Page 6 of A Prince of Smoke and Mirrors (Billionaire Sanctuary: The Heir #1)
the prince’s palace bridal suite
LEXI BYRNE
Staggering alone in my bridal gown through the crowd of the Monaco Casino and Hotel toward the reception desk, with my professionally applied makeup wrecked and long veil askew, was the longest walk of my life.
Jangling slot machines echoed around my head, and cigarette smoke from gamblers stained the air gray and irritated my nose all the way up to my eyes.
Flashing lights strobed in my raw eyes, streaking the air around me.
Cheap-suited conference attendees, senior slot-machine denizens, addicted gamblers, and card sharps at the poker tables stared and muttered at the devastated and humiliated bride trudging over the dark blue, gold-swirled carpeting.
It was Vegas. You’d think nothing could cause a stir, and yet I was putting on a show just by existing.
But I could fix this.
Surely, there had to be a way for me to fix this.
Jimmy had to listen to me. He must have been devastated, in the midst of a panic attack because he was prone to them, when her accusations had rung out in a crowded chapel in front of his family.
He probably just hadn’t known how to handle it, and he’d made a mistake.
But if we were alone, if the room was quiet and empty, he had to listen to me.
Even though he hadn’t answered his phone the fifty times I’d called and texted him and now his voicemail inbox was full of my pleading and crying, he would have to listen to me if I was standing right there in front of him.
I could explain.
Even though I didn’t know what I’d ever said to cause this.
Every word and phrase I’d ever said to him over six years scrolled through my head like an endless social media feed— I can hardly wait to marry you, I’m so excited to spend my life with you, I love you I love you I love you —but nothing I’d ever said seemed to even suggest that I was pregnant.
Because we’d never had sex.
We’d done stuff, sure.
Groping, kissing, heavy breathing.
But not P-I-V sex.
I’d had my period two weeks before. I’d been on the pill for three months, getting in the habit of taking it regularly and letting my body get used to it before my wedding. There was no way I could be pregnant.
And I’d never, ever, screwed around on him.
I’d never even kissed anyone else in my whole life.
What could I have said? What could I have implied that he’d inferred and we’d miscommunicated, and thus he’d thought I was pregnant?
I slammed into the hotel’s tall reservation desk and caught myself with the sharp edge across my palms. “I need a room key to the Prince’s Palace Bridal Suite, Room 832.”
The woman behind the counter looked over her reading glasses at me. Flashing casino lights reflected in the half-circle lenses. “Name, please?”
My throat was choking. “Lexi Byrne.”
The woman—”Martinique” was engraved on her polished brass name tag—pressed her lips together. “I’m sorry, but that’s not the name the suite is booked under.”
It had been a rough day, and I breathed hard, trying to hold it together. “The suite is booked under Jimmy and Lexi Johnson.”
“I would need to see identification showing one of the names on the reservation to issue a new keycard,” Martinique said.
I dug around in my purse, fishing for my wallet that slipped between my fingers. “My driver’s license still says my name is Byrne.”
“Then that’s not the correct name. I could accept that and a signed marriage license with your old and new names on it.”
My cheeks heated until my skin stung. The marriage license we’d bought at city hall two days before wasn’t signed by us or the minister because the signing is done after the ceremony. “We didn’t get married.”
“Then I would need to see some identification in one of the names on the reservation.”
“But we didn’t get married.”
Martinique wasn’t smiling anymore. “Are you a registered guest here?”
“I checked out of my single room this morning because I was moving into the bridal suite after we got married this afternoon. My luggage was taken to the bridal suite from my other hotel room.”
Her tone lowered. “If you aren’t a registered guest of the hotel, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
“Can you just call Jimmy and tell him to come down here and talk to me about this?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but we don’t disturb our guests, especially not those checked into the bridal suites.”
I scraped my palms on the sharp edge of the desk like I was trying to squeegee the sweat off. “Look, my credit card is the one on the reservation, in my current name.”
“That’s not sufficient to issue you a keycard.”
“How much is the bill so far?”
Martinique recited a number that was higher than what I had left in my wedding savings account after paying for the aborted ceremony, money that I’d scrimped and saved for four years, and I gasped like she’d gut-punched me.
Yeah, well, maybe I could make Jimmy come down and talk to me. “Fine, then I want to take my credit card off the room.”
“You can remove the credit card for future charges, but the room charges for the two weeks were applied as soon as the first guest checked in. And the room service meals since. And the bottle of Dom Perignon that was sent up fifteen minutes ago.”
Those assholes. “I’ll dispute the bill with my credit card company!”
“You’re welcome to try, but the room charges and incidentals were part of the Terms of Service you agreed to when you booked the room. There was a checkbox.”
Everything was stacked against me. “I need to talk to Jimmy.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. If there’s nothing else I can help you with, I need to help the next guest in line. Next!”
Cardstock paper in my purse crumpled under my fingers, and I grabbed it and shoved it across the desk at Martinique. “Can you at least validate my parking?”
She rolled her eyes and swiped the card through a magnetic reader. “There. Now I have to ask you to leave.” Her eyes rolled up as she looked over my head. “Sir? I can help you now.”
I stumbled away from the front desk, my stupid eyes and nose running cold slime again.
At least if I made it to my car, no one could see me cry.
Later, I got a text from Jimmy: I want my ring back.