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Two Weeks Later
You Tried It
Chloe
Seattle, Washington
Iwoke up in the middle of the night, fingers buried deep between my thighs with incessant thoughts of William.
Not a single day had passed when he wasn’t dominating my fantasies, when he wasn’t compelling me to download a brand-new audiobook with a British narrator to get a taste of a deep and sexy voice.
Why did I kick him out like that?
Tossing off the covers, I jumped out of bed and turned over my paper wastebasket.
I picked up every shredded piece of William’s post-it and spent over an hour putting it together.
When all the digits were in order, I dialed the number in my phone, but then I stopped.
He’d never returned to retrieve his watch—never even sent for it—and I knew (after unsuccessfully trying to pawn it) that it was worth coming back for.
Calling him for another round of sex was pointless.
He’s not interested in you, Chloe.
I shredded the post-it again and returned to bed.
You Really Tried It
Tyler
London, England
The only part of the palace that was off-limits to both tourists and the press was my mother’s former library.
It was where I kept every letter she’d ever written to me and a catalogue of all our shared moments on video.
Since the press once reported on my copy of In Cold Blood with headlines like “Prince Carrington Wants His Family Killed,” and “Prince Carrington is Obsessed with Murder,” I kept my entire book collection in this room, too.
This was also the perfect spot to finish penning my “farewell to this shit” letter, but I’d written four sentences to date.
Every time I sat down to complete it, my father summoned me for a photo opp, or worse, a “surprise” tea date with Victoria. In perfect view of the media.
I’d seen her twice this week, and each visit only confirmed that she and I lived on two completely different planets.
The only thing I could honestly focus on was my time with Chloe.
It wasn’t just the memory of her loud screams as I devoured her between the sheets, the marks she left on my skin while I was inside her, or the fact that she was the best sex I’d ever had. It was our entire night, her complete honesty, and her sarcasm served with a sexy smile.
I’d chalked up her morning “get out of my place” episode to an unfortunate, psychotic break, because I knew from the look in her eyes that she wanted a repeat as much as I did.
She still hadn’t called me, though.
Not even once.
Attempting to add a new sentence for my letter, I pulled out a new set of pens.
“Good afternoon, sir.” Dillon strolled into the room.
