Page 11 of Secret Dynasty

I had a lot of questions, but I knew one thing for certain. No one owned me.

“Since you’re so interested in Holden’s dick,” I began, “why don’t you go fuck him yourself?”

His mouth fell open, and I took advantage of his stunned silence, to throw open the door and bolt toward the safety of London.

Chapter Six

There was nowhere for me to go. I couldn’t return to Willoughby Place, where Tod waited to lure me into his trap. It wasn’t as if I could go and lock myself in Kerrigan’s room. For all I knew, they had cameras on it, spying on me the whole time. I wouldn’t stay with Spencer, even if I had a key to his flat. There was too great a possibility that he or Holden might show up. Although, given Holden’s condition, I hoped he wouldn’t drive. I considered calling Eliza, but I couldn’t stomach the thought of reliving tonight if only to catch her up on what had happened.

But most of all, I wanted to be alone. The kind of alone where there would be no casual conversation or accidental interactions. Solitude like that wasn’t easy to find in London.

I needed to be anonymous, so I drove. In a city as big as London, it was easy to get lost. I found myself driving beyond the limits of Hampstead into its busy streets, searching for the solitude of crowds. Maneuvering the roads was easier than it should be, and doubt took hold at the back of my mind. Holden claimed I was Kerrigan. Tod claimed I was Kerrigan. Iris. Giles. Why would they all lie?

That was why I couldn’t go back to her world. I couldn’t face the idea that I was trapped in it for the rest of my life. Only days ago, I’d wondered how I could leave Kerrigan behind. Then, I had thought I was in love with Spencer. Now? I wasn’t sure of anything.

Outside the windscreen, it began to drizzle, raindrops splattering the glass until I had to turn on the wiper blades. The rain, coupled with nightfall, slowly cleared the streets. A few strangers straggled down the sidewalks while others dashed toward well-lit buildings. I found myself jealous of them, wishing I had someplace to go. A place that didn’t require me to rush like those taking their time on the sidewalks. Or a place where I could run in from the rain without worry. Instead, I was stuck in limbo, torn between heaven and hell. I had no choice but to continue.

Before long, I found myself driving near the Thames. The London Eye spun slowly in the background, a slave to tourists if not the weather. Near it, the clock tower was lit up like a beacon of all that London represented. I thought of the first time I saw it. Or was it just the most recent time? I’d been here with Spencer, checking into the Westminster Royal. London’s beacon had done its job and pointed me in a direction, at last. The hotel was well-lit and safe and welcoming for a price. I’d forgotten for a moment that anything could be bought, even a place to go. I pulled to the side of the road and found its address on my mobile. I was only a few minutes from it. At least, it was familiar. At best, it was anonymous.

I steered the Porsche up to the valet stand near its front entrance. A parking attendant met me at the entrance, perching a long-handled umbrella over my door as he opened it.

“Do you have any bags, miss?”

I shook my head, my fingers tightening over the Chanel clutch Giles had given me. “No. I’m here to meet someone.”

I wasn’t sure why I lied. Maybe because it was odd to show up at a hotel without a suitcase. Maybe because I didn’t want one more person to look at me like I’d lost my mind tonight.

“Would you like me to park the car in overnight parking?”

I nodded before I realized what a woman showing up to meet someone at a hotel insinuated. Heat blossomed on my cheeks, but I lifted my head higher. It’s not as if I were the first woman to meet a man at the hotel if that was why I’d come here. But it wasn’t as if that was why I was here. So why did it matter, at all? But as I walked into the polished lobby of the five-star hotel, I wished I was more dressed for the occasion. Without the armor of the Porsche, I was just a woman with no makeup and a messy bun in jeans and sneakers.

Why does that matter? I asked myself. I’d come to London months ago wearing secondhand clothes without a cent to my name. Now the jeans I wore were designer, I held a Chanel clutch in my hand, and the name Kerrigan Belmond was on my identification and credit cards. For all intents and purposes, I belonged here. Wasn’t that what everyone was trying to prove to me?

So why did I feel like a fraud?

I made my way across the lobby to the registration desk, cringing as my sneakers squeaked on the marble floors. The girl at registration whipped her head up at the sound, but she smiled when she saw me. “Checking in?”

“I hope so,” I said, feeling a little nervous. Spencer had dropped his name the night we showed up here without a reservation and the world had rearranged itself in his presence. That was the way it was for people with money. But no matter what my identification said or who people believed me to be, it made me uncomfortable to act so demandingly. “I don’t have a reservation. I just need a room for the night.”

“Let me see what I can do.” Her attitude remained gracious, which meant I didn’t look as thrown together as I felt, or she was genuinely kind. Her own dark hair was pulled into a smart knot at the back of her neck and her plum lipstick brightened her ready smile when she said, “I have a single room available if that’s okay?”

The last time I stayed at the Westminster Royal, I’d been in a private suite that took up an entire floor of the hotel. Spencer had demanded it, as though two people needed more than a bed and a roof over their heads. I didn’t require that much space. In fact, I didn’t want it. “That would be perfect.”

She took my identification and credit card, chattering away in a friendly manner as she filled me in on the hotel’s amenities. It wasn’t until she began typing the information from my identification that she stopped mid-sentence. “I apologize, Ms. Belmond. I see that you are a platinum elite member of the Eaton family of hotels. Let me see about getting you an upgrade.”

“That won’t be necessary,” I said quickly. I should have known something like this was inevitable, whether or not I name dropped. “I’m simply grateful that you can get me a room on such short notice.”

“Are you sure?” She chewed on her lips thoughtfully, watching me like she was taking a test.

“I travel a lot,” I lied. I’d never gone anywhere. Kerrigan had. “That’s the reason I have that platinum status.”

“Standard procedure is to offer an upgrade in such cases,” she explained. “I’m sure we can find you a nicer room —”

“A single is fine,” I repeated firmly. “I just need a place to sleep.”

She continued after another minute of hesitation. She prepped a key card and passed it to me in a little envelope. Her friendliness seemed to have cooled. She was on edge as though she knew the name Kerrigan Belmond came with more than just an elite status. I took the key with one last hopeful smile. The one she mustered looked more concerned than cordial.

That was one of the worst parts of being Kerrigan: the expectation that came with her name. Maybe she lived up to the stereotype of the overprivileged heiress. Maybe no one ever gave her a chance to prove she was anything else. I considered it as I took the lift up a floor and continued down a corridor toward my room.