✫✫✫
"HOW COULD YOU?"
King William's jaw hardened through the screen of her tablet. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"How about threatening my fucking doctor?"
She knew she shouldn't have sworn—shouldn't have raised her voice. But the thought of Paris staring into her father's imperious gaze was enough to make her seethe.
Nobody had the right to treat Paris like that.
Not even the king.
"I did what I had to," said her father simply.
"You're a bastard."
She knew she had gone too far the moment he said, "Rory Camille."
Her first and middle name.
Only her mother had ever called her that—tickling her as a kid, saying, Miss Rory Camille! I'm going to get you!
"You want a surgery for iron rods in your leg," said the king stiffly.
"I want to make it to the . . . I want to heal faster."
"I've already signed it. Do what you will, Rory. Just know my promise still stands strong, and by the end of the six weeks, you know what I expect."
A perfect, prim, proper princess.
That was what he expected.
But Rory couldn't stop the feeling of adrenaline as it raced beneath her skin, lighting her up with the sheer electricity of victory.
He had agreed.
He had agreed.
At the Charity Gala, she would be able to make a donation to the Joyful Heart Foundation. A crisis center dedicated to helping survivors of rape and sexual assault.
And maybe it didn't seem like much, but doing this would solidify the rumours.
Doing this would confirm the truth.
Her father might really disinherit her. But she needed it—they needed it. The girls who had been hurt by Declan.
Even if he was dead, even if it was too late, she had to try.
✫✫✫
"ARE YOU NERVOUS?"
"No," Rory lied.
"Try again," Paris said, giving her a knowing smile. "What was that talk we had about pride?"
That I would fight for you?
That I will never stop fighting for you?
"I'm a little nervous," Rory admitted.
Two days after the call with her father, she was laying back in the hospital bed as it glided through the corridors towards the OR.
"It's okay to be nervous," Paris said. "You'll be fine."
They had arrived at the entrance to the operation room.
The face of a kind nurse was suddenly hovering above Rory and she said, "Are you ready for the anesthesia?"
Rory swallowed. Nodded.
The moment the needle slid into her inner elbow, calm soaked into her veins. Drenching her in soft, still water.
Her head was underwater. She was breathing at the bottom of a lake.
"You'll be alright, Princess," Paris whispered.
Her soft smile was the last thing Rory saw before the undercurrent slipped over her. The darkness enveloped her like a sweet dream.
She was sinking. Down, down, down.
Shadow and silence and the memory of her mother, giving her what she hadn't known would be a final goodbye before she took off into the night.
But then Paris's steady fingers closed over her own, and it kept Rory from drowning.
✫✫✫
"SHE'S LYING."
"LISTEN, RORY, I . . ."
But Rory continued pacing the stone ledge on the outskirts of Vega's Boarding Academy. She had shortened the black skirt they were forced to wear, so it rustled around her thighs as she strode from end to end.
Paris was sitting cross-legged on the grass, squinting up at the sun.
"I don't believe it!" Rory snapped. "How can anybody possibly believe this? He's my brother. He's the prince. He's—"
"None of that makes him a good person," Paris said softly.
"Whose side are you on?" Rory snarled.
They were both sixteen. They had been given their midday break, and their next period was English—the class where they had first acted out their iconic Romeo and Juliet scene.
"But we know Billie," Paris said. "She's not a liar."
Rory rounded on her.
"Are you saying my brother is the one who's lying?"
"I'm saying maybe we should look at this from both sides."
It was always so difficult to rile Paris. She was so calm and level-headed that Rory's hot temper usually bounced off her.
And usually, Rory appreciated that. Paris knew when to argue and when to stand her ground. But standing her ground today meant—
It meant Paris believed there was a possibility.
A possibility that the rumours were true.
A possibility that Billie wasn't lying.
But Declan was all Rory had. He was her idol. And if this was true . . . if this was true . . . the person she had looked up to all these years hadn't been real.
"No," Rory growled, still pacing. The wind swirled through her hair. "It can't be true."
Paris stood now. Her face was awash in the summer glow of afternoon, and she looked so beautiful—she always looked so beautiful—that sometimes Rory thought she might never deserve her.
"Your brother isn't perfect," she said.
"I know that. Don't you think I know that?"
"But Billie . . . I believe her. I believe her, and I'm sorry."
Rory jumped down from the rocky ledge. Her hair whipped in the wind between them, and Rory tucked the strands back from her face as she said, "What are you sorry for?"
"I'm sorry this has to be true."
"We don't know—"
"If this wasn't Declan, who would you believe, Rory? The girl with the bruises, with the proof, or the boy who ran from the crime scene?"
"Declan didn't run away. He's in Bora Bora because he—"
"Listen to yourself," Paris said fiercely, stepping closer. "These are excuses and you know. You know the truth, Rory. Deep down."
But Rory only clenched her jaw.
