Crown Jewels

by Ella James

  Liam

  I slide my phone into my pocket and hit the punching bag so hard some moss crumples from the branch of the yew tree where it’s hanging.

  It doesn’t matter how many times I hit the fucking thing. I can’t get her wide eyes out of my mind. In the picture where her friend is pulling her down the sidewalk. In the photo where she’s talking to the woman with the lipstick and the weird earrings. In the passenger’s seat of her car, from the window of a car I assume had pulled in front of hers.

  She looked haunted. Afraid.

  Because of me.

  If I hadn’t kicked that fucker’s ass, he wouldn’t have sued her for breach of contract, wrongfully assuming she’d told me what happened. If he hadn’t sued her… I’m not sure. I don’t know who leaked those fucking pictures of her.

  Why would anyone do something like that?

  I rub my eyes, my shoulders heaving with my heavy breaths. I can’t think of the photos right now. Just can’t.

  I go at the bag a while longer before sitting on a boulder near the old castle wall and dialing Heath. He’s in Germany right now, practicing polo with our country’s team. A team I was on until a few months back, when I let everyone assume a shoulder injury sidelined me.

  On the third ring, my cousin answers.

  “Aye-aye, cap’n!”

  I rub my pounding forehead as the background roars around him. “Are you in a pub?”

  “What do you think?” He chuckles.

  “Later, Heath.”

  I make a call to TMZ. A call I should have made hours ago. It’s just my fury kept me from seeing straight.

  Twenty-six minutes later, I’m off the phone—and two hundred thousand pounds lighter in the coffers. I navigate to that cesspool on my iPhone. Click the link.

  The story is still there, but the images are gone.

  I go back to the punching bag. I should feel better, but I don’t.

  * * *

  Lucy

  I must be a superficial idiot. Because the thing I can’t stop thinking of, more than anything else, as I lie in bed after eating ice cream with Amelia, is…everyone knows now—how normal I am.

  When you put your whole life on display, like I did for a while, you start to feel as if you need a shield—from prying eyes, from judgments. From those jerks who said your boobs looked weird and pointy in that bathing suit in season two.

  And so the easiest thing for you to tell yourself, when tabloids are posting pictures of you in your designer gown, when you’re on the cover of Vogue and Cosmo with your air-brushed face, is that you’re shielded…by your own mystique.

  I guess even when you quit the show and move to Colorado, you still lean on that a little. Or I did. If someone recognized me, well, I’m Lucy Rhodes. And who are you?

  It’s not how I really feel. It’s a defensive stance, one designed to ward off that awful feeling of nakedness, when it seems like the whole damn universe is peering in on you in your little box, and you can’t get away.

  And I can’t get away now.

  From the judgments. From the pity. I close my eyes and try to go to sleep, but all I can think about is that woman with the awful pink lipstick. The pity on her face. I pity her lipstick shade. But she doesn’t know that. That lady sees me as a “battered woman” now.

  Everyone will think I’m damaged. That I’m weak. Some people will even think that this is my fault: those same pricks who can’t come to terms with the reality that sometimes bad shit happens to not-bad people. So they create a narrative that makes it feel more fair. “He probably hit her because she’s such a snobby bitch.”

  How many producers’ meetings did I sit in on, and listen to them talk about the audience?

  “It’s 5:1. The audience wants five parts designer makeup bags and chemical peels and the personal assistant re-stocking the toilet paper shelf in the master bath, and then that one shot where Lucy and Amelia drive to Taco Bell at 1 a.m.”

  Nobody wants to watch normal on TV.

  We build all that mystique for them. Because they want it. That’s the entertainment business: entertaining.

  And now I’ve stepped back into it again. Those pictures of me…I think maybe they’re the Taco Bell snippet.

  “Look at Lucy Rhodes. She’s just like us.”

  But I don’t want to be like them. Or different from them, for that matter. I don’t want anything to do with them! That’s why I left the show. Maybe even more so than the aftermath of what happened to me, I left the show because being a living symbol exhausted me. It’s hellish to know everyone you walk by on the sidewalk knows your name and has opinions of you. It’s like living in a cage.

