by Zoey Oliver
Spencer halts in the doorframe, scanning the room.
I glance around as he does. Looks like the same as it did yesterday, and the day before, and every day since I was turned away from Abigail’s door that night after learning I’d somehow fucked up the best thing to ever happen to me.
My bedroom is decorated with limp, shriveling honeysuckle blossoms strewn amongst the shards of broken vases. Smear marks dot the walls where the vases smashed against the plaster. Small pools of water marring the finish of the rich hardwood.
I’ve refused the maids from entering. Leave it. It looks like my insides — a fucking wreck. I need it to remind me of the monster I am. The monster who does not deserve the love of a woman like Abigail.
“Henry?” Spencer’s voice cuts through the darkness.
“Here.” I hold my bottle of scotch so the firelight catches the green hues. “Want a pull?”
I stare at the fire, mesmerized by the dancing flames, almost forgetting that my former best friend is still standing at the door. He can come or go, it makes no difference to me. I can drink alone just as easily.
There’s a long silence before I hear footsteps and then the rustle of fabric as Spencer takes the chair beside mine — a high wingback, nineteenth century antique.
“I heard you caused quite a scene at the spa in Doremont a few days ago,” he says after he settles.
“Probably. Sounds like me.”
“You don’t remember?”
“Of course I fucking remember,” I bark, shooting a glare at Spencer. “I remember every goddamn excruciating detail of your sister rejecting me for Finley motherfucking Prescott. But hey, there’s enough alcohol in this place — I’ll forget eventually.”
My bitter words hang between us for a long while and I return to staring at the fire. I haven’t seen Finley since the night the guards pulled me off him, but my fists are still sore from smashing into his chest and face, my knuckles bruised and covered with slow-healing gashes. Apparently, his face looked ten times worse than my hands, as there was no engagement announcement the next afternoon during the garden concert, nor the day after, nor the day after that.
It gave me hope, which led me to hunt down Abigail at the spa, praying that Finley had just been spinning lies to piss me off. But it was a false hope. My heart shattered all over again when she slayed me with her words… I am marrying him. The announcement came later that evening, at an awards banquet in Doremont. I haven’t left my suite since.
“He’s an asshole,” Spencer says quietly.
“Who?”
“Finley.”
“I know,” I say.
He takes the bottle of scotch from my hand and picks up an empty glass from the small side table. If a man can pour scotch angrily, it’s Spencer Strathmore. The amber liquid sloshes in his glass.
“A real asshole, you know. Not the kind who gets mean when he drinks, or the kind that puts on airs and acts like a prick in front of the Council. I mean a genuine through-and-through asshole, Henry.”
“I know.” I take the bottle back from him and turn it up. “I’ve always known.”
“He’s being a total jackass to Abigail.”
I grip the bottle of scotch so hard I’m sure it’s going to shatter in my hands. Spencer has brought my worst fears to my doorstep. His news stabs me straight in the gut. But what can I do? Abigail wants nothing to do with me, and Finley is everyone’s golden boy.
“What the hell do you care?” I snarl at Spencer.
The rage burning inside me at the idea of Abigail being mistreated is too big to keep tampered down. It pours out of me as I continue, my words laced with it. “I thought it was none of your business, that she doesn’t need anyone looking out for her?” I throw his own words back at him, the ones he said when the festival was just beginning, and my heart was still my own.
Spencer sighs and tosses back his drink in one swoop. “I’ve been a pretty shitty big brother,” he says quietly.
“About time you figured that out,” I growl.
He takes a deep breath and stares at the floor for a long while then opens the stopper on the scotch, pouring himself more. “I can’t believe my sister’s marrying that asshole.”
