Page 96 of Heavy Crown

Unable to resist, I turn up the volume.

Earlier today, there was a horrific car accident on West Shore Road which robbed two families of their children. Since Bellerive is small, the tentacles of grief are wide reaching.

Alex is speaking from a podium at a press conference on what the monarchy’s response will be to the plight of both families. In his usual suit, he’s regal, and his posture is the same as it was at the ball. Through sheer force of will, he’ll hold up the nation. The speech is stirring, and in my already emotional state, I’m sobbing by the end.

Watching him speak to his country, speak to a common grief, solidifies my belief that agreeing to Alex’s wild, ill-thought-out plan won’t bring either of us happiness. Not really. Temporary joy, and a lifetime of regret.

He was born for this role, and he’s spent his life preparing for it. He’s made no secret of how much he can’t wait to be in control of the country, how he longs to have a seat on the Advisory Council, how hard he’s been working to learn everything he can from his father. For him to toss all of that aside for me doesn’t sound like an Alex-level decision.

I’m drawn back to Julia’s assertion that when you love someone, you protect their happiness. If Posey asked Brent to quit his next Olympic run, he would because he loves her that much. Posey would never do that. When you love someone, you don’t ask them to sacrifice their own happiness to achieve your own.

My decision, the one I have to give Alex, comes into sharp focus. Another sob clogs my throat, and I collapse on the couch, listening to him console a country while my own heart shatters into a million pieces.

thirty-five

Alex

When I arrive at Rory’s door, I’m already emotionally wrung out. Right after Julia left my office, Desmond came to deliver the news of the brutal car accident on West Shore Road. Dealing with the aftermath and the web of grief that seized the island took all my time and focus. I’m headed into Rory’s cottage without a concrete plan and without all the answers I was planning to give her. I’ll have to hope she wants to be with me badly enough that the finer details can be worked out later.

I knock on her door and wait. There’s no shuffling or movement behind her door to let me know she’s on her way to answer. Panic grips my chest, and I knock again with more force.

I’ve been on the knife’s edge of grief all day. At the crash site earlier, my mind kept straying to how different my life would have been if I hadn’t turned down West Shore Road and met Rory. One impulsive turn altered my life, changed the course of hers. Losing her is my worst fear, and the irrational thought that something has happened to her flutters at the edge of my consciousness.

She always answers.

The apartment isn’t that big.

I’m poised to knock again when heavy footsteps approach. Normally, she flies to the door, a whirlwind of happiness. She’ll rattle off all the details of her day while offering me whatever she’s baked in her free time. Coming here, whatever my mood, is like having helium balloons attached to me, lifting me up and out of myself. No matter how terrible my day has been, being with Rory always makes it better.

I really need that to be true today too.

From her approach, I can tell the conversation we’re about to have isn’t going to be easy. For the first time since I mentioned quitting to her last night, my gut twists with the realization she may not want what I want.

When she opens the door and I see her swollen, tear-stained face without a hint of a welcoming smile, there’s no doubt I’m in for an uphill battle. My arms ache with the desire to comfort her, to hold her close.

“Hey, come here.” I take a step toward her, and she steps back.

She draws even with the edge of the door and out of my reach. “I wasn’t sure I should answer.”

“Did something happen I don’t know about?” I ask.

She shrugs and doesn’t meet my gaze. “No, I’m certain you know it all.”

That sounds ominous. “May I come in? We have a lot to talk about.”

She leaves the door to put the kitchen island between us. Instead of speaking, she takes out baking supplies. There’s flour everywhere, and three Tupperware containers are brimming with various baked goods on the counter.

“This is crisis baking,” I say slowly. We’ve spent enough time together that I recognize the signs. Whenever she’s emotionally overwhelmed, she bakes—a lot.

“What did you want to discuss?” Rory asks, and she raises her eyebrows in challenge.

“Exactly what I told you last night.” Despite her appearance, I’m approaching this conversation with confidence. “I’m planning to quit the monarchy tomorrow.”

“Don’t quit for me,” she says in a rush. “I don’t want that. I haven’t asked you to do that.”

I’m struck dumb for a beat, and a cool sweat breaks out under my armpits. “Of course you haven’t asked me, but I want to be with you.”

“More than you want to be king?”