It all happened so fast and I was only underwater for a few moments at most because Marcus, always the stronger swimmer, jumped in after me. How old could he have been? Eleven, maybe twelve? Yet he shoved my father out of the way and was in the lake coming to my rescue before my father had time to react.
Marcus hauled me to the surface as he fought against the rough surface of his own life jacket—he was still wearing his; leave it to Marcus to follow the rules long after their parameters had expired—and together the two of them dragged me back over the side of the boat to safety.
Within a few minutes, we were all laughing at the fact that I’d managed to go over the edge with barely any encouragement.
My father, a wide smile dancing on his face, clapped Marcus on the shoulder. “You’re going to be just fine, aren’t you, son?” he said, another guffaw rising up from his broad chest. “You never have to think—you just know the right thing to do.”
Marcus beamed with pride as I shivered under the scratchy blanket my father had pulled out from the boat’s storage compartment to wrap me in.
“Fuck,” I say out loud, my body shuddering from the chill of the shower. “Fuck.”
When Jessica’s face drifts into my mind, her eyes filled with tears because of my asshole decisions—never mind that they’re for her own good—I turn off the water with a shout of anger and disappointment.
Dried off and back in my rooms with a towel still wrapped around my waist, I slam my way through my dresser drawers, pulling out the first clothes I see. I quickly get dressed, stopping long enough to send Nate a message. I know he’s been antsy lately—now that I’m stuck inside the goddamn palace from dawn until dusk attending these endless meetings, there’s not much need for him to be driving me anywhere.
But I need to get out of here right now.
“Ready in two,” he writes back, and as soon as I read his response, I shove the phone in my pocket and leave the room.
My jaw is clenched tight as I make my way to the private entrance. People hurry out of my way as I stalk down the palace corridors. At one point, I see Phillip standing at the end of a hallway, but when he catches sight of me, he disappears around the corner, whispering quickly out of the corner of his mouth to the member of the staff with whom he was conferring.
Outside, Nate is waiting. I open the door of the town car and slide into the back seat without a word. I catch a glimpse of his eyes in the rearview mirror, noticing the furrows denting his forehead. To his credit, he doesn’t say a word about my disheveled hair, my hastily chosen outfit, or the fact that we are not scheduled to be going anywhere. He just says, “Where to?”
“Just drive, Nate. Just go.”
He nods curtly and steers the car away from the Palace. As the Palace gets smaller out the back window of the car the farther we drive, another wave of sharp, aching grief slams into me like a tidal wave. I slam a fist against the car door, then bury my face in my hands, a painful lump catching in my throat.
What have I done?
What am I going to do?
It’s more fucking clear to me now than it’s ever been. I’m no Marcus. I don’t automatically know the right thing to do.
Go back to the Palace and apologize to Jessica.
The thought keeps echoing in my mind, and it’s coupled with what feels like continual stabs of guilt into my heart like a knife. I need to get my fucking head on straight before I do anything else.
Before I ruin anything else.
Although I’m pretty sure I’ve already ruined the most important thing in the world to me.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Jessica
The minutes crawl by while I wait for Claire to return, every moment expanding into what seems like an hour.
The breakfast tray arrives after twenty minutes. I don’t feel like eating. I feel sick to my stomach over what happened and what’s likely going to happen, but I need to do something to stifle my urgent need to get out of here. I need to leave the palace, just get away, I need to go, go, go. So I force myself to eat what I can on the tray, taking small bites, eating deliberately.
I try to enjoy it.
Even what’s considered a simple breakfast at Sainthall Palace is of superior quality and presented magnificently. You think you know all there is to know about English muffins, for example—I mean an English muffin is an English muffin, right? —and then you find out that there’s a “royal” version that makes any English muffin you’ve ever tasted before taste like cardboard toast.
I know the food served here is excellent, unbelievably good, but it’s just tasteless and bland to me right now.
When I’ve finally eaten about half the food on the tray, I push it away from me and stare out the window.