Page 18

Chapter 18

Piers

W e hike the same trail every morning. The first time, Fantasia barely made it half a mile before she had to stop, hands braced on her knees, cursing me under her breath. Now, she pushes through, her pace steady, her breath controlled.

She still glares at me when I make her go farther.

But she doesn’t stop.

I haven’t asked Fantasia what she wants to do next, haven’t prodded. Sometimes it’s not important to know, and after going through everything she’s gone through, I think she’s happier to just… exist.

Three weeks have passed since I brought Fantasia to this cabin, and every day we’ve spent here has felt too surreal to be real. It’s peaceful in a way neither of us is used to, filled with still mornings and quiet comforts. Nights are even warmer- me buried deep inside her, claiming her over and over until she forgets there was ever a world outside our cabin.

I know I’m going to get hell when I finally answer Achilles’s calls. But right now, I don’t care. And I don’t care about checking in on Wesley Hall either. I prefer spending every minute I can with Fantasia, taking her on hikes to build her strength back up and to instill a fierce love of the outdoors. We play chess and read books in quiet companionship and drink grape juice served in wine glasses to ease her withdrawals.

It hasn’t been smooth sailing though. One night, she clutched the wine glass with shaking hands before setting it down and burying her face in her hands, whispering, “I hate this. I hate all of it.” And another night she hurled the wine glass into the fire, the flames hissing as she yelled, “I’m tired of pretending this is enough!” But I remained calm. I didn’t flinch when she lashed out, didn’t try to fix it with empty reassurances. I just sat beside her, waiting. Letting her anger burn itself out, letting the silence settle like the ashes in the fire.

The dirt path winds up the hillside, past moss-covered boulders and towering pines. The air is cool, crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and pine needles. A hawk cries in the distance, the sound sharp against the silence between us.

She’s not one for small talk out here. Not that I mind.

It’s peaceful.

When we reach the top, she doesn’t hesitate, stepping onto the rocky outcrop and tilting her face toward the sun.

Yesterday, Fantasia made it up the trail without stopping, she didn’t say a word. Just stood at the top, hands on her hips, looking out over the forest like she owned it. Like she’d conquered it.

I didn’t congratulate her. Didn’t tell her I was proud.

Didn’t have to.

The satisfaction in her eyes was enough.

She moves with more confidence, though there’s still a noticeable hesitation in her steps, as if her body is catching up with her resolve. The strength she lost returning in increments, her body regaining the muscle and weight she lost over months of self-destruction. She’s not where she was before, but she’s getting there. And watching her fight her way back- watching her refuse to be weak- feels like watching a storm build on the horizon.

Beautiful.

Dangerous.

Unstoppable.

At the summit, the trees thin out, opening up to an outcropping of rock that overlooks the valley below. I stop a few steps behind her, letting her take it in. Her chest rises and falls, her breath still uneven, but she doesn’t complain.

“Not bad,” I say.

She scoffs, shooting me a glare over her shoulder. “Not bad?”

I smirk. “You’ve done worse.”

Fantasia rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t argue. Just turns her gaze back to the view, arms crossed.

A breeze sweeps past us, lifting strands of her dark hair, and she closes her eyes like she’s letting it fill her up. She’s still pale and thin, but a shimmer of color is returning to her cheeks… and she’s here. Alive. Stronger than she was.

I step closer, drawn in before I realize I’m moving.

“Why are you really doing this?” Her voice is quieter now, a blade wrapped in velvet.

I could feed her the easy lie- strategy, control, self-preservation - but my fingers move first, tucking that rebellious strand of hair behind her ear. My knuckles graze her cheekbone. Her breath stops.

Mine does too.

“You’re setting yourself up for disappointment.” Flat words, but her eyes are wildfire searching for kindling in mine.

I tilt my head, all feigned innocence. “Enlighten me.”

She crosses her arms, her shoulders tightening. “You keep staring at me like… like I’m some restoration project. Like you think I’ll magically become someone worth sticking around for.”

A muscle jumps in my jaw. “You think I’m that stupid?”

Her eyes dart away- just a flash of vulnerability before the walls come back up. “I think you’re stubborn. And stubborn people do stupid things.”

A slow smile cuts across my face as her breath hitches- the only tell I need. “Maybe I just know how this ends.”

Her laugh is sharp. “You’re delusional if you think this ends with me wearing white and walking down some aisle.”

“I don’t need you in white, Fantasia.” My voice is firm, unwavering. “I just need you.”

She goes statue-still- lips parted, eyes wide with something between terror and hunger. Then the mask slams down with a shake of her head. “You’re insane.”

“No.” My voice drops to something intimate, dangerous. I crowd into her space, refusing to let her look away. “You've always known we fit. And one day, when those walls finally crumble…” I press closer, my mouth at her ear, “... you'll beg me to put a ring on it .”

She recoils like I've branded her, arms wrapping tight around herself. “You'll die waiting.”

