Page 24 of Coronation (Royally Forbidden #1)
Thirteen
Benedict
W hen I’d agreed to Damien’s arrangement for my night of escape, I’d envisioned myself returning to Ashwell Palace, bolstered by the outing.
The amount of time that had passed since I’d felt the touch of someone other than myself was downright embarrassing.
Whatever the press might report, I am a human being, a man, and I do have some needs which can’t be satisfied by my own right hand.
Attending one of these parties seemed like the cleanest way to achieve such an outcome, without inviting further complications.
Though infrequent, my attendance before I married Julia never failed to refresh me.
Regardless of my intentions, however, I returned more hollow and bitter than I was before, and the feelings have not abated in the two weeks which have passed since.
Distracting myself has been my only escape.
The prime minister announced his resignation, which meant that my largely symbolic role in our government has lately required some actual work.
For once, however, I didn’t mind it. Focusing on royal duties and taking endless, tedious meetings with various party members, all angling for my support on some matter, was easier than facing the gaping void that Zelda Flowers left in me.
Or, rather, that I left in myself.
After the better part of two years spent feeling little more than depression and bitter frustration, I can’t regret the time I spent with her.
Even so, a part of me wishes it never happened at all.
It would have been better if I’d found someone else that night.
Someone I could have fucked and walked away happier for it. Someone I could have forgotten.
Zelda couldn’t possibly be forgotten. Not by anyone, but certainly not by me.
So far, I’ve resisted the urge to look her up online.
The whole point of leaving the way I did was for it to be a clean break.
That would all be for nothing if I stalked the woman’s every move like an obsessed fan, greedily consuming every paparazzi image or publicity quote as I relive the time we spent together with my hand around my cock.
I have to let it go. I know I have to let it go. Yet, in the two weeks that have passed since I left her, my wretched brain has presented a single, troublesome question that can’t be reasoned away: What if I’d held on?
It comes to me most when I’m lying in bed at night, staring at the ceiling of my bedroom, alone and with no distractions to save me from my masochistic imaginings.
As such, I haven’t had a full night’s sleep since I returned to Ashwell Palace, and my temper—which was hardly tolerable to begin with—has darkened accordingly.
Word must be spreading, too, because Preston Thomas looks as though he’s waiting his turn at the gallows when I enter the press office’s conference room for our weekly appointment.
Our last two were postponed in the wake of the PM’s dramatics, and not having to see his face was the highlight of the past fortnight.
The joke is on me, however, because the sight of another slideshow ready to go on the TV makes me consider running for it.
He has to be in his sixties; it’s not like the man could stop me.
“Your Royal Highness.” Thomas inclines his head respectfully, his hands clasped behind his back. “I have the revised list of appearances ready for you. All have confirmed, and we’re just waiting for your approval.”
I grunt, sliding into my usual chair. “Lovely.”
“Yes,” agrees Thomas with a renewed air of enthusiasm, oblivious to the underlying loathing in my sentiment.
“I do think you’ll be pleased. We’ve made some changes in our overall strategy and have consulted with a top crisis management firm in Switzerland.
They were very impressed with the work we’d done so far, but did have some suggestions to amend our current strategy, and feel confident it will help your overall favorability amongst the public.
” He leans over the table, offering me a piece of paper.
On it, beneath the royal letterhead, is a bulleted list of public appearances, accompanied by dates and a few notes for my public demeanor .
My gaze catches on the second from the top.
“ The Dark House ,” I read, feeling myself frown at the name, which is vaguely familiar. “What is that?”
“A movie, filming just north of Dalmore, in Balloch Castle, Your Highness. It’s a highly anticipated motion picture, and the cast is said to have, ah, broken the internet .” He sounds a little irritated to have been forced to say such an undignified combination of words.
I glance up, bemused. “You want me to be in a movie?”
Thomas appears horrified at the very suggestion.
“Goodness no, sir. You’ll be visiting the set.
It’s been arranged for you to take a tour, given by the director, George Matron himself, before meeting some of the major actors.
I must say, I was skeptical when the firm suggested it, but I do believe the strategy is good.
