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“Do you mind if we all get a picture, ma’am?” Leo and Orien’s mother asked.
It made me think of the hotel manager I had met the first day I had come. Smiling, I nodded, handing the things in my hands to my mother.
“Of course not. Wolfgang, do you mind so she can join us?” I asked him as we all moved to stand in the middle of the hall.
“One, two, three. Smile,” Wolfgang said with little enthusiasm as he took the picture, nodding when he had gotten it.
“Thank you all so much,” I said, shaking their hands before being led off through the private staircase into the back entrance and out into the fresh air. But only for a second before I hurried into the back of the car.
Inside it was quieter than usual. Actually, it was just somber. Wolfgang drove. Thelma sat in the passenger seat up front, and my mother was to my left. But it was like we were all in different worlds. Through the tinted glass, I watched the city pass by and people going about their regular lives. I saw food stores that sold things I didn’t yet know how to say. All accept one. Cherumoran Kosowens—Gale’s favorite food, and I grinned, remembering our first date, then cringed as I remembered how bad I was at making them. The palace chef was secretly teaching me how to make some.
I wonder how she is doing? I hope she didn’t feel bad about what happened. I knew how hard the whole palace had been working, especially the kitchen.
I moved to ask Wolfgang but stopped when I saw my mother staring at me. Forcing a smile for her, I looked back out the window.
Everything would be all right. The palace and the royals had gotten on long before me and would do so long after me.
And Gale? The thought came into my mind like lightning. Not thunder with sound and shaking but with lightning, a flash of light in the sky. And all the thoughts of him that I had pushed down came spilling out. The farther we went outside the city and away from the palace, the more and more I thought of him.
How was he?
Was he eating?
Was he blaming himself? He had this horrible habit of carrying the burden and the fault for everything. It wasn’t his fault. It was everyone else’s but his. It was even mine for running away like this again, for not giving him a chance to speak, not even letting him come inside. I did it because I was a coward and because he made me weaker each time I was with him. If he asked me to stay again, I would cave because how could I not cave to someone who loved me so much, who I loved. It wasn’t his fault.
I wanted him to know that.
And yet I couldn’t say anything.
So I was leaving. I was leaving him to fight alone.
You are horribly selfish, Odette. That thought was the thunder, and that was what shook me. The realization that I paled in comparison to the great person I wanted to be, who I wished I was. The me that I wanted to be should have let him come in, should have faced him. Should be facing everything with him.
I should be better for him.
I should be so much more.
Maybe someone else will be. I thought about the long line of people who would line up after me and try to take him.
I had a vision of him walking down the aisle with someone else—because he couldn’t be a bachelor king—and I was just a thought fading from his memory. Everything that we had been through being nothing but a memory, and that made my heart ache.
This was why I hated thinking because I couldn’t stop when I started. For the whole car ride, thoughts of “what-if” and “what could have been” filled my mind, crushing me from the inside out.
“We are here, miss,” Wolfgang said, and sure enough, when I looked up, we were at the private jet, waiting on the airstrip. The plan was for me to fly to France and then take a flight out of the country. That way, I wouldn’t draw any attention.
“Let’s go, sweetheart,” my mother whispered, squeezing my hand and nodding as we stepped out of the car.
I wasn’t strong enough.
I inhaled the air again, my shoulders dropping. I really wasn’t strong enough.
I was slightly hungover. But I wanted to drink again.
Opening my eyes, I stared up at the painted ceiling above me and wondered if I would know when it was late enough for me to drink again. I didn’t want to know the time, and I didn’t want to see anyone. I was taking the damn day off. I wanted to lay here, drink, and look up at the painted baby angels on the ceiling until it was tomorrow.
Knock.
Knock.
