Page 4 of A Princess, Stolen (A Kiss of Revenge, Blood, and Love #1)
N ew York, eight years later
Dark waves crashed over me, I swallowed water and flailed blindly with my arms. I was drowning.
The taste of salt filled my mouth and the wild roar of the ocean raged in my ears.
Daddy! The silent scream remained in my head.
Something was pulling me down, something relentless and dark. I couldn’t breathe. Dad! Help me!
I jumped up with a strangled sound, disorientated for a few seconds. My heart pounded hard against my ribs. Gradually, I realized that I was sitting on my four-poster bed, covered in sweat, but safe many feet above sea level.
I hesitantly let go of the duvet, which I had gripped with my fingers as if it were my life preserver. I knew the Atlantic was far away, but my heartbeat only slowly calmed. I blinked several times in the golden morning light that fell through the room-wide panoramic window.
I hated these nightmares, when I was drawn into the depths of the ocean by something dark. Sometimes, it seemed as if my missing memories were lurking there on the sea floor, as if a part of me wanted me to look at them, but even when I sank deep enough into these dreams, everything remained black.
I wiped my forehead and glanced at the clock on my nightstand.
It was five thirty and I was not going to go back to sleep anyway.
Trembling, I rose, pulled my sweaty lace nightgown over my head, and walked to the unadorned window in only my underwear.
From our $42 million penthouse, I looked down on Manhattan.
Usually, the view calmed me. I had painted this subject countless times in oil: Central Park—the bustling green rectangle—the tiny people, trees, and lakes, the silvery skyscrapers on either side, and flat Harlem at the end.
Seen from above, the whole thing looked like a living painting.
I could look at it, enjoy it, but I didn’t have to be a part of the hustle and bustle.
Today, though, the city only solidified the fear within me. Something was wrong. The nightmare hadn’t felt like a lost memory, but more real, more like a warning. For a moment, I pressed my trembling fingers against my eyelids and took a deep breath.
It was only a dream, Willa. Everything’s fine .
Maybe I was simply nervous about tonight’s party and searching for an excuse not to attend.
Dad had insisted on hosting a fundraiser on my nineteenth birthday even though he knew how much I despised crowds especially when they were high-society people who were eyeing me with suspicion—me, who preferred to stay in the background, happy with my oil paints and so out of place with them.
“ You have to occasionally leave the penthouse, honey. You live in an ivory tower here ,” Dad had said three months ago when we were talking about my birthday.
And—as always—I relented. Naturally, he was right, and he meant well.
But I was afraid he would make too much of a fuss about my birthday and this gala was of course only because of his love for me.
For a while, I stood at the window and watched the golden sky above the skyscrapers turn soft lavender blue.
It looked like the ocean at dawn. I sighed.
I knew it was all connected. My missing memories, the dreams, and my tendency to shut myself off from the world and cling to Dad.
Sometimes, it seemed to me that my life could only begin when I could fill in the gaps in my memory, but that was utter nonsense.
According to the doctors, the amnesia caused by the accident was protecting my subconscious, and until I could come to terms with the memories, they would remain locked inside me like in a safe.
It was dangerous to remember. And life was dangerous too.
At least, for the daughter of a billionaire.
The New York Times called Dad, god and benefactor.
Half the world called him that, but naturally, he had as many enemies as friends.
I turned away from New York, put on another nightgown, and decided to make the daily flower delivery before the staff arrived; Dad was already in the office anyway. Sometimes, he started work as early as 4:30 so he could spend more time with me in the evening.
Barefoot, I left my grand piano and took the curved staircase in the gallery into the foyer.
With the three-story fountain, the outrageously expensive marble floor, and the crystal chandelier the size of a small car, it could have been the White House reception hall.
Luckily, no one was there yet, but the flowers had been delivered: orange lilies, salt-white roses, and cherry-red stocks.
Dad must have opened the door for the deliveryman.
For several breaths, I leaned over the sea of flowers next to the golden double doors and inhaled the sweet scent before fishing out a bundle.