Spencer has no idea how badly I don’t want to believe it, either. It’s put me in a no-win situation, her insistence on marrying that fucking piece of shit. If I press forward with my investigation, she’ll find herself married to a man the world will quickly grow to despise, and the entire Strathmore family will be dragged through the mud. Worse, if I don’t pursue charges against Finley, it’s hard to tell what kind of pain he’ll put Abi through in private, safe from public outrage, free to continue his hellish behavior. The thought of it has crushed me completely. The only thing that dulls the pain even a little is the bottle of scotch — and the bottle yesterday, and the one before that.
I shake my head. “I can’t believe it either. But she’s determined, and I couldn’t change her mind.” I grit my teeth as the sounds and images from our conversation in the spa play through my head. “The goddamn Royal Army couldn’t stop that woman once she decides she wants something,” I say bitterly.
Spencer lets out a joyless laugh. “You really think she’s marrying Finley Prescott because that’s what she wants? Because she loves him and wants to have his babies?”
My chest seizes, and my grip tightens around my glass. “So, what the hell is it? Why’s she marrying that scum?”
“I shouldn’t have said anything.” Spencer waves his hands, the scotch in his glass sloshing wildly, a stalwart defiance in his voice. “Just stay out of it, Henry. There are things you don’t know.”
“There are a lot of things you don’t know,” I snap. “Like did you know Finley is running that drug ring with Galloway Johnston?”
Spencer’s eyes widen.
“Oh yeah,” I nod emphatically. “They’re partners. I tried to warn you to stay away from him.”
“I’d heard a rumor here and there about that, but nothing concrete.”
“This isn’t just a rumor or smack talk,” I say, leaning forward in my chair. “Finley has a record a mile long, and I’m not talking about bar fights and speeding tickets. He’s had the money to pay people off and the political power to persuade investigations to get dropped. That’s the only reason everyone still thinks his shit is made of gold.”
“I figure people talk smack, you know? They probably say terrible shit about us, too. So, I just dismissed it.”
“It gets worse. He’s committed at assaults on women. Half a dozen, so far, that I’ve been able to uncover. Those are sexual assaults, Spencer. Is that the kind of man you want anywhere near your little sister?”
Spencer stares back at me in stunned silence, shaking his head. “Fuck,” he says finally, the word drawn out in a breathy sigh.
We sit quietly for a few minutes as Spencer digests the news.
“Well, there’s nothing I can do about it,” he says finally, staring at the flames in the hearth.
“Why the hell not?” I growl, my temper rising instantly. “Surely you still have some influence with Abi. Tell her about this shit — she’ll listen to you.”
He shakes his head. “There’s no point.”
My hands tighten into fists. “You’re her goddamn big brother, fucking act like it!” If he still doesn’t understand how much Abi needs him, I’m prepared to beat it into him, old friend or not. I’ve had it with his apathy.
“It’s not that,” he says. Spencer opens his mouth, closes it, and then tries again. “We owe a debt.”
I practically jump from my chair. “I’m fucking loaded, Spencer. What’s the debt? I can pay it. Name the price.”
The room is encapsulated by darkness and shadows, but the flickering firelight exposes Spencer’s watery eyes. “When has it ever been that simple?” he asks, defeat in his voice. He turns up his glass and drains it in one swallow.
“What?” I beg. “What the fuck are you talking about? If I don
’t have enough, I’ll take every goddamn cent from the Royal Treasury, I don’t care.”
He just stares into the fire and shakes his head. “Money can’t solve this. Only Abi can.”
“Why Abi? What does that mean?”
He falls back against the upholstered high-backed wings, clutching the bottle of scotch. “The debt isn’t about money, it’s about her hand in marriage. Either she gets married before she turns twenty-three, or we’re all out on our ass. We lose everything — our titles, all our properties, our home, all our belongings. Everything.”
“What?”
Spencer shakes his head. “Yeah, that was my reaction.”
He sloppily pours more scotch into his glass then sets the bottom on the floor as I stare at him, flabbergasted. “Why didn’t you tell me your family had run into trouble? How did you let this happen?”