  I’ve talked to real stars like Rihanna in that bathroom at the Grammy’s that one time, and I can tell that everybody feels the same way. But see, for them—for actors and musicians—I think it’s worth it. Because they’re performing. They feel compelled to share their work, their art.

  For me, it wasn’t like that. I am not an artist. Nothing moved me to put myself out there. I did it for a while because my family did, and then I realized that I really didn’t like it.

  I turn on my side in bed and rack my brain again for who leaked the damn pictures. Someone from the police department?

  I’ve spoken to my lawyers’ office several times. It wasn’t them. We didn’t need the pictures leaked to stand up to Bryce in a lawsuit. He has no hard evidence that I violated the NDA, and whether he likes it or not, there were other people there that night. People knew what happened. Our whole circle knows what happened.

  My lawyers didn’t think Bryce’s team leaked the photos either. They would make a judge more sympathetic to me. They would help me. At least from a legal perspective.

  So who was it? Maybe some vigilante who heard I was getting sued for violating the nondisclosure, who wanted people to know I was the victim?

  I can’t make heads or tails of it. My eyelids sag. I don’t want to go to sleep, but…

  * * *

  Even from over in dreamland, I note the phone ringing and feel a little bubble of excitement.

  My clumsy fingers fumble for the screen. I bring the phone up to my ear, my eyes half shut, my mouth curving.

  I whisper, “Hi,” and see Prince Liam’s smile. The sweet one.

  The line crackles.

  “That wasn’t smart.”

  My insides turn to ice.

  “That wasn’t smart, Lucy.”

  The line goes dead.

  * * *

  We have to go down to the station to file the police report. That’s what they tell Amelia when she calls a little before dawn.

  I’ve got my fingers wrapped around the .22 in my purse as we walk from porch to car. As the wheels of my 4Runner bounce over the rock-cluttered dirt road, I feel enraged. Embarrassed.

  Amelia gives my thoughts a voice. “I can’t fucking believe he’s doing this. It’s beyond the pale, even for Bryce.”

  We tell the police what happened. They promise to contact my service provider to see if they can trace the call, and they advise me to leave here. To get a new phone.

  “Anywhere you can go? Somewhere no one would look for you?”

  I bite my lip and notice the officer’s eyes on Amelia. She’s nodding. “We can go somewhere,” she assures them.

  As we walk out of the station, she grabs my hand and bumps my shoulder gently with her own. “I think it’s Gael time, girl.”

  Somehow, I knew she would say that. “You need to go back to your internship. I know you do,” I tell her.

  “I could ask for a little more time. Dash is an ass, but he might give it to me.”

  “No way.” I take the keys from Amelia’s hand and nod her toward the passenger’s side. I need to drive right now. Need to feel like I am in control. I start off toward my place, and she slaps my elbow.

  “Other way, remember? We don’t want to go back home until we have a plan, and the security company has a chance to meet us there.”

 
; I sigh, turning toward the little town of Lyons.

  “You have to tell him sometime anyway, Lucy Su. How many weeks are you?”

  The road blurs as my eyes well over. “Eight or something.”

  “So you’ll go to Canada first, and stay with my Grandma Elinor. You know she would love to have you. Stay a week. Go hiking like you like to do. You’ll be nine weeks then. That’s far enough along that you could fly to Gael and tell him. This makes sense,” she says enthusiastically. “Don’t you think he should find out in person anyway?”

  I shake my head. I can’t think about it. Not right now.

  But I can protect my baby.

  An hour later, I call a charter company and arrange to fly to Edinburgh. I’ll visit Amelia’s Grandma Elinor later. Maybe on the way home. First, I’ll tour Scotland and Gael. I’ll get myself to ten weeks. Then I’ll tell him.

  THIRTEEN

  Lucy

  You know those barf bags they still have on some commercial flights? They don’t have those puppies on chartered planes. If you get sick, it’s the ice bucket or the toilet.

  For me, it starts over Iceland.