Many of these actors are popular with the younger demographics we are trying to appeal to, and seeing you on good terms with them can only help.
To reinforce this impression, they will be attending the palace’s first garden party of the season, along with some of the other desirable guests we discussed. ”
So much has happened since our last meeting, I’d quite forgotten the queen candidate they’d been planning to shove at me.
The thought of it alone is enough to make my stomach twist uncomfortably, but as my gaze falls back to the list of appearances Thomas provided, I find I have more pressing concerns to address.
Since I left Fernmoor House, I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time replaying the days I spent with Zelda Flowers.
As such, I’m confident she never mentioned the name of the project she was here working on.
Stelland’s tax incentives and its beautiful wild landscape make the North Country a popular movie location, but even so, there can’t be a very long list of high-profile projects filming at the moment.
Which means there is a very decent chance that The Dark House is Zelda’s movie.
My palms are damp as I lean back in my chair, watching Thomas shuffle through his paperwork, searching for the next horrid document to hand me.
It shouldn’t be a question at all of whether I should go—I know I shouldn’t.
The woman undoubtedly loathes me now, and not one thing about our circumstances has changed.
There is nothing to be gained from going, except angering her, and the logical thing to do here would be to refuse this stop on the PR tour and continue my efforts to put Zelda Flowers behind me.
Possessed by a sudden urgency to know for sure, I clear my throat. “Who is acting in this movie?” I ask Thomas, keeping my voice as flat and uninterested as it ever is while I’m seated in this particular chair.
My press secretary pauses, reaching for his phone on the table and squinting down at the screen, his lips pursed as he pulls something up.
“It seems the lead actors are Davina Lovette, Killian Cassidy, Harris Dixon, and Zelda Flowers. All four are rising stars, allegedly, though I can’t say I’ve seen any of their movies.
Hollywood drivel, no doubt.” He sniffs as he lowers his phone, returning his attention to the paperwork.
God, he’s a snob. It would irritate me more if I hadn’t been sent reeling by the confirmation he just provided.
A part of me, a selfish, cowardly one, doesn’t want to come face-to-face with the hurt or anger in Zelda’s eyes, knowing I’m the one who put them there.
The memories of our time together are some of the happiest of my life, even colored by guilt at my later actions.
Could I stomach thinking of them if I knew the woman on her knees for me in my memories would one day hate me?
“That will be all,” I hear myself say as my press secretary fiddles with the remote to the monitor, clearly intent on subjecting me to another soul-numbing presentation on my many flaws as a public figure.
I stand.
The old man blinks at me, bemused. “Sir?”
“I said that’s all, Thomas, I believe I’ve got the gist of it. In the future, these meetings can be summarized in an email.”
At the spluttering I receive in response to this order, anyone would think I’d just told old Thomas we’d be declaring war on Antarctica. “But, sir. Your brother?—”
“Is dead and gone. His waterlogged corpse is rotting in the abbey as we speak,” I remind him grimly as I fold the paper containing the details of my visit to Zelda’s movie, tucking it securely into my inside breast pocket. “You’re stuck with me now, Thomas. And I would prefer this as an email. ”
Then, ignoring the man’s horrified expression, I cross to the door, pulse racing. After spending the past two weeks in various degrees of guilt-ridden misery, even the possibility of seeing Zelda again is comparable to a shot of adrenaline.
Without stopping to speak to or acknowledge a single person, I stride through the palace to my rooms, an irrational sense of urgency vibrating beneath my skin.
The door has barely closed with a heavy bang behind me before I’m sitting down at the table with my laptop, my fingers flying over the keys.
All the air goes out of me at the first results that come up.
A simple internet search has yielded hundreds of articles, videos, and images, all dedicated to the same dazzling young actress.
None of them seems to be compatible with the woman I came to know, however.
I scroll past picture after picture—everything from headshots to stills from movies, to posters of her in black leather and fangs, to grainy paparazzi photographs of her stepping out of a coffee shop.
No matter how long I stare, I can’t quite reconcile the poised starlet with the pink-cheeked, wild-haired young woman who danced with me in a country pub.