“It’s not us, man. It’s some ancient agreement from the beginning of time apparently. And Finley is the heir to this legal abomination. It just came to light recently, but it governs the ownership of the entire Beauregard estate. We didn’t make this mess, we just have to live with it.”
It’s my turn to stare at Spencer in disbelief. My mind is reeling so hard it takes me a full minute to come up with words. “That’s… that’s just… damn.”
“Exactly,” he sighs, futility in his voice. “There’s nothing to be done.” He tosses his head and downs the scotch.
I feel the futility in my plea, but still. “There has to be something. I’ll have my legal team look into it, maybe get it thrown out of court.”
My friend leans over, feeling for the scotch bottle then gives up. He relinquishes his glass as well, setting it on the side table before fisting his hair between his fingers. “You can’t. I know you’re my oldest friend, but you’ll just make things worse.”
“Worse?” I yell. “Worse? Your sister is about to be rammed by fucking Finley Prescott — for the rest of her life.”
Spencer catapults from his seat. “I don’t want to hear that shit, Henry.”
Without a second of hesitation, I rise from my chair as well, and Spencer and I face off in the flicker of firelight. “I don’t give a fuck what you want to hear, Spencer. You and me, we don’t pull punches.”
I give him a moment to respond, but all I’m waiting for is the briefest flash of bluster from him, and I’ll swing. I’m at the edge — my world is shattered just like the vases on my floor, and I’ve reached my limit with Spencer’s excuses. I watch the steady rise and fall of his chest and search his eyes, looking for any sign of a fight.
Spencer convulses forward and drops to his knees, and for a moment, I’m sure he’s going to vomit. Instead, feels along the floor for the bottle of scotch. And just like that, it snaps into place. The cognac in the library. The bourbon in the music room. The vodka and the gin. He’s been smashed every day he’s been here — and he was drinking heavier than usual before he left to go chase tail on the other side of the world, too.
My jaw clenches, huffs of air pouring out of my nose like dragon fire as I stare at him. “How long have you known?”
He slumps onto the floor, coming to rest on his ass, and hangs his head. “Since the beginning of the year. It’s why I took off.”
“So, there was no girl?” I pace in front of the fire.
“Oh, there was a girl — Candy. I wasn’t lying about that. She was a hot mess, Henry.” He looks up at me. “But it was still better than this. I just hitched myself to the first opportunity that came along and got the fuck out of this place. It was too much.”
“How do you think Abigail feels?” I lean down toward him, fists curled, ready to make him swallow his fucking teeth for leaving her to deal with it alone, but Spencer waves his hands in surrender.
“I know, man. I know.” He crawls over to the bottle of scotch beside his chair, pulls himself up by the legs of the side table, fumbles for his glass, and pours another finger of the amber liquid. “I just wanted to have a normal life, you know? A life where my inheritance doesn’t swing on who my little sister fucks.”
He tosses back the shot and sprawls his legs out on the floor, back against the apron of the chair.
“You have to do something, Spencer,” I admonish.
Spencer’s laughter is near hysterical. It fills the empty corners of my suite and ricochets off the broken shards of the vases. “Really? I mean, fuck me, Henry, what exactly do you propose I do? Tell Abi that she can just go ahead and run off to Africa? That Mom and Dad will be just fine?”
I spin my empty glass on the side table, anger filling me again. “Yes. Tell her that.”
He swallows hard and when he speaks his voice is low and strained. “She wouldn’t go. She always puts everyone else first,” he sniffs, his voice cracking. “She’s too good for this family.”
“She’s too good for all of us,” I say, and the truth of my words sting, biting at me, even through the rage and the liquor.
A flicker of something nags at the back of my mind as I pace in front of the hearth. I think back through Spencer’s words, and it clicks into place. I turn to him. “Wait, did you say Finley is in charge of this agreement?”
My friend nods, his eyes watery. “Yeah, he’s the original signer’s descendant or some shit — the current legal representative of this old jackass, Goutley.”
Hope takes seed inside my chest and a small grin spreads across my lips for the first time in days.
