Page 95 of Fallen Crown

“M, I came. You said if I was here when the race was over, we’d have a chance.”

Feels like months rather than weeks ago that I said it.

“We’re still married. You owe me an opportunity to talk.”

The reminder causes my blood to run cold. For the last two weeks, I’ve been acting as though I was separated, but if he never signed the papers, the truth is much murkier.

“You should have signed the papers,” I whisper.

“Maybe. But I didn’t, and I won’t until we have a chance to talk. Get some rest, and I’ll pick you up for dinner.” He plucks the keys from my hand before heading for the door.

When I wake up later, the half-light of dusk is filtering in my bedroom window, and I lie in bed for a moment, assessing how I’m feeling. The headache is still there, but it’s so dull I can almost ignore it. I’ve been doing so much sleeping, I probably haven’t been drinking enough water. Dehydrated. That’s likely all it is.

In the shower, I lean against the wall and let the water wash over me. Shampooing my hair and getting myself ready takes a monumental effort, and in the end, I don’t wrestle with my hair. It sits in a messy, damp bun, and my makeup is minimal. Enzo has seen me at my best and my worst over the years. We’re in solid middle ground tonight. My dress is long and loose, but it’s the same light blue as my eyes.

The doorbell sounds right on time, which is like Enzo when something is important to him. He’s never early or late, and after so many months of not thinking about him very much, it’s strange to have him occupy my thoughts. At the door, he takes my hand, and for a moment, I let him, testing out how it feels. But it’s not his hand I wish was pressed against mine. The reminder of Brice causes a spike of guilt and sadness to zip through me. Brice and I don’t want the same things, but I’m not sure Enzo and I do either.

Outside my apartment complex, there are photographers, and I hesitate at the exit. They’re obviously here because of the photos of me and Brice. Enzo grips my hand a little harder, and he steers me out the door, forcing me to face my uncertainty.

He’s hired a car and driver, which is an extravagance I wouldn’t normally indulge in. For security reasons, Brice has the armored car and driver, but I can’t understand why Enzo and I would need one. Flashes go off as we get into the Bentley, and I realize I forgot my phone and purse in the apartment. My brain is sluggish, and my skin feels clammy.

“I didn’t bring my purse,” I say in the back seat.

“I can cover dinner.” A heavy silence falls over the car. “You were always so adamant you didn’t want to be your father.”

“I’m not him.”

“Those photos of you and Prince Brice indicate otherwise. All those questions the reporters just hurled at you that you didn’t bother answering suggest otherwise. The comments he’s made in Denmark about how the two of you are very close say otherwise. That tattoo on your collarbone says otherwise. You hate tattoos—you used to call them tacky. Does he make a habit of going after other people’s wives?”

“You’ve been gone for a year.” I have no energy or desire to explain the baby’s breath that lies on my collarbone. He wouldn’t understand.

“And you gave me a timeline to come home, and I was coming. Instead of waiting, you start an affair with, quite frankly, the last guy I would have expected.”

His comments are hitting me where it hurts, and that’s the thing about being with someone for years. They know exactly which buttons to push, what things to say that’ll drive home whatever point they’re making. He’s setting out to turn me into the villain, and maybe I am. Being with Brice was a selfish decision. I could have waited to see whether Enzo would turn up after the race and then come clean about the kiss Brice and I shared. If I’d been sure Enzo would come home, it might have been different.

“If you think I’m such a terrible person, why are you back here? Just sign the papers and be done with it.” I press my fingers into my temples. They’re throbbing and making it hard to concentrate. My nap lulled me into a false sense of wellness, and whatever is plaguing me is roaring to life.

The car draws flush with the restaurant, and I cringe when I realize Enzo has brought us to the same place he proposed years ago. Back then, this building was a Mexican cantina, but it’s since changed hands, and it’s now a tapas restaurant. Perhaps I’ll actually be able to stomach some of the tiny dishes.

Reluctantly, I get out of the car. He seems determined to make me feel bad, and maybe I deserve it. The last few months, both he and our marriage have been further from my thoughts than they should have been.

As we walk in the door, my vision blurs, and I stumble. Enzo doesn’t catch me, the hostess does. I give her a grateful look, and she merely smiles before sliding a questioning glare in Enzo’s direction. She stays by my side as she shows us to our seats.

The waitress arrives with menus, but my stomach is gurgling and rolling.

“I think I—“ I rub my forehead. “I need the bathroom.” Since I returned from Fiji, I haven’t been anywhere, so whatever is wrong with me, I must have picked it up on the plane. I weave my way to the bathroom, and once I’m there, I stare at myself in the mirror.

My earlier claim that my appearance was solidly in the middle ground seems like a brag now. I’m pale with overly rosy cheeks, and my eyes are still glassy. When I lay the back of my hand across my forehead, I’m hot to the touch. Does that check work? Do I have a fever?

My stomach clenches, and this time, I rush into one of the stalls. I’m on my knees praying to the porcelain god just before my stomach empties into the bowl. For a beat, I clutch the toilet as my stomach releases its contents over and over again. Once I’ve got nothing left, I sit on the floor, trying to remember if I’ve been this hot all day. Sweat has soaked through the armpits of my dress.

Unsteady on my feet, I wobble to the counter, and I turn on the tap to splash water in my face. When I glance up at the mirror again, my vision blurs, and I can’t keep myself upright. As I fall to the ground, everything goes black.

Chapter Forty-One

Brice

Nick and I are on a private plane back to Bellerive. Tomorrow is the one-year anniversary of Tucker’s accident, and even if she hasn’t taken a single one of my calls or responded to any of my text messages, I’m showing up at her door, and I’m begging for forgiveness. My request was poorly timed in the extreme, but I can walk it back. I’ll walk it back as far as Maren needs me to.