"Let's not talk about this anymore," she said.
There was something dark and ruinous and ravaging in Paris's face as she said, "Fine."
"Fine."
But they would talk about it again. Two years later, when they were both eighteen, in the St. Anastasia church. And it would end everything.
✫✫✫
RORY FELT LIKE SHIT WHEN SHE WOKE UP.
The numbness was an icy caress, but it couldn't take away the knowing. There was now metal inside of her. Iron in her bones.
Her eyes fluttered open. Her throat parched.
"You're awake," said a girl's voice.
That . . . wasn't Paris.
The blurriness of the world sharpened as Rory turned her head.
Dhonielle was leaning over her bedside, looking down at her. Her round eyes were bright and excited.
"I'm so glad you're awake!"
"Thanks," Rory said. The words scraped against her throat.
"Here's your will."
"My . . . will?"
"You can sign right here that in the case of an emergency, you're leaving the royal throne to me. So next time this happens, I'll be queen and there will be no anarchy in the kingdom when I begin my rule."
Eight years old—hadn't Paris said she was eight?
Rory coughed. "Sure . . . no problem."
Dhonielle thrust a paper in her direction, marked with red crayon that read: The Formal and Oficcel Will of Princess Rory When She Dies Or Is In A Coma Or Sleeping.
In slightly smaller letters, Dhonielle had written: If anything ever happens to Princess Rory (such as Death or Destruction), the title of Princess is hereby bestowed on I, Dhonielle.
Rory signed her name on the squiggly line at the bottom.
"There you go," she said, grinning.
"Thanks!" Dhonielle said brightly, and she snatched the paper away, skipping out of the room just as Paris came in.
It was clear Paris hadn't been expecting Rory to be awake. Her golden-brown eyes widened, a soft blush pinkening her brown skin.
"Miss Preston."
"Paris," Rory whispered. "Doc—I mean, Doctor Young."
Paris smiled—just a little, but it was enough to make Rory's blood sing.
"Seems like the anesthesia isn't completely out of your system," Paris said, looking down at her chart.
Rory grinned.
"Quick question, Doc," she said. "Why are all the lights off? Because if this is your way of getting me in the mood, you should know I'm always in the mood for you. But if you really wanted to make it special, I'd suggest candles, rose petals and—"
Paris gave her a cool look. "It's a temporary power outage, actually. It's predicted we'll be having them all week. This storm is going to last awhile."
"What about the backup generators?"
"They're being used for things like that," Paris said, and she nodded to the black screen next to Rory. A green line cut across, dropping up and down. Her heartbeat.
"Oh," Rory breathed.
Oh. That was all she could manage.
It had to be the anesthesia. She was off her game right now.
She could only focus on the slash of Paris's jaw as she removed her IV. The sprinkle of freckles on her warm brown skin. The glisten of her caramel eyes.
"So . . . the storm."
Paris raised an eyebrow.
"The storm," she agreed.
"Are you used to these? Is winter always this heavy?"
Uneasily, Paris said, "No, not really. I know it's Canada, but . . . well, we haven't had a storm this bad in twenty years."
"But you always get snow during winter?"
"Yeah," Paris said, and she smiled wistfully. "I love snow."
"Then your childhood—you probably spent a lot of time making snowmen. Snow angels. Did you play hockey? Isn't that what you Canadians are known for?"
Paris let out a laugh, and the sound was like honey to Rory.
"I don't play hockey," Paris confessed. "I don't even know how to ice skate."
"You don't know how to . . . what?"
"I'm so uncoordinated. Ice skating and I, we just don't mix."
"No," Rory said. "No, no, no. I refuse to believe this. You have to know how to ice skate. Skating is practically Canadian. Even I know how."
"But you always loved sports. I was never a fan of gym class."
"Yes, but . . ." Rory was at a loss for words. "Skating."
"Trust me, I doubt I'm missing anything."
"No, this simply won't do," Rory said. "I'm going to teach you how to ice skate."
Paris glanced at the thick cast her leg was wrapped in.
Probably a reference to the surgery Rory had just finished. Or the snowboarding accident. Or the iron rods in her leg.
"I don't care," Rory said stubbornly. "You're going to learn."
Paris rolled her eyes. "Whatever you say, Preston."
Preston. It was a step up from Miss or Princess.
"No," Rory said confidently. "We are definitely going to go ice skating. I swear it to you, Paris Alvarez Young. You're going to be a professional by the time I'm done with you."
But even though Paris smiled, Rory knew she didn't believe her.
That's okay, she thought.
Fighting for Paris wouldn't be easy, but it would be worth it.
✫✫✫
Last chapter of the day!
Have you been catching my drift? Because I'm so excited to write what happens during this storm and I have to physically restrain myself because I am now going to work out.
Also, I'm convinced that Taylor Swift and Harry Styles committed vehicular manslaughter together in 2012.
From the moon and back,
Sarai