Don't Speak (A Modern Fairytale, #5)(93)

“Please go,” she murmured, half to him, half to herself, staring up at him through blurry eyes as he walked slowly toward her.

When he reached her, he glanced at the room across the hall from hers. The door read “SUPPLIES,” and he leaned against it, slowly letting himself sink to the floor until he was sitting across from her, long legs spread out between them.

His eyes searched her face for a long moment before he raised them to the number on her hotel room door: 208.

She didn’t acknowledge this, just averted her eyes, staring at the worn denim on her knee, picking at it with her finger.

“Wait,” he said. “Is this your room—208?”

His voice held a slight urgency, and she looked up at him, nodding once.

His lips parted and he blinked at her.

“I’m right upstairs from you. You have a . . . Are you here with a kid?”

Every muscle in her body clenched in reaction to these words, and it took every ounce of her strength not to show it outwardly. She nodded. “Yes.”

“Ava Grace,” he murmured.

She flinched. “Yes. How do you know that?”

“I met her at breakfast.” His face still looked stunned, and his eyes searched hers for answers. “She’s yours? Your . . . daughter?”

And yours.

She heard the words in her head but quickly silenced them. She had no interest or desire in sharing her beautiful, trusting, amazing daughter with the man sitting in front of her; with the Governor’s Son.

“Yes.”

“You named her Ava Grace,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.

“Yes,” she said, her eyes welling with tears as she looked up at him because she knew that he was thinking about the little girl at the Elizabethan Gardens, and it made her desperately sad and stupidly happy at the same time.

Her memories with Erik had no accompanying pictures, or friends who had witnessed their relationship. During these long and lonesome years, there was no one with whom to recall happy days or process the devastation of losing him. There was a certain comfort in someone, no matter who it was, remembering with her.

She saw pain cross his features, for sure, followed by an attempt to smile in polite congratulations, but he lost the battle with trying to appear pleased for her and dropped his eyes, staring down at his lap in barely concealed misery.

“So you’re married,” he whispered, the words tight and gravelly.

“No.”

His neck snapped up, his eyes registering surprise, followed briefly by relief and then confusion. “Divorced?”

She clenched her jaw, choosing her words carefully, adding up his meaning: he didn’t realize that Ava Grace was his. He hadn’t put it together. He didn’t know.

For a moment, when he’d whispered her name, Laire was sure it was because he’d put two and two together and realized that she was his daughter, but now she realized that he didn’t know, and a wave of relief made her exhale the breath she’d been holding.

He assumed that she’d been married to Ava Grace’s father. Good. The less he knew about her and Ava Grace, the better. He couldn’t be trusted. He was the worst kind of deceiver, capable of making her believe he truly loved her while he was actually cheating on her every moment they weren’t together.

He doesn’t know, she reassured herself, then decided it would be best to change the subject as quickly as possible, away from their daughter.

“What about you?” she asked.

“What about me?”

“I thought . . . I mean, I heard, a while ago, that you were engaged,” she said, wishing it didn’t hurt her to say these words, but the memory of Mrs. Rexford’s revelations bit and stung like they’d happened much more recently than six years ago.

“No,” he said softly.

“What?”

It was her turn to look up quickly, seizing his eyes to ascertain the truth of these words.

“Never.”

Her heart raced as her eyes scanned his. And as far as she could tell, he wasn’t lying. His eyes were fraught from their reunion, yes, but open and clear, his face neutral. But wait. How was it possible that he’d never been engaged? She’d seen him with Van. He was laughing, his arm around her, a big fat rock on her finger. Laire had seen it with her own eyes. And no, she’d never actually seen a news report that he was married to Van, but she’d always assumed it was just a long engagement. He certainly had been engaged. She’d seen it. She knew it was true—

Oh, fuck. Laire! He’s doing it. Right now. Lying to you. Stop believing everything he says! Whatever else happened or didn’t happen, of course he was engaged to Vanessa Osborn at one point in time. He’s just playing games with you . . . like he always did.

His face wasn’t to be trusted.

His words weren’t to be trusted.

There was no point in even sitting here talking to him, because she had no idea what was truth and what was lies, and she had zero interest in getting sucked back into a toxic, poisonous, cancerous conversation with someone who’d already broken her in half once.

Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me.

Gathering her strength, she pushed off from the floor and slid back up the door, holding his eyes as she rose to her full height, staring down at him with disgust.

“If you’ll excuse me, I need to go get a copy of my key—”