I catch her wrist, spinning her back to face me. “What's life without a little gamble, sweetheart?”

For one charged second, her eyes scream everything her mouth won't. Then she wrenches free, kicking loose gravel as she strides ahead with forced nonchalance.

“Move your ass,” she tosses over her shoulder. “I’m starving.”

I exhale through my nose, watching her go.

Then I follow.

Back at the cabin, the firelight flickers, catching the rim of Fantasia’s glass as she swirls the grape juice inside. She still gets that hazy, far-off look in her eyes from time to time, but she doesn’t reach for distractions as often.

I notice the absence of breakfast- the table left untouched, no sign of Chef Marcel’s usual spread. I shrug, trying to pass it off. “Maybe he’s sick,” I say. “I’ll call the front desk later, see if they’ve heard anything.”

“I’m surprised you’re not going insane,” Fantasia muses, and for a second I think she’s talking to herself. Then her gaze meets mine, her pale green eyes sharp even in the dim lighting. “You haven’t been taking calls, haven’t checked in at Wesley Hall. You’ve never been the type to sit still for long.”

I consider that. “Maybe I’ve been running long enough.”

I pause, looking down at the deep purple liquid swirling in my glass. “And maybe I’ve avoided the inevitable long enough too.” I lift my eyes to meet hers, resolve hardening in my chest. It’s time I get my answers. I take a slow sip, then set the glass down. “Why did you do it?”

Fantasia doesn’t pretend not to understand. Her fingers tighten slightly around the stem of her glass, but she doesn’t withdraw.

She exhales through her nose, eyes burning into the firelight. “You already know why.”

“I need to hear it.”

Her jaw tenses. For a long moment, I think she’s going to shut down, to throw up the walls she’s so good at building. But then she shifts in her seat, setting her glass on the coffee table, fingers still lingering on the rim.

“I spent my entire life knowing exactly who I was supposed to be,” she says quietly. “I was raised for this. I learned how to lead, how to fight, how to command. And no matter what I did, it was never going to be enough. Because in the end, my father didn’t choose me.”

She finally looks at me, and something sharp lodges itself in my chest.

“He chose you.”

The words land like a strike, but not because they’re unexpected. Because I hear something beneath them, something bitter and raw.

“I wasn’t his blood, and I was still what he wanted,” I say, not as an argument but as a fact.

Fantasia lets out a humorless laugh, shaking her head. “And that’s the part I could never understand. I did everything right. I was born into this. It should’ve been mine.” She swipes a hand through her hair, exhaling hard. “But instead, he handed everything to you, like it was nothing.”

I let her words settle.

I’ve thought about this before- how unfair it must’ve felt for her, how infuriating it had to be to watch someone else step into the role she was raised to take. But hearing her say it, hearing the quiet devastation behind the words, is different.

“I knew that you wanted to inherit, but deep down, I always thought I could marry you one day, and when you were old enough, none of it would matter. I thought everything that was mine would one day be yours anyway.”

Fantasia exhales, slow and measured. She shifts, pressing her palm flat against her thigh, fingers splayed, as if grounding herself. For a moment, her lips part- like she might say something else. But then she closes them, swallows once, and when she speaks, her voice is razor-sharp.

“I wanted you to die.” She doesn’t flinch as she says it, doesn’t soften the words or offer any hesitation. Just states it like a fact, like a conclusion she came to long ago. “To conveniently stop being a problem.”

“You think I wanted any of this?” My voice is steady, but there’s an edge to it. “You think I ever asked for it?”

Fantasia’s lips press into a thin line. “That’s the worst part, isn’t it? You never had to ask. You just had to be.”

“And look how well that worked out,” she continues, gesturing around the cabin. “Here you are, hiding in the mountains with me instead of where you actually belong.”

The accusation sinks deep, and I don’t have a rebuttal.

Because she’s right.

I never wanted an empire. Never cared about the weight of the name I was given. But Fantasia? It was all she ever knew. All she ever fought for. And when it was taken from her, she didn’t know how to handle it.

So she tried to take me out instead.

I should be furious. I should throw it back in her face.

But before I can respond, before I can say something that might shatter the fragile ground we’re standing on, a noise cuts through the quiet.

A scuffle.

Then a thud.

Something- someone- slamming against the side of the cabin.

My body goes rigid.

Fantasia freezes, her eyes meeting mine in instant understanding. The peaceful bubble we've been living in has just burst.

“Piers?” Fantasia's voice is barely a whisper, but I hear the steel beneath it. Three weeks of healing haven't erased years of survival instinct.

I move silently to the window, keeping to the shadows. Through the trees, I catch glimpses of movement- dark figures slipping between the trunks. Professional. Coordinated.

We’re not alone.

I turn to her, and in that moment, I see both versions of her- the woman who tried to have me killed, and the one who's been healing beside me. Neither of them is the type to go down without a fight.