Total pages in book: 53
Estimated words: 50869 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 254(@200wpm)___ 203(@250wpm)___ 170(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 50869 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 254(@200wpm)___ 203(@250wpm)___ 170(@300wpm)
A name catches my ear from the chatter of other women nearby.
“...Cordelia, obviously. She’s been here since Tuesday.”
My eyes snap open. Two women are in the hydrotherapy pool nearby, their voices carrying just enough to reach me.
“I just don’t understand why they don’t go public already,” the other woman says, lifting herself to sit on the side. “Everyone knows. It’s been the understanding for years. That’s what his mother Eleanor wants, and what she wants, she always gets.”
“It’s because of the press; that’s my best guess,” the first one says knowingly. “Eleanor wants to control the narrative. You know how she is about the family image. Bet she’s losing her mind over this last-second wedding.”
“Still.” The second woman laughs but drops her voice lower. I have to fight to hear. “We all know they’re fucking. Have been at it for months. The way they look at each other at those charity galas? Please. They’re fucking.”
“Yeah, I see the chemistry, and they do fit well together.”
My champagne flute pauses at my mouth. The room suddenly feels too cold despite the heated floors.
“She’s wearing Valentino to the wedding tonight,” the first woman continues. “Red.” She shakes her head. “Bold choice for a guest, but when you’re basically family...”
“She’ll be gorgeous. They’ll be gorgeous. God, can you imagine the photos? Those two have been inevitable since they were children. Eleanor’s been planning that wedding since they were in diapers.”
I set the flute down with a shaking hand. The sound of it hitting the marble table is too loud, but Petra has stepped away to get more supplies, and no one else seems to notice.
They’re talking about Caldwell. And Cordelia.
He said she meant nothing. It was only an arrangement, not a relationship. That he’d never touched her.
I do the one thing everyone would tell me not to do, and I pull up Google. It doesn’t take long to find pictures of her. I recognize her. My stomach sinks. She’s breathtaking, a model. I know I’ve seen her face before. Holy crap. I clear the pictures out, not wanting to see them together. I was only curious what she looked like. I’ll tell you one thing: She’s the opposite of me in every single way.
I think about the text on his phone this morning. The way he looked when he saw it, guilty and desperate. He explained it away so easily, and I believed him because I wanted to. I didn’t want us to end. Then, being so close to thinking it was over when we’d made up, it was like an explosion hit us both.
But what if I’m just the idiot who believed the prince’s lies because I wanted to be the one he chose?
“Mable?”
I look up to see a woman standing over me, immaculately dressed in a cream silk suit that probably costs more than my car. She’s older and elegant, with Caldwell’s sharp cheekbones and piercing eyes.
“I’m Eleanor Montclair,” she says, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. “We need to talk before the wedding, my dear. Shall we walk in the gardens?”
His mother. The woman who arranges “understandings.” The woman who wants to control the narrative.
Is it too late to run? How does she already know about us?! I school my emotions and mentally calm myself down so I don’t look outwardly nervous. First impressions are important, especially on this grand of a stage.
I stand up, still feeling a bit unsteady. “Of course, Mrs. Montclair. I’d love to,” I lie, and the irony isn’t lost on me. “Let me quickly change and I’ll be right out.”
Eleanor’s smile tightens. She’s shorter than me but manages to look down her nose anyway. “Please, call me Eleanor. Mrs. Montclair makes me sound like a villain in a Disney movie.” If the shoe fits. I clear that thought immediately, wanting to give her a chance. “I’ll wait for you by the entrance to the garden.”
“I won’t be long, Eleanor.”
I change out of my robe and into normal clothes as quickly as possible and head to where we agreed to meet.
“Let’s take a stroll through the gardens. Shall we?”
“I’d love to.” I grab her arm.
She leads us through French doors into a garden that is designed by someone with unlimited money and a wild obsession with symmetry. Roses bloom in perfect rows. Topiary shaped into geometric forms lines the gravel path. Everything is controlled, contained, and beautiful in a way that feels slightly suffocating.
“So,” Eleanor says, her voice pleasant, but I catch the edge to it. “You’re the young lady who’s been occupying my son’s time.” What? I inwardly start to panic.
“Occupying?” I repeat, trying to buy time, but it isn’t enough. “I suppose that’s one way to put it.”
“Don’t be defensive, my dear. I’m simply trying to understand this situation.” She stops beside a fountain, turning to face me, eyes assessing. “My son has never brought anyone to a family event before. Never. So you’ll forgive me for being... curious.” The way she says “curious” makes it sound like a threat, or maybe I’m just losing it.