“And I never said I had a boyfriend!” I tack on angrily, for reasons I decide it’s best not to examine too closely.
“Never asked, princess,” he fires back, equally hostile.
“Fine!”
“Fine.”
My door slams shut a second before his, so hard it rattles in the frame.
* * *
Sopping wet and spitting mad,I pace around my prison cell.
Okay, so, it’s not a prison cell. It’s a bedroom. A beautiful bedroom, actually, done up in pale blue tones, with a massive four-poster bed, an antique armoire, and a merry fireplace. The wood has burned almost all the way down to embers, so I toss in another log and stoke the flames higher, holding my hands near the grate until I finally start to feel warm again.
I search the room for a telephone, but find nothing. For a minute, I contemplate extending my search downstairs, but I’m so exhausted I doubt I’d make it back up that massive staircase. Plus, there’s the small fact that I couldn’t call Owen even if I managed to locate a phone: his number is stored conveniently in my cellphone contact list, not my longterm memory.
Technology giveth, technology taketh away.
In the adjoining bathroom, I gasp when I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror over the pedestal sink. I look downright frightening — my mascara streaked into raccoon-like circles, half my lipstick chewed off, my hair a wet tangle of lavender waves. Removing the chunky black heels I never want to look at again, let alone walk in, I peel off my outfit and drop it to the tile floor with a splat. Two minutes later, I sink into the soaking tub with a moan so loud, I worry Carter can hear it clear across the hall.
Not that I care what he thinks.
Asshole.
I close my eyes, slip beneath the water, and let out the scream that’s been pent up inside me for the past few hours, building like a tempest from the first moment a yellow-blazered news anchor spoke the words, “The king is dead.”A burst of bubbles shoots upward, tapering off when I run out of air. Gasping, I resurface, feeling only marginally better.
God, I wish Owen were here.
Nothereas insitting in this bathtub with me.Just… here. By my side.
He’d know exactly what to say, the precise way to put a smile on my face. He’d make me laugh, even when I felt like crying. He’d be supportive and funny and unafraid to throw his arms around me in a breath-stealing bear hug. He’d put me at ease even in an impossible situation.
Unlike certain other individuals who seem a little too fond of antagonizing me whenever the opportunity presents itself…
I push aside images of dark hair and a smirking mouth in favor of blond waves and an easy grin.
Some of the girls in my clinical psychology program find it strange that my best friend is a straight, single guy — who, admittedly, is rather easy on the eyes. When they ask why we aren’t dating, I usually shrug and change the subject as quickly as possible.
He’s my best friend,I tell them, over and over.It’s just never been that way between the two of us.
They roll their eyes and sigh at me, like I’m crazy enough to be one of our patients.
Sure, Emilia. Whatever you say.
Over the years, I’ve had other fleeting friendships — my freshman year dorm mates, the girls in my upper-level classes, a few internship colleagues I’ll grab casual drinks with after a shift, every so often. But none of those bonds have ventured much deeper than the superficial smalltalk stage. Honestly, they’re more like acquaintances when I compare them to Owen, who’s been privy to my every private thought and embarrassing moment for almost as far back as I can remember.
He was there in fifth year when the school bully, Lana Pillsner, smashed my diorama into pieces right before my big presentation. He was there our final year of high school when Markus Goldstein, my date to the prom, stood me up. He was there two years ago, when Mom went into the hospital with acute pneumonia… just as he was there when she didn’t come out again, seventeen days later.
Tears spring to my eyes when I think of Mom. She’d hate this — me, here in this house, here with these people. She disliked the monarchy almost as much as the patriarchy, and spent my formative years lecturing on the many downfalls of absolute power, concentrated wealth, and a whole other bevy of social issues I could hardly wrap my still-developing brain around.
I can hear her melodic voice, crystal clear even after all this time.
‘Limitless power is far more likely to corrupt a pure heart than mend a dark one.’
I’m pretty sure she had me reciting that along with my nursery rhymes.
‘Excess breeds selfishness, Emilia. When one is born with nothing, there is nothing he will not give to help another succeed; when one is born with everything, he will do everything he can to keep it for himself.’