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3
Maddox
Isabella and I drive in silence most of the way from the hospital. The only interesting part of the conversation is when she asks about my thoughts. You think my dad’s going to come out of this alive?
Honestly? I didn’t. He was old and in bad shape.
But,—like the priest, who successfully took a savage beating and lived right until the moment Quincy Harrison’s soldier put a bullet in his head—I remind myself that we, the human race, are resilient.
I answered yes, to set her mind at ease. Isabella’s smile lingers long after we drive into the wrought iron gates of the Palace. I think she believed me. Or maybe, my answer inspired hope.
“Well, here we are,” I say, stopping my Bentley outside the long staircase that reaches up to the front door. “You have a good evening, Miss Romani.”
I don’t plan on going in, because I understand that this marriage is a fallacy. A façade. A way for The King to secure a trustworthy man to hold the throne if anything happens to him. Whatever I feel for Isabella isn’t reciprocated, and I don’t expect it to be.
Isabella looks at the steps, then me, and back out to it. “You’re not coming in? And don’t you know it’s Misses Braddock now?” She turns to me with wide eyes. Almost scared, probably of being on her own. “I don’t really want to be alone right now.”
“The Palace is squirming with The King’s most loyal. The Princess is never alone behind these walls,” I reply, dashing a cheeky smile.
Isabella returns a macabre grimace. “Hired guns can’t compete with a husband.”
That’s twice Isabella had eluded to our marriage, and in the span of two sentences. Is she coming around to the idea? Or is she reaching deep to get me to stay? I finally realize it doesn’t matter. I’ve been chasing Isabella so long, following her, desperately wishing to form this kind of connection. Now, she’s giving it to me freely, and I’d be a fool not to accept.
“Then let’s get in there.” I get out of the car, walk around, and pull the door open for her. I’ve never been a true gentleman, but I understand the basics of how they act.
“Why thank you,” Isabella says, taking a hand I offer to help her out of the car.
“A pleasure,” I reply.
Isabella doesn’t release my hand after she’s out, or when we ascend the staircase to the front door. She keeps a tight grip, as if she might lose me if she lets go. I’m probably looking too deeply into her needing me. Her father just got shot. She needs support, and if there was anyone else giving it, they’d be here instead of me.
I cut that train of thought before it leads me down some dark rabbit hole that will only leave me hurt.
“Can I get you something to drink?” Isabella offers after we step through the door.
Only when she poses that question do I realize how thirsty I am. “Sure, what do you have?”
“Whiskey, wine, vodka…”
“Non-alcoholic,” I reply. I don’t think I can stand a hangover tomorrow.
“Soda, water, orange juice,” Isabella’s still holding my hand. She leads me towards the kitchen. I follow like a good little pup.
“Orange juice sounds great.”
Isabella pours our drinks, but we don’t linger in the kitchen long enough for me to get a good look at anything, apart from grey granite counters and off-white, regal-looking cupboards. Isabella leads me through the house, with our drinks in our hands; past the living room, and down a long hallway to her bedroom.
I know this room well. After all, I watched her from beyond the enormous window shrouded by the thick, red curtain.
Isabella looks over to it fondly for a second. Her cheeks start to blush, and she hands me the glass of orange juice. I take a sip, waiting for her to mention it and my own embarrassment to come.
But, that doesn't happen.
“Have a seat, get comfortable,” she gestures towards the bed.
I pull off my jacket, and toss it over a small chair in front of a mirror, rolling up the sleeves of my shirt. I took off my tie before visiting the priest, but I didn’t undo the top button. No wonder I felt suffocated.
Isabella’s bed is enormous. With me on one side, and her on the other, there’s still enough space for another person and a half between us.