There were exactly three things in my life that I truly existed for: the first was a smile from Dad, the second was my painting, and the third was fresh flowers. And all three things always helped me calm down when I was nervous.
Since we moved in here, it was my job to make sure there were fresh flowers in the penthouse. Dad had given me the task because I wanted to contribute something to the household but he didn’t like me assisting the maids.
Today, however, even the flowers couldn’t soothe me.
I spread them around Dad’s wine bar, my studio, the baroque dining room, the kitchen, and even in the party lounge, but the vague fear followed me like a shadow.
The dream still seemed like the harbinger of a catastrophe that was rolling toward me with no way to stop it.
Why would I voluntarily go near the Atlantic?
And it’s not like tonight’s party was taking place near a body of water, nor was I going to drown in a sink in the Pretoria Hotel.
In the living room where Dad displayed his collections from all over the world, I stopped in front of an arched window. Dad always jokingly called the living room the largest living room in New York , or at least that’s how the real estate agent had advertised it at the time.
For the second time today, I looked down over the city, the Hudson River, Liberty Island, and the Statue of Liberty.
When we moved in, Dad had explained to me that her seven-pointed crown symbolized the seven seas and the seven continents.
Together with the torch, it stood for the liberty of all people.
Liberty!
A bittersweet longing tugged at my heart.
Can you actually get out of your cage?
I swallowed when I recalled the boy from Baton Rouge.
Over the years, I had not forgotten him, the kiss, and the Palace of Shards.
And sometimes, when I focused on it intensely enough, my heart still fluttered at the memory of his sea-gray eyes, his rough hands, and our dance between the colorful shards of glass and sparks of light.
Inevitably, I remembered the letter from Grandma Anna, my maternal grandmother. Delilah had fished it out of the junk mail yesterday; the return address was Baton Rouge, Louisiana. It was still locked in my bedside table drawer.
I should read it. Despite the communication ban.
The last thought made my heart beat faster.
I arranged the last of the roses more carelessly than usual and almost knocked the transparent box with the antique Marie Antoinette brooch off the dresser.
I quickly moved it back next to the box containing the first golf ball in living memory, Dad’s favorite piece in his collection of curiosities.
Back in my bedroom, I pulled the letter from Grandma out of the drawer.
Was it wrong to open it? Dad certainly didn’t know that she had written me because he always ignored the junk mail, so he must have missed it, otherwise, he most definitely would have confiscated the letter; after all, he was the one who had forbidden me to have contact with Grandma.
Uncertain, I turned the letter over in my hands. I understood. Grandma blamed him for Mom’s death, yet Dad had nothing to do with it. It had been an accident, a tragic mishap that had required quick action.
But I turned nineteen today. I had been an adult for over a year, so I should be able to choose who I had contact with or not. And Grandma probably just wanted to congratulate me. What was wrong with that? Besides, Dad didn’t need to know!
I carefully opened the envelope with the nail of my index finger, under which dark blue oil paint still clung.
Dried rose petals fell toward me and filled the air with a lovely aroma.
My heart warmed and the uneasy feeling that the nightmare had left behind faded a bit.
Grandma hadn’t forgotten how much I loved flowers.
Like her, and like Mom used to. And like Mom, I looked like her.
A whole generation of clones , Dad often joked, throwing his hands up in the air. In the past, before Mom died.
How was Grandma? I suddenly felt guilty because I rarely allowed her into my thoughts anymore. Did she still think about Mom as often as I did? Why was Baton Rouge the return address? As far as I knew, she lived in Bakersfield.
Suddenly uneasy, I unfolded the paper. The words on the cream-colored sheet were handwritten. I read:
Dearest Willa,
I hope the letter reaches you in time for your 19th birthday.
With all my heart, I wish you all the best, health, and every happiness in the world.
It’s been almost eight years since we last spoke.
Back then, you told me you’d had your first kiss.
I hope you’ve had many more. And I hope you’re madly in love right now.
Nothing is more beautiful than love, my child, isn’t it? Your mom used to say that too.
But I don’t want to start with your mom or the past today, dear Willa, but with the future. I would love it if you would visit me.