushed on their feathers so they shimmered in the air. Women spent the whole year designing their bespoke feathered white dresses.
And everyone looked bored.
At least, those surrounding Grayson Crowne.
“Let’s go, Gray.” A girl with heavy lashes and heavier lips wove her arm around Grayson’s batting her eyelashes.
“I called dibs tonight.” Another girl wove her arm around his free one.
Grayson shook them both off without a word or glance, reaching into his back pocket for a cigarette. Still, they lingered at his side, watching him with gleaming eyes. They all did. Grayson had a quorum of people who hung on his every movement, just waiting for an order.
I recognized them, the way I recognized all Grayson’s friends who visited the Hall, but I wasn’t certain of their names, couldn’t match them to faces. They were all beautiful, made to be on magazines and in movies.
I knew two of the boys specifically. They had the same impeccable features and bored, entitled air of Grayson, but more subdued. Nothing could match Grayson. I’d seen them the most and knew them to be Alaric and Geoff, but I just didn’t know who was who.
I should be getting information about Charlotte, but Grayson wouldn’t let me leave his side.
Not like anyone would notice me.
I might as well be one of the fountains to these people.
And what about Lottie? What about everything I’d been through the past fucking twenty-four hours? She was only just across the fountain, watching Grayson. Charlotte “Lottie” du Lac was a fairy tale princess, with a crown of braids and a dress of flowing white feathers.
I knew the look she wore because I’d worn it myself. It was uncertainty born of heartbreak. She cared about him. I was certain she did.
Gray either was oblivious or didn’t care. Impossible to tell. It looked like he wanted to be anywhere else. With his head down and his suit jacket folded to the forearm, tie discarded, the top few buttons on his black dress shirt undone, he was something out of The Great Gatsby.
“She’s staring at you,” I whispered quietly. “Just go to her.”
No one noticed me lean forward; no one noticed me period. If Grayson heard me, he didn’t acknowledge it.
The models and influencers took selfies; they played a game of rock-paper-scissors for who would go home with Grayson, then posted a video of that game. Grayson just kept staring out at the inky ocean, as if he weren’t even here.
“Get the fuck out of here,” Gray said suddenly.
And like that everyone stood up and left. Gray decreed it, so it happened.
“Save some for the rest of us Playboy Gray,” Alaric-or-Geoff said, chucking a gold leaf truffle at a swan as he walked away. It narrowly missed the swan’s head, but still caused it to flutter nervously.
Curiosity grew in my gut. Was I the only one who knew the truth? No, that’s impossible. But his grandpa thought he was fucking me. If he was anything like his sister Abigail, I would bet his mother didn’t know. Was I the only one who knew Grayson Crowne was a virgin? I thought…I thought I’d just stumbled into a secret that wasn’t meant for me.
No, I was certain he’d told his friends.
Gray eyed me from behind his lit cigarette as a swan feathered its wings behind him in the fountain. I quickly looked away.
I was getting caught way too often.
All the Crownes were here. Gemma Crowne was with her mother Tansy, but Grandpa Beryl Crowne was surprisingly absent. This was one of the few events he attended, usually for his granddaughter, Abigail—Abigail.
My eyes spotted the only woman dressed in black.
“What are you going to tell Abigail?” I asked. “If she sees us together?”
Is there anything you can say to salvage my job?
“Tick tock, Snitch,” he said, ignoring me. “Do you think you’re here to fucking party?”
“If you want me to find useful information, then you have to let me go. I’m not going to find anything stuck next to you all night. There are no maids up here. They don’t come to the party.” I could hardly believe I was talking to Grayson Crowne this way, but really, I was supposed to get something out of the maids, and there were no maids up here. There never were. Parties were designated for servers and guards.
His eyes slimmed. “So you can find the nearest reporter?”
I sighed. “What good would that do me? I want to stay here.” Another glare. “Do you trust anyone, Grayson?” My eyes popped with my own gasp. “I mean, Mr. Crowne.”
If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he smiled slightly.
“Lottie has been watching you all night. Just go up and tell her the truth. She likes you. I’m certain of it.”
I pointed at Lottie, and he followed my finger. Of course, for the first time all night, Lottie was with another man. She laughed, touching his shoulder.