  I’ve had lamb chops and asparagus, plus those little red potatoes, and some water with a lemon after I turned down a glass of wine. I’m scrolling through my Kindle bookshelf, trying to choose something to read, thinking how much my story seems like fiction—sad, ridiculous fiction—when it hits me.

  I jump up so fast, Grey hisses from his carrier in the seat beside mine. I make it to the bathroom just in time to aim for the sink. After that, the stewardess, a model-gorgeous girl from Bangladesh, makes me hold the leather ice bucket.

  At least once, she catches me laughing between barfing. Because, seriously, what could be worse than this?

  He hasn’t called or texted me again—Prince Liam. I’m not really surprised. Guys like him are like my Grandma Rhodes, a career vineyard tourist and every-Thursday-night-and-sometimes-Fridays-too wine bar hopper. Liam likes to try a little sip of everything. He sampled me, got his fill, and moved on to another flavor.

  What will he do when I show up on his doorstep?

  I decide as the plane lands in Edinburgh that it doesn’t matter. Amelia is right. I owe it to him to tell him the big news in person. He’s a prince. I don’t know for sure, of course, but I’d imagine learning that he knocked someone up—especially someone in the public eye, like me—will not be welcome news.

  I look down at my stomach, invisible underneath the red sheath blouse I’m wearing with charcoal skinny jeans and black ballet shoes. I wouldn’t figure the baby would have a claim to the throne of Gael. I sure hope not. Sounds like a big pain in the ass, if you ask me. I don’t want Gael taking my baby.

  I laugh a little to myself, drawing the brown eyes of the stewardess once more as the plane taxis to a stop. What will I be called? Like…a mistress of the prince? Not even a mistress, really. I’m a one-night stand. The thought is a little depressing, until I remember how seriously helpful the sex was. How it helped me get over my dry spell. If being slammed in the media for having a child by Prince Liam is the price I have to pay to get my mojo back, I guess maybe it’s worth it.

  Of course, I’ll be getting all big and stretch-marked, so maybe having my mojo back won’t even matter. Whatever. Who cares.

  I’ve decided to go to Gael first, and then Scotland. I figured it might be helpful when I break the news to Liam if I learn a little more about his country first. I have an escort from the airport to my ferry, which I’m taking because the plane from Edinburgh to Gael was going to be teeny tiny—like, a two-seater. No thank you, ma’am. I’m not looking to pull an Amelia Earhart.

  I shudder in the back seat of the Mercedes, en route from the airport to the eastern Scottish coastline. After texting practically my whole phonebook, letting everybody know I’m still alive, I try to distract myself from my churning stomach by petting Grey’s nose through the slats of the carrier, then looking out the window at downtown Edinburgh. It’s a beautiful city, one I’ve always liked, with lots of stone buildings; clean, tree-lined streets; and a general “Scottish” sort of look: orderly and tidy, and lush and stately at the same time.

  My escort/guard’s name is Herb. He’s red-haired, pale-skinned, and freckled, maybe five or six years older than me, with faded-looking blue eyes, thin lips, big ears, and a bulky body that doesn’t go with those features at all. He’s like the love-child of Chris Hemsworth and Rupert Grint.

  I guess he’s paying attention to me behind his sunglasses, because right about the time I start feeling pretty sure I’m going to hurl, he pulls over at a gas—no, petrol—station, holds up one finger, and locks me in the car.

  “What the fuck?” I moan in the silent car.

  Herb returns with saltine crackers and a can of ginger ale. I take them gratefully, then blink as he holds out the plastic bag, one eyebrow arched.

  Oh.

  “Thanks.”

  Three crackers, eaten in the universe’s smallest increments, and a bunch of well-timed sips of ginger ale prevent me from ruining the inside of Herb’s car. When he parks at the ferry station, he turns and gives me a quick thumbs up before getting all my luggage. I follow behind him, clutching Grey’s carrier, feeling like Madeline on an outing from the orphanage as he gets us checked in and leads me onto the ferry.

  We must have boarded early, because no one else is around. And it appears we have some kind of ferry penthouse. We have to climb a bunch of stairs to get to it. It’s just a box room with dark glass window-walls and a stomach-churning view of the ocean.

  Ugh.

