The Controversial Princess (The Smoke & Mirrors Duology #1)(94)
It is a relief when his phone rings and interrupts him. “Hey darling,” he answers, all chirpy.
“Hey, you on your way home yet?” his wife, Mandy, asks.
“Just left the palace.”
“Good day?”
“Always interesting.” He takes a corner a bit too sharply. “Everything okay?”
“Yes. Dinner’s nearly ready. Will you stop and pick up some wine?”
Yes! Stop and pick up some wine. Right around here would be super.
“Sure,” Damon says. “Red?”
“We have steak, so that will be perfect.”
“Steak?” The interest in his voice makes me smile. “Steak’s my favorite.”
“I know it is,” Mandy teases. “And if you eat it all up like a good boy, I have something special for dessert.”
My eyes bug, and I blush, despite no one being able to see me. I’m sure the car picks up speed.
“I’ll be quick.”
She laughs. “But don’t kill yourself being quick, okay? I want my husband home in one piece. Save your speed skills for when Princess Adeline needs them.”
“Got it.”
Listening to my bodyguard chatting with his wife, just like a normal married couple, makes my heart swell. I want that. Normal. Talking about what’s for dinner and what wine we might have with it.
“I’m just coming up to Sainsbury’s. See you when I get home.” Damon pulls to a stop. “And Mandy?”
“Yes?”
“Be naked when I get there.”
I die where I’m balled up, covering my twisted face as best I can with my limited movement. This journey has been more painful than I ever imagined, and not only because my arms and legs are bent at the most insane angles. When Damon gets out of the car and slams the door, clearly in a hurry, I release all the air I have been holding, breathing properly for the first time in fifteen minutes. He’s in a rush. It won’t be long before he’s heading back out of the store with his bottle of red to race home to his wife.
Peeking up out of the window, I see the entrance to the store and Damon disappearing into it. “Thank goodness,” I sigh, wrestling my way up from the floor of the car. Pulling the door handle, I practically fall into a pile onto the pavement. I can’t appreciate the sense of freedom, nor can I relish the stretch of my muscles. No. I get none of those luxuries, because the alarm of Damon’s car starts screaming at me. I stiffen and look left and right, seeing plenty of people, yet none of them particularly bothered by the shrill sound of the nearby car alarm. I skulk away, pulling the peak of my cap down, at the same time trying to gauge where I am. It’s only at this point in my thirty-year existence that I appreciate how isolated I have been. I’ve lived in this city for three decades, yet I haven’t the first idea of where I am. I recognize nothing.
I resort to finding a sign to gain my bearings. Chelsea Bridge. It’s only my mental map of London that can offer me my route and how long it might take me. It’s at least a forty-minute walk. That doesn’t bother me so much. It’s the vigilance I’ll need to maintain that worries me more. The thought makes me lower my head, while trying to look up for signs of a black cab. I spot one and wave my arm, but it sails by. And then another does, and then one stops but some rude person dives in before I make it off the curb. I sigh and start a brisk walk toward the end of the road, my shoulders huddled high, my head bowed. I don’t make eye contact with anyone, dare not look up higher than the slabs before me. I’m jostled on the pavement by the crowds, and with each step I take, my nerves become more frayed. I feel so small out here, alone in the world, so utterly vulnerable.
My breathing is labored half an hour into my walk, and it has nothing to do with the brisk pace I have maintained. A harsh bump of my shoulder nearly spins me on the spot, and a suited man curses me for getting in his way. “Look where you’re going,” he yells. I mutter an apology, my chin nearly touching my chest to avoid what I know will be an angry glare.
I collide with another pedestrian, my body ricocheting back a few feet. “Watch it!”
The thuds of my heart are becoming heavier, my anxiety growing. I’m out of my depth. I reach for my phone and realize I haven’t switched it back on. My shaking hands fumble to bring it to life as I’m knocked out of the path of a young woman.
“Pay attention,” she barks as my phone crashes to the ground. The back of my mobile cracks and the screen shatters as it jumps around my feet. I gasp and lower to gather it up, my crouching body obstructing the pavement. I’m kicked by someone passing, and someone trips up my arm as I reach to snatch up my phone.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, being cursed at from every direction, the annoyed voices all morphing into one beastly scorn. I need to call Josh. I need someone to come find me. I’m becoming more and more panicked. The irony doesn’t escape me. Here’s me, always fighting the constraint, and now I have freedom—actual freedom—and I’m terrified. What if someone recognizes me? What if a photographer snaps a photo of me? I rise and hurry on my way, at the same time trying to turn on my phone, praying it’s not broken. My fumbling hands refuse to stop trembling, and when my phone comes to life, all that greets me is a green, fuzzy screen. I swallow, feeling tears burning the back of my eyes, and break into a jog, desperate to escape the chaotic streets of London.