My gut dropped.
“Do you know what a Crowne’s job is, Snitch?” he asked, after a moment, still watching Lottie. His jaw twitched, eyes narrowing.
Something with pharmaceuticals…or maybe food? Hotels, I think also. I see the Crowne label on everything.
“Get married. Do you know how fucking lucky it is that I actually like the person I want to marry? That for a moment, she liked me back? Do you know what you did?” He paused. “You took that from me.”
“This is a lot of work for someone you only like…”
I covered my mouth, but it was too late. His hand froze with the cigarette at his pouty lips, and the muscles in his forearm tensed, veins rigid in his hand.
What is wrong with me?
What happened to blending in? When did I become a megaphone again?
“There you go again, sounding fucking stupid.” He inhaled, then blew out smoke. “You think this is a lot of work for me?”
He took a step, nothing but broken blades of grass between us. I focused on his black sneakers, not the hammering in my heart or how my lips dried. But his black sneakers. Because only Grayson Crowne could get away with that at one of the biggest black-tie functions of the year.
He gripped my chin, dragging me back to him, once again forcing my eyes shut. “I see something I like, I take it.”
A champagne bottle popped, and I jumped. Grayson dug his fingers harder into my chin as melodious laughter followed, mingling with that of my heart trying to break out of my chest.
Pound. Pound. Pound.
“I don’t like anything about you.” He rubbed my lip. “And yet I still own you.”
No. No he doesn’t.
Does he?
He pushed his thumb into my mouth, pressing my tongue down. Tingles erupted along my skin, hot and cold.
“Because you have nothing,” he said. “You think wanting something is hard work.”
Then, with his thumb still pressing on my tongue, he put his cigarette out on my shirt. My chest bottomed out. Utterly mixed up and lost in the pleasurable feel of him against my tongue and the acrid smell of burned fabric and ashes.
“You really shouldn’t be worried about Abigail right now, Snitch.” He slid his thumb from my tongue, roughly wiping the spit off against my cheek. “When I get back, you better have some useful information about the girl I like.”
I rubbed my lip, stuck on Gray as he talked with his sister. I don’t know what’s going on with me. Gray is a briar. Each layer you pick at, you cut and bleed.
But I can’t stop wondering what’s at the center. What if there’s something beautiful?
Or maybe I’ll just continue to bleed.
My eyes locked with Abigail’s.
I should’ve looked away.
I know I should’ve.
But I couldn’t.
I saw surprise on her face, confusion, then anger. Could she see the humiliation on mine? It was almost like Grayson knew she could see us. He stepped directly in our line of sight, blocking her. For a stupid moment, I felt something. It fed into that part of me that kept grabbing at his thorns. Maybe he stepped there on purpose. Maybe he was trying to keep me for himself.
I shouldn’t want that.
And yet…
I shook out of it, making sure to walk away before she looked back in my direction. I’d just looked Abigail Crowne in her eyes. Somehow I was more of a servant than I’d ever been before, shackled to Grayson Crowne, and yet the lines had never been blurrier.
I wandered from the beach back into the Hall. I had to find something to give Gray, something that would fix what I broke, or in two months I would give him everything. But I wouldn’t find it up in the light and sparkle.
Crowne Hall had many secret doors that led to a labyrinthine underbelly. Maids and servants and cooks and servers worked under the house, while people like Grayson stayed up here.
I pushed open one of the many “secret” doors and slammed face-first into someone coming out. Whatever he was carrying fell to the ground in a crash of broken porcelain and smashed food. The man bent down and started to clean it up. He had closely cropped white curls, a light-gray suit, and only slightly weathered hazelnut skin.
“Uncle?” I asked, surprised. Uncle immediately stood up, turning on his heel to go back down the winding stairs.
“Uncle,” I whispered, running after him. “Uncle, wait. Talk to me.”
“They are expecting these items; you know how it goes. Crowne comfort above all else.”
“Wait, stop, let me explain.”
I wasn’t sure how I would explain, but still.
We wound and wound down the staircase until I could faintly hear the sound of the real servant party. Someone yelling Shots! with pop music.
“Uncle!” I grabbed his arm.