  I’m grateful when Herb excuses himself, mostly so I can puke in peace in the tiny bathroom. I dig around in my purse for the small bottle of rose water I keep on hand and spray the bathroom, then our room. When he’s still not back, I quickly brush my teeth and wash my face, throwing the wash cloth away because I’m not putting that back in my bag. I’m murmuring to Grey, whose carrier is on my lap, and feeling like death when Herb returns.

  “You’re from that Rhodes show!” he says the moment he steps in, holding a drink.

  “Is that a beer?”

  He’s clutching the handle of one of those giant glass mugs, and has the grace to look embarrassed. “Do yeh mind?”

  “Does it matter?” I laugh, semi-shocked.

  “I’ll toss it if you want,” he says, taking more care this time to hide his thick accent.

  I roll my eyes. “Drink away, captain. Drink for both of us.”

  “Yeh can’t drink?”

  “I can,” I say sharply. “But I have a stomach bug, so it wouldn’t be smart.”

  “So are you her? The little one? Er, the youngest, that is?”

  I lean my head back, peering at the ceiling, which is made of square sheets of metal, welded together and then white-washed. “The little one.” I scoff. “How did you get a job as my security detail without knowing who I am?”

  He shrugs. “My boss doesn’t tell me. We Scots value discretion.”

  About an hour later, when Herb is on his third giant mug of beer, his feet propped on the wall, his big arms stretched behind his head, I’m starting to doubt that.

  “So did yeh like the show? Why did you leave it?”

  I shrug. “Wanted my privacy.”

  “You dated that bastard, yeah? Bryce? The grocer?”

  I rub my forehead. “Yeah,” I mumble.

  “You can do better than him!”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Thank you?”

  After that, I try to focus on my iPhone’s Kindle app. After that, I’m sick again. When the ferry docks an hour later and Herb weaves his way down the pullout bridge from boat to dock, I make a quick decision.

  I follow him to the rental car booth and let him get the keys. He manages to lead me to the car and load my bags, a feat I’m not sure how he manages.

  I take the keys from him before he notices.

  “Thanks so much, Herb. I’ll bring the car back in tw
o weeks, just like the company said. Just pretend you’re with me. Take your own vacation.” With a quick wink, I hop in the car, speeding off, then jerking over to the roadside when I realize I’m in the wrong damn lane.

  FOURTEEN

  Lucy

  I’m jet-lagged as hell, so I stop at the first hotel I see in Clary, use a fake I.D. proclaiming me Sarah Alabaster, pay in cash, and fall face-first into bed. I then remember I haven’t set up Grey’s travel litter box, and have to drag my sad self up and do that. I spend a minute watching him before I decide he seems okay and collapse.

  I’m not sure what time it is when I wake up, and I can’t remember when I went to bed. But the room’s dark curtains are leaking sunlight, so I hobble to the window, pull them open, and squint out at…amazingness.

  I’m still in the city—my window faces a small field between brick buildings, but beyond that… Beyond the high-rises and stone cathedrals, behind the narrow streets and busy interstates, I see mountains. Big, green mountains wreathed in fog. Mountains that make me think Lord of the Rings. It’s as if I’m in a valley right now. Hell, maybe I am. I didn’t really take the time to learn Gael’s geography before I took off, so I don’t know.

  But I’m impressed. Not just by the peaks I see from here, but even by the color of the sky. It’s milky blue, with almost purple undertones. My gaze falls to the grass in the little field behind my hotel building. It’s less green than the Georgia grass I grew up on, with yellow-gold and brown threads, like a more vibrant version of Colorado’s fields. Scattered through the little yard are stones, some soccer-ball-sized, one the size of a beach ball.

  Despite my unease over seeing Liam and telling him what’s up, I can’t wait to see the countryside. I shower quickly, humming while Grey walks on the bathroom counter.

  “Hmm, I need my bag,” I tell him, like he cares.

  When I get out, I call the concierge and request they get my bag from the valet parking deck. A few minutes later, I take the bag from a short man with black hair and green eyes, reaching out the door in the hotel-issue bathrobe to hand him a ten-pound note.