The Dirty Series 1(117)

“I do mean it,” he’d said. He might not have meant those final spiteful words that came out of his mouth, but there was one thing he was adamant about.

“Maybe it would be best if you went back to New York for a while. Just so we could sort this out without so much bickering.”

His words continue echoing, snowballing one on top of the other inside my head, building into a cacophony of heartbreak.

What the fuck?

I can’t believe it’s come to this. That I’m the one he blames for all the bickering. That he said I was whining. I cough out a bitter laugh. Until yesterday, we weren’t bickering. We weren’t disagreeing. We were hardly speaking because Alec has been so consumed by his obligations as the crown prince and I’ve been dutifully following the relentless schedule of a royal trophy girlfriend.

Don’t get me fucking wrong. There are perks. There are glorious perks that I love. The beautiful clothes. The meals prepared just to my liking. The gorgeous, glorious rooms that I get to stay in at Sainthall Palace, which is an honest-to-God fucking fairy tale castle. Watching the sun rise over the rolling hills to the south is like being the star of a Disney movie, and that Disney movie is your life story.

What they don’t tell you in the movies is that being the prince’s girlfriend, much less a princess, is not always easy.

Once the initial waves of pain and shock subside enough for me to wipe the tears from my eyes and no more take their place, I shake my head in disbelief.

Think, Jessica.

My bruised, aching heart wants to run after Alec, to find him wherever he is, and plead with him that what he did, what he said, was a terrible mistake and we can get through it.

No matter how hard I try, though, I can’t convince myself that we can work things out.

How can I go out on a limb for him—again—if there’s any chance he could reach this point again where he thinks he’s not the right man for me, and I’m not the right woman for him?

I want Alec so badly. That’s what caused the friction between us to escalate, that I wanted more from him than what he can give right now.

Maybe he’s right.

Something has to change, and that something should be me. He can’t change what’s expected of him, so it’s up to me.

“Maybe it would be best if you went back to New York for a while,” I tell myself.

Yes. I’ll go back to New York.

Once I’ve made the decision, my body swiftly moves into action.

The motions seem familiar, somehow comforting. I’ve uprooted and changed my circumstances enough times over the years that I know the process as well as I know how to navigate my own room in the dark.

The first thing for me to do is pack.

I don’t have much to take back with me because, aside from my wallet and a few personal belongings, Alec bought for me when we arrived in Saintland. After a brief search through the closets and drawers—it’s hard to know where everything is when you have a staff not allowing you to lift a finger—I pull out a small duffel bag from the bottom drawer of an antique wardrobe. I stuff in a couple of pairs of panties, a plain t-shirt, and the yoga pants I wore on the flight here. I toss in the book I’ve been reading—they won’t miss it—my phone charger, and a pair of low-heeled, casual shoes. Another shirt. My hairbrush, toothbrush, and a small tube of toothpaste…I throw in a few other essentials and then zip the bag closed.

I decide to take a quick shower—it takes me under three minutes—and then pin my hair up into a bun on top of my head.

I pull out a pair of comfortable, somewhat dressy grey pants from the dresser, a silky light blue camisole top, and a navy blue exercise hoodie I haven’t had the chance to wear yet. I stuff the hoodie into the bag. It’s summer in Saintland, but I may need it on the plane.

I grab my passport, shove it into the side pocket of the duffel bag, and take one final look around the rooms, committing to memory the way the sun beams in around the curtains, the angles to the dark cherry finish of the headboard.

Then, I’m ready.

My heart feels numb.

I need to get out of here before a chink appears in the armor of pain and numbness that’s drowning me and I cave to the love hidden beneath it all and go after Alec.

I open the door to my rooms and step out into the hallway, duffel bag in hand, only to run straight into Claire.

“Oh!” she says, stumbling back.

“I’m sorry, Claire,” I say, stepping to the side before continuing down the hall.

“Jessica? Where are you going?” she asks, a surprised look on her face when she notices the duffel bag.

“I’m leaving.”

“To go where?” She hurries after me.