“I’m sorry. That’s terrible.”
She nods. “We went straight to the hospital. Spent the night waiting for news, until the doctors ordered us to go home and get some sleep.”
I pull in a breath. “So… is he…”
“Dying?” She takes another long hit. Tendrils of smoke curl upward toward the coffered ceiling panels. “That’s the billion dollar question, isn’t it? Unfortunately, I don’t even think the doctors know the answer, at this point. He hasn’t woken up. He might never wake up. And even if he does… between the risk of infection from the burns, the damage to his lungs and heart from the smoke inhalation, and the blow to his head that knocked him unconscious… it’s highly possible he won’t ever be the same Henry we knew before.”
My mouth goes dry. I try to speak, but I can’t seem to find any words.
Chloe’s brows pull in. “Meanwhile, everyone is just sitting home watching the news in a state of panic. I thought the press conference Simms gave this morning would calm things down, but…”
My heart starts to pound. “Press conference? What press conference? What did he say?”
“You really don’t know a damn thing, do you?” she asks, amused.
“Did he…”
“Did he talk about you?” Her eyes roll. “No. Not a word. As far as I know, the press hasn’t caught wind of you yet.”
A whoosh of relief moves through me.
I’m safe.
For now, at least.
One glance at Chloe — now sprawled horizontally in my chair with her feet hooked over one of the arms, designer heels dangling in the air — tells me she doesn’t plan on vacating anytime soon. Resigned to my audience, I dig through the shopping bag until I locate a plain white cotton shirt. I grimace at the unflattering neckline when I pull it from the bag.
“What’d I tell you?” Chloe giggles helplessly. “Boatneck.”
It may be ugly, but it’s better than being naked. I yank it on and rummage through the rest of the clothes until a pair of dressy navy capri pants materialize. They’re like nothing I own — far too formal to wear to classes or the clinic. I promptly realizewhywhen my eyes snag on the price tag.
“Sweet Christ,” I mutter. “What are they stitched with, solid gold thread?”
“One of the perks of princess-hood,” she drawls. “The clothes rock.”
“Glad to hear there are at least a few perks.”
“Considerably more than a few.” She flicks the tip of her blunt and I watch a small shower of ashes scatter across the immaculate rug. “As soon as the world knows you exist, designers are going to be tripping over themselves to dress you. Play your cards right, you’ll have the power to become a style icon.”
“Dreams do come true,” I snap sarcastically.
Her eyes narrow, despite the haze of drugs clouding them. “You know, for someone who just had the world handed to her, you’re kind of a wet blanket.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“Yeah, well, if you’re looking for someone to throw you a pity party, you’ve come to the wrong girl.”
“I’m not looking for pity. Andyoucame tome, if I recall.”
“Not the point.”
“Do youhavea point?”
Her lips twist. “I can give you all the advice in the world when it comes to surviving in this place… but you’ll get it straight up, no filter. And if we’re going to be friends, I’ll expect the same in return.”
“Fine. You want honesty?” I shove the shopping bag off my bed with the sweep of an arm, smiling as it thunks to the floor. “Excuse me if I’m not overjoyed about my new reality asEmilia Lancaster: Style Icon.” I scoff. “I want more from life than expensive clothing and boring state dinners and… and…”
“Modest boatnecks?”