I want to correct her, tell her that Declan parted ways with Cal and was making a strong name for himself as an international real estate developer, but I’d rather her not know my link to him.
“He attended St. Andrews at the same time Prince William did,” she adds with enthusiasm, but I don’t care about the trivial anecdotes she seems to take pride in.
Anxious to be alone, I take my last bite of egg and excuse myself. “Do you mind if I take this with me?” I ask about the magazine.
“Of course not.”
“Thank you.”
When I close the door to my room, I sit down at the small desk near the window and open the article with Declan’s photo. Alone with my love, I run my fingers over his face and pretend it’s real. I shut my eyes and try to smell him, but there’s nothing except the lingering fragrance of my perfume in the air.
I look back at him and then begin to read the article that the photo accompanies. I feel my smile grow the further I read. And when I discover a charity event where Declan will be the guest of honor, I know this is an opportunity that I must take full advantage of—and I will. I continue to read the piece that boasts about the charities Declan supports and advocates for.
I note the function where he will be honored is being held this Saturday evening at his alma mater, and start scheming.
AFTER READING THE article a couple days ago, I went ahead and made my day trip to Edinburgh, but not after making a few phone calls. The foundation that Declan is being honored for and has become one of the main financial contributors to is one that strives to offer valuable education to under-privileged children. Knowing there will be so many eyes on him at this event, I think it will be the perfect opportunity to talk to him. I doubt he would cause a scene, but rather be forced to be cordial for the good graces of the attendees. He’d have to stand there and listen to me. So I went ahead and became a donor myself, and the sizable check I wrote secured me a seat at the event.
As I stand in front of the full-length mirror here in my hotel room in Saint Andrews, I run my hands down the lace overlay of my navy dress. The thin material hugs my petite form, just barely skimming the floor. I wear my hair down in soft waves to hide the still-grotesque wound on the back of my head. I continue to pick at it daily, and it’s grown in size. I don’t want it to heal because it’s the only physical thing I have to represent Declan. His gift to me, created by his own hands. He gave it to me, and I refuse to let it go. It serves a multitude of purposes: it’s my vice, my pain reliever, my trophy, my reminder, my solace. My love, branded into my flesh, and I own it happily.
When I’m satisfied with my appearance, I pick up my invitation and pashmina before heading down to the lobby. The car I called for is already waiting out front, and my heart beats in anticipation as the driver opens the door for me. I’ve granted myself permission to be vulnerable ever since I woke up in the hospital, exhausted from the emotions I finally allowed to erupt inside of me.
But now . . . now it’s time to focus.
I know what I want, and I need to do whatever it takes to get Declan to talk to me, to hear my words, and to understand and believe in what we had. To know it wasn’t a lie—not all of it. To know I didn’t want him to kill, I didn’t want to use him or betray him, but that everything spun out of control so fast I couldn’t stop what had already been set into motion.
When we arrive and pass through the gate of Saint Andrews University, I take a moment to admire the historic buildings, aged to refinement. The car jostles along the cobblestone road and slows in front of a building that’s adorned with rustic, fire-lit lanterns and a red carpet lined with press photographers. It’s foreign that I would attend an event alone and not know a single person, but I refuse to let insecurity taint me.
The car stops and I watch women dressed to the nines in their designer gowns and men in their kilts and fly plaids. I take a hard swallow, straighten my spine, and reach out for the hand of the usher who opens my door.
“Miss,” he greets with a nod. “Will you be joined by a companion?”
“No.”
“May I escort you?”
“That would be lovely,” I accept graciously.
I feign my right to belong and mingle among, what appears to be, the high society of the UK—wealth and prestige. But I’m good at what I do, veiling the disgust that molds me as the vile human I really am.
Looping my arm through his, he introduces in his heavy brogue, “I’m Lachlan.”
I look up at his broad, clean-shaven face and smile at the forty-something-year-old man with dark hair distinguished by flakes of silver. Putting on the charm I perfected while married to Bennett, I remark with flirtation, “And where is your companion?”
“I’m without as well.”
“Really? That surprises me.”
“And why’s that?”
“Truthfully?” I question, lifting a brow to create amusement, and when he smiles and nods, I’m blunt, telling him, “You’re startlingly attractive. I find it hard to believe you’re not here with a little tart attached to your arm.”
His chuckle is deep and rich when he responds, “Oh, but I do have a beautiful little, what did you call it?—tart?—stuck to my arm.”
I join in his laughter. “Elizabeth.”
“Elizabeth?”
“My name, it’s Elizabeth. And I assure you, I’m no tart.”
LACHLAN AND I are all smiles when he leads me into the magnificent ballroom, draped in luxury. The room is masculine, smelling of rich varnish and weathered books, dark mahogany walls, and the finest champagne being served off of polished antique silver trays. As a waiter passes me, I pluck a sparkling flute from the tray.