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I lie awake all night thinking of Ada. I spend the entire next day staring at my phone, wondering if I should send her a message.
I want to. I’m dying to. My fingers itch to find her number and tell her I can’t get her out of my head.
But I hold back. I heard Count Gregory invited Ada to his Christmas party, and I know what that means. He’s making a move. One Belcourt daughter isn’t enough—he wants to have his pick.
Typical Gregory. I’d wring the man’s neck if I could do it without going to jail.
But murder won’t do. I don’t want to kill him. I want to ruin his reputation. Expose him for the garbage he is and show his precious society that he’s scum. Clear my brother’s name. Avenge my parents’ death.
My stomach clenches. I hate that man. He took everything from me, and now he’s taking Ada, too.
I never thought I’d meet a woman who makes the world seem brighter. I never thought I’d have a night like last night. One that makes me feel full and sated, instead of empty and sad.
She’s a drug. I’m hooked.
But I can’t text her—not while her life is intertwined with the Count’s. Not before I bring down my accusations on him.
I just need a bit more time.
Instead of calling Ada, I call my lawyer and let him talk some sense into me. I review all the communications I’ve had with the King and prepare to meet with him and tell him what I’ve found out about Count Gregory.
I do my best to distract myself with anything and everything that isn’t Ada.
It doesn’t help.
As it turns out, I do fuck my fist to the thought of her. Again, and again, and again.
12
Ada
The days drag on. Hour by hour. Minute by minute. I check my phone a thousand times an hour, my heart trilling every time I have a new notification. On Wednesday, I meet Rhoda for coffee, and she catches me glancing at the blank screen.
“Loverboy Blythe?” she asks, arching an eyebrow.
I blush. I’m doing a lot of that lately.
Rhoda leans back in her chair, her long, fine manicured nails drumming on the surface of the table. The big rock on her finger glitters at me, winking in the light of the café, reminding me of the world we really live in.
One where marriages are matches, and love is nothing but a fantasy.
“You like him,” she announces, almost accusing me.
I shake my head. “I don’t even know him.”
“What exactly happened in that piano room?”
“I played Chopin.”
“And then he played Chopin all over your body?”
I swear my cheeks are just permanently red now. I shake my head. “That doesn’t even make sense, Rhoda.”
“Something happened. You can’t hide it from me.” She grins.
“We talked.” I don’t know why I don’t want to tell her every sordid detail. We used to share all kinds of stories. When we were in college, we’d come back from a night out and tell each other a play-by-play of everything that happened.
But this feels different. What happened between the Duke and me feels too special to share. It would ruin it somehow.
