Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 88960 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88960 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
There’s nothing.
But Mrs. Lyme sees. Her eyes flicker to his hands, then back up. Her brow furrows.
She knows.
She knows what this is costing him.
But I don’t. I can’t see anything past the tears and the humiliation and the shattering of every hope I’d let myself feel.
Devyn opens his mouth.
“You are unfit to be my queen.”
Someone gasps. Someone sobs.
I can’t breathe.
“You are hereby banished from my presence.”
The room spins. My knees buckle. Only the guards’ hands keep me upright.
What do I do now?
Chapter Fifteen
THE LIMO IS TAKING me somewhere.
I don’t ask where. I can’t even find the energy.
The guards deposited me here after Devyn’s final words. Opened the door, guided me in with hands that were almost gentle, closed the door behind me. No explanation. No destination. Just the smooth hum of the engine and the blur of trees outside the tinted windows.
The leather seat is cold against my back. The AC hums at a frequency just below hearing, raising goosebumps on my arms. Amber light filters through the tinted glass, turning everything sepia-toned, like an old photograph. Like a memory already fading.
I should care where I’m being taken.
I don’t.
My eyes are swollen. My throat is raw. I’ve cried so much that my face feels like it belongs to someone else, puffy and hot and wrong.
You are unfit to be my queen.
You are hereby banished from my presence.
The words keep echoing. Over and over. A loop I can’t escape.
Something catches my eye. A glint of light from the built-in cabinet beside me. Absently, more out of reflex than curiosity, I reach over and open it.
A book.
Small. Leather-bound. Sparkling faintly in a way that seems almost deliberate, like it wants to be noticed.
I pick it up. It’s warm. Body temperature. The same impossible warmth I remember from another book, in another place, a lifetime ago.
I flip to the back.
There’s a bookplate. Elegant. Gold-edged.
Library of Hewhay.
My breath catches.
I open the book.
The pages are blank at first. Creamy white. Empty.
Then words begin to appear. Not printed. Not typed. They bloom onto the page like ink spreading through water, written by an invisible hand.
A choice, Bailey Sutton.
More words appear.
A) Turn to the next page to return to your old world and begin again.
B) Close the book and remain in this world.
My hands tremble.
Go back. I could go back. To my old life, my old world. Before Devyn. Before the wedding. Before I learned what it felt like to be seen, really seen, by someone who looked at me like I mattered.
Before I learned what it felt like to have that taken away.
My heart is raw from all the aching. My eyes are swollen and aching just as bad from all the tears I’ve cried.
But.
But I love him.
Even now. Even after everything. I love him.
Surely this is all a misunderstanding? Surely there’s an explanation. Surely the man who called three kings to protect me, who flew my mother across the country, who kissed me like I was the only thing in the world worth having—
Surely there’s still hope.
I start to close the book.
A cat darts across the road.
The chauffeur slams the brakes.
The book flies out of my hands.
It lands on the floor of the limo, splayed open.
To the next page.
Oh dear, I think.
New words appear on the open page.
Oh dear, the book writes back. The decision has been taken out of your hands. Literally and figuratively.
The text has me scrambling for the book, but my fingers pass through the pages like they’re made of mist.
In the count of three, the words continue, you will find yourself—
Three, I think desperately.
—back in your old world—
Two.
—where a new beginning awaits.
One—
WHOA.
The limo is gone.
I’m standing in Lauve Studio.
And I’m wearing a wedding dress.
The familiar space surrounds me: exposed brick walls, high ceilings, natural light streaming through the massive windows. Cool and clean, maybe 5600K—daylight balanced, the way Heart always insisted. The smell of fresh flowers and expensive perfume. The soft click of a camera shutter.
I know this place. I worked here. I stood behind that camera for years, invisible, capturing other women’s happiest moments while I disappeared into the background.
But now I’m the one in white. The one in front of the lens.
White.
I’m wearing white to my own wedding.
In Devyn’s world, I wore black. Stood in that chapel like a ghost, a death omen, while everyone stared. But here—here I look like a bride. A real bride. The way I always imagined it.
The thought should make me happy.
It doesn’t.
And the one behind the camera—
“Beautiful, Bailey. Just gorgeous.”
I know that voice.
Marilyn Yuson lowers the camera and beams at me.
Marilyn. My high school bully. The woman who walked into this very studio with a designer engagement ring and a smile that said I remember exactly who you are, and isn’t this fun?
That Marilyn is now the photographer.
And I’m the bride.
What is happening?
I reach for my phone. It’s in my hand somehow, tucked against my palm like I was holding it before I arrived. The screen lights up and I see a photo.