We stopped at the bottom of the stairs, light melting in from the hallway.
“I have nothing to say to you, Storybook,” he said.
My face caved in in anguish. Storybook. A name has so much power, doesn’t it? Like a name given by a mother who didn’t really believe in fairy tales, but loved to scam the princess out of her pumpkin and the prince out of his castle.
“Please, just—”
He spun on me. “What the hell are you doing? You were almost out of here!”
I sucked in a breath. My uncle never swore.
“Leaving was your plan. I never wanted to go.”
“I’m not going to be here forever, and then what?” he asked. “What will you do when you have no old man to care for?”
“I’ll become head of girls, like Ms. Barn.”
His brows caved.
I slowly removed my grip, saying softly, “Just let me explain what you saw.”
He paused. “I’ve lived here longer than you’ve been alive. Do you really think I don’t know? What was my one rule I said you had to follow when you came to stay with me?”
I looked down. “Don’t look them in the eyes.”
“I know you. I know you’re dreaming of happily ever afters.”
“I’m not! Grayson Crowne is horrible. He sees nothing in me. He hates me.”
My uncle clicked his tongue. “But what do you see in him?”
My uncle always saw through me. What did I see in Grayson? Why did my heart flutter for someone so cruel?
I saw…me.
Someone buried and buoyed in secrets. I saw glimpses of loneliness beneath a thick mask.
“He doesn’t know who I am,” I said, throat thick. “He doesn’t know who you are. I’m fixing it. Everything will go back to normal.”
He looked at my wrinkled, slept-in dress. Unwashed hair. Unwashed face. I’d barely had a chance to pee. Hadn’t eaten anything. His eyes landed on the cigarette stain. I slapped a hand over it.
“Are you living with dignity, Storybook?
“Yes,” I lied.
He took a deep, rocky breath. “I’m afraid you’ve learned nothing I’ve taught you.”
I countered, “You always taught me I could be on my knees, could have a plate of food thrown at my chest. They could call me names, forget my name, and just treat me like dirt, but I would still be worthy of respect.”
He just stared at my dress. “But you have to believe that.”
A tinkling of bells chimed through the hallway. They always reminded me of Christmas, but down here they were ominous portents.
“I didn’t teach you to hide. This won’t end well for you.” Uncle disappeared in the tinkling of the bells.
I rubbed my chest. Grayson Crowne had kicked over my bucket more times than I could count. Abigail had thrown her tea at me. Gemma and Tansy probab
ly didn’t even know I existed.
All that time I thought I’d known who I was. Story.
Sure, I wasn’t normally this person, not really. Timid. Shy. Growing up, my mother used to say I was a megaphone because I was loud, and everyone had to know what I was feeling.
I became this person to survive.
First, with Mom. Then, when I moved to Crowne Hall. Piece by piece I hid parts of myself. Hide my body. Hide my soul. Hide. Because they can’t take what they can’t find.
I don’t know how Uncle does it, stays himself while others throw food on him.
Maybe I’ve been hiding so long I’m starting to disappear.
I haven’t been living with dignity. I’ve been living with its dark twin, shame. Because even though I’ve got a cigarette stain on my shirt from how little Grayson sees in me, I know if im not careful, it will burn through to my heart.
Eight
STORY
* * *
Crowne Hall was the last remaining bastion of old Crowne Point. Like the family itself, it stood out amid the blue and white beachy shops and houses of the town. Once upon a time, the town shops had been black like the Hall, but the new wealthy felt that was a bit too gothic for a New York beach town.
Down in the servants’ quarters, they hadn’t bothered updating it like the rest of the house. Hundreds of maids, valets, and chauffeurs were crammed into a small, dank room, the only light from a dusty chandelier. They played cards or did shots on centuries-old wood tables. Anything else while they waited to be called. This was what the Swan Swell party had always meant to me.
“New game.” A servant with red hair, Andrew, slammed his hands on a table. “Every time a Crowne calls us up for something they could’ve easily solved themselves, do a shot.”
“I don’t feel like getting alcohol poisoning tonight, so…”
One of them, a girl with dark-brown hair, sat up when she saw me and rushed over. “Story!”
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