Spencer looks at me, his brow furrowed. “Why are you smiling?”
“I have an idea. One that could free Abi from Finley’s hellish grip and fix this nightmare for your family for good.”
Spencer staggers to his feet, grasping the arms of the chair to steady himself. “What? What are you thinking?”
He needs to see. “Wait here,” I tell him before bolting out of my bedroom.
I dash down the hallway to my private office and burst through the door, heading straight to my writing desk. The moonlight streaming through the windows on this side of the wing provides enough of a pale glow to guide me to the spot.
Unlocking the bottom drawer, I pull out a large manila envelope holding all the information I’ve been able to collect so far.
Pierre has been an invaluable help with filling in the details and securing well-buried documents, adding to the growing evidence against Finley. I don’t care how careful Finley’s been or how much money he’s thrown around to make things disappear — there’s no man on earth who could hide for long from the head of my security team. If Pierre wanted to know about the volume and quality of every ounce of breath someone had drawn since birth, he’d find a way to get that information. As children, Spencer and I used to joke that only Pierre could track Saint Nicholas across the globe on Christmas Eve.
I jog back to my bedroom where Spencer is standing beside our chairs at the hearth. When I draw close, I hold up the bulky manila envelope, so he can see it in the glow of firelight.
“I know she won’t believe this coming from me,” I tell him. “But you’re her big brother, Spencer.”
“What is that?” he asks, his voice is surprisingly clear.
“It’s what’s going to make this problem go away, for good. But it has to come from you,” I stress, holding the thick package out to him.
He takes it from me cautiously. “Why me?”
“She wants nothing to do with me — you know that. Even if she would agree to meet with me, I doubt she’d believe any of this if I’m the one who shows it to her. But whatever, this isn’t about me. It doesn’t fucking matter if she never looks at me again. This is about your family and Abi’s future.”
“Damn, what’s in here? It’s heavy as fuck,” Spencer says, hefting the package in his hands. “A bar of gold?”
“Maybe, my friend. Those documents might prove to be worth their weight in gold.”
Spencer raises his eyebrows. “Oh?”
“I’ll go through them with you and explain what I’m thinking.”
“Yes, now. Abi needs you, goddammit! Time for a cold shower and a lot of fucking coffee — it’s going to be a long night, my friend.”
Chapter Twenty-One
ABIGAIL
Fuck my life. That’s the summary of everything about this meeting, this day, this week — hell, the entire month.
Once again, we’re gathered in the business annex, too many people stuffed into this small conference room for my comfort level, and once again, everyone is twittering on like birds, chatting excitedly instead of getting this meeting started.
The difference is that this time, I’m not fidgeting. I don’t care if the meeting starts or not. I don’t care about anything, really.
There is no naked, beautiful Prince waiting for me to rush to when things wrap up here, no hope for a future that doesn’t involve Finley Prescott, and no chance of ever seeing Africa again, not unless it’s to accompany my arrogant, callous husband on a hunting trip.
Three days ago, I dutifully took the stage with Finley at the awards banquet after the charity polo matches in Doremont, joined by both sets of our parents as they joyfully announced our engagement. I played the part, smiling and waving, even allowing Finley to hold my hand while we walked forward to the edge of the stage to be cheered by the crowd of foreign dignitaries and members of the royal court, celebrities and distinguished guests packing the room.
That was bad enough — seeing all my dreams fading away as I stood there, a smile frozen on my face, pretending to be delighted with my new fiancé — but I fear that moment on stage may turn out to be the highlight of our engagement. My gut tells me it’s going to be all downhill from there. Way downhill, like a boulder cracking off the edge of an overhang, hurtling down the mountain, taking out everything in its path.
Henry may have been using me for his own reasons, but he was right about one thing — Finley is not a good person.
Mere moments after walking off stage from the engagement announcement, he pulled me into an empty storage room behind the banquet hall and grabbed me, pushing his lips against me.
