Page 94 of Fallen Crown

The aspirin I took hasn’t touched my headache, and I massage my forehead while I try to figure out what those two pieces mean. He hasn’t tried to contact me at all, even though he must know the race is over. We spent enough years together that he understands the patterns of my competitions. Maybe he’s still fuming that I competed at all.

“If you hear anything else,” I say, “let me know.”

“Are you okay?” Caitlin asks. “Have you heard from Brice?”

“I’m not taking his calls,” I say.

“From what I’ve heard, he’s not with Princess Freja,” Caitlin says. “Despite what the press is printing about him jetting off to soothe her hurt feelings.”

“He told me about Denmark before the photos broke.” While he and Freja might have been a casual thing at one point, he would have mentioned her over the last few months if they’d ever been in a relationship. His solitary commitment to Presley Cook wasn’t exactly impressive, and if he could have given me another example back then, I’m sure he would have. He had no reason to lie. Even with how complicated we’ve become, he isn’t the type to withhold that information. I don’t understand why he’s been to Denmark so much, but sometimes the obvious answer isn’t the right one, despite what the tabloids like to believe. Although I hate how the situation looks to outsiders and how a sliver inside me buys into the appearance of something more, that isn’t my main issue. It runs so much deeper than some made-up affair with another royal.

“You didn’t sound like yourself, so I thought I would mention it. Both Nathaniel and Sawyer said Brice called them to see if they’d check on you. He’s obviously concerned about how things would look to you.”

“I can’t—“ I press my fingertips into my forehead again. “I can’t talk about him right now. We’re not sustainable, so there’s no point.” Sawyer and Nathaniel both stopped around when I first got home, and they tried to talk me into seeing a doctor about my leg. But I’ve been monitoring it, and it’s healing fine. Going to a doctor would be a wasted trip, and I’d be exposed to all sorts of questions about me and Brice from everyone I encounter. I just can’t face any of it.

“For what it’s worth,” Caitlin says, “I haven’t seen you look as happy as you were in those photos in a really long time.”

My stomach churns at the realization that I have been happy. The last few months, despite the disintegration of my marriage, despite my body’s betrayal, I’ve been happy. It would be such a gamble to let Brice in all the way only to discover I was right all along. So much easier to keep my expectations low to nonexistent.

“Tell me if you hear from Enzo,” I say, and after Caitlin hangs up, I wander down the hall to my bedroom.

In my room, I stare at myself in the mirror. I’m flushed and glassy-eyed. A nap. If I can get enough sleep, I’ll start to feel better.

I wake to the doorbell ringing, and I’m disoriented at first. In my dream, Brice had a cool hand pressed to my forehead and a worried expression on his face. Seeing him, even in my dream, felt like the warmest, coziest blanket.

At the edge of the bed, I sit for a minute, getting my bearings. My headache is still there, but it doesn’t seem as urgent. A gentle reminder that I’m not myself.

The doorbell sounds again, and I go to the front entrance, a vague sense of dizziness causing the room to feel slightly out of focus. Without checking the peephole, I open the door.

There, with two suitcases at his feet, is Enzo. His shoulders are still as broad as the last time I saw him. His waist is just as tapered, and his dark wavy hair is glossy with product. The jeans he’s wearing are designer, and his polo shirt clings to his muscles. I take him in, but I can’t process that he’s on my doorstep after being gone for a year.

He’s got a manila envelope clutched in one hand, and he raises it. “I’m not signing this,” he says. “Not without a fight.”

“What are you doing here?” I whisper. “Why didn’t you sign them?”

“You said I had until after you got back from Fiji. Imagine my surprise when you sent these and then made yourself impossible to contact.” He grimaces. “I’m here to save our marriage.”

I stare at him, dumbfounded. My brain can’t seem to process anything.

“You had the locks changed on our house. I went there first, and I had to ask Gage where you were holed up.”

Of course my younger brother would sell me out. He always liked Enzo, probably the only one in my family he truly connected with. Should have known that was a bad sign, but for the longest time, I thought my family and everyone on the island hadn’t given Enzo enough of a chance.

“I’ve been here for almost a year,” I say, and I lean against the door, my energy trickling out. “Look, I’m not feeling great. Can we—can we do this later?”

“I knew you shouldn’t have gone on that race,” he says, and his tone is laced with bitterness. “You never know when to quit.”

“I don’t want to fight,” I say. “I don’t have the energy.”

“If you give me the keys to the house, I’ll get myself set up there. You take a nap. I’ll come pick you up for dinner, and we can talk. Or I can stay here, or you can come home with me.”

“No.” I shake my head, and I leave the door to grab the keys from a drawer in the kitchen.

Enzo is at the windows, which offer a full view of the ocean, and he glances at me over his shoulder. “I can see why you’d come here.”

It’s surreal to have him in my space after so long, and it causes a dreamlike sensation, as though I’m still sleeping. Or maybe I’m actually sick. Everything is slightly out of focus. I keep my distance from him, the keys to our old house in my hand.

“I don’t want to go out for dinner,” I say. “I’m not feeling well.”