It’s my fault.

I clamp my molars on the inside of my cheek as I look down at my phone.

Rhodes sued by ex-fiancé, Parsons grocery heir

In the silence of the castle library, the iPhone clicks as I swipe my thumb over the screen again. Several new retweets in the last minute. Twitter is exploding over the E! News story. Exploding like I wish I could explode that motherfucker’s skull.

I toss back the rest of my whiskey and pour another tumbler full. After only a moment’s hesitation, I down it, too.

Only then do I let out a long breath. I can feel my heart rate slow, my shoulders slacken.

The roar of stress that’s taken up residence in my head these last six months dims a little, so I can ignore it if I try. Even this fresh fury—at Bryce Parsons, for what he did back then and what he’s doing now—has lost its edge.

I rub my lips together, contemplating the risks and benefits of having the motherfucker killed. I love this feeling: the strange, cold rage of strong emotions fuzzed by liquor. I laugh in the darkness. Not darkness exactly. More just…blue.

I get up and walk to one of the windows, look out over Cold Sound. In the dusky blue light, the ocean looks black, and deceptively flat. In bright light, you can see the small white-caps of current rushing between the Isle of Gael’s north border and tiny Sheep Island thirty meters out. The current there is brutal: inaccessible by most boats.

In bygone times, when Gael was under threat, the royal family would be whisked away by special boat and hidden there among the sheep. I feel a dull shot of longing for such a clean escape before my mind boomerangs to Lucy.

Lucy Rhodes.

I check Twitter again. Let out the breath that I’ve been holding.

Fucking Parsons.

When Lucy fell asleep that night, her body tucked against my chest, her soft face pressed against my throat, the first thing I did was lie there, inhaling her sweet scent and feeling her warm curves against my harder planes. But after that, I left a guard at her door and went to find my old friend Dec.

He noted my unzipped fly and smirked, but when he realized how pissed off I was, he knew he couldn’t bullshit me.

“What was wrong with her? Carolina told me she saw Lucy drop her flute when she saw a market heir? Rice?”

“Bryce.” He nodded. “Bryce Parsons. His family owns Parsons’ Grocers. Mr. Parsons has been escorted from the premises.”

“Tell me,” I demanded.

“Tell you what?”

“You know what. Tell me what the fuck he did to her! Don’t lie to me, Dec. Why did you have him thrown out?”

He shook his head, rubbing his jaw as he stared at his half-drained tumbler.

“Declan.”

“It’s not mine to tell.”

“She came upstairs…fucked up. Distraught, not drunk but scared. I tried to calm her down.” I shake my head. That isn’t really true. I left her there at first. I feel like shit for it now. I let my irritation zero in on Declan. “I’ll find out somehow. And when I do, I’m going after him.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean kick his fucking ass. Dec, you didn’t see her. She was shaking. She settled down, but for a second I was going to find you. I thought we’d need to take her somewhere.”

“Damn.” He rubs his forehead.

And so—Dec told me. What he learned from Maggie. What most people in their circle knew but never said. That Bryce and Lucy had been engaged, and the fucker had raped her. Gotten all amped up on something and hurt her at a Hamptons party two summers ago.

Their families had settled out of court—something we don’t allow in Gael in cases of abuse—and after that, Lucy had left The Rhodes of Concord. Moved out to Colorado.

“You’re sure?” I asked. “It’s all true?”

He nodded.

Half an hour later, we were down on Parsons’ beach. I came at the motherfucker first, threw a bag over his head. Declan helped me fuck him up. After it was over, he thought I had gone too far. I laughed.

“Too far, he wouldn’t be breathing.”

Dec and I go way back. We’ve been friends since we were wearing diapers, since my mother was alive.

He’s a real friend. Really more a brother.

I text him now and get a reply in seconds. Yes, it’s true. Parsons heard I fucked her—Lucy—that night, and he’s suing her for breach of contract, for breaching the non-disclosure agreement Americans lump in with their cowardly out-of-court settlements. He’s assuming Lucy told me about her past with him.

I rest my forehead on the window. Blow a breath out. Watch it fog.

I can’t tell Parsons it wasn’t Lucy who told me without linking myself more formally to his beating. But if I don’t say something—if I don’t tell him it’s not a very well-kept secret; if I don’t tell him Dec told me; if I don’t tell him something to clear Lucy—that bastard will sue her.

I slide my phone into my pocket and go pour another glass.

* * *

I’ve never been afraid to stay at my Estes house alone before. Never. Not once. Until tonight.

Amelia is flying in tomorrow afternoon. I told her she didn’t need to. She said nothing could stop her. She mentioned Charley wants to come out next week, and Mags might come a few days then, too. As if it’s just coincidence and I don’t know they had a pow-wow.

I spend the afternoon making phone calls to my legal team, my family, and my therapist, who’s taken the liberty of leaving me a pep-talk voice mail. I’m still seeing her every third week—she’s here in Estes—but I decide not to call her back just yet. I need to sit with this.

Or so I think.

The doorbell rings just after sunset, and it startles me so much, I toss my phone halfway across the dining room table, causing Grey to jump onto the fireplace mantel.

I peek at the porch through a curtain in the formal dining room and feel my body slacken when I see it’s only Frieda.

Who did you think it would be?

I think about the question after Frieda leaves, having given me some honey from the hives behind their house and confirmed for my mom that I’m okay.

Who did I think would be at the door? Who do I think will be at the door or one of the windows tonight, I ask myself as I sit in the billiards room playing solitaire with shaking fingers.

Not Bryce. But maybe someone sent here by him.

Rationally, it sounds ridiculous that I’m scared he’ll have me harmed or even killed. But fear’s not rational.

I missed a thousand warnings signs with Bryce while we were dating. The way, when we were in high school, he used to clamp his fingers around the nape of my neck, under my hair, and steer me around at parties. The way he only ever wanted doggie-style sex, and he would wrap something around my neck and tug on it and call me “whore.” The way he’d tell me what I should and shouldn’t wear, and sometimes suggest I change my top or pants or skirt so I’d look better. The way, in spring 2014, when things finally started to unravel, he told me he would break off our engagement if the show’s producers didn’t write him into the storyline and let me wear my ring on camera. And finally, the way his personality changed when he started snorting what I thought at first was coke, but apparently was sometimes coke and other times, another drug called ketamine.

Then there was the threesome. It seemed regular enough to me. Sure, I didn’t want it, and he knew that, but didn’t a lot of guys pressure their girlfriends into things like that? Fiancé in my case, but who was counting? When the girl went to the press… I was angry, but it seemed like my mistake, not Bryce’s.

And then that week, the week right after the Fourth of July. Bryce’s father came to Southampton for once, and Bryce didn’t want to see me for two days. I found out he had been out both nights, with other girls. When I confronted him about it, he slapped me. Then he sobbed and dropped down to his knees and told me he slapped me because his father used to hit him. I was still recovering from that, still processing, still trying to get my brain to believe Bryce was a good guy, the night I wanted to snuggle during his party.

The night I learned what real fear meant.

I can’t reason with that fear. I haven’t been able to since it happened. When I saw him this summer at Declan’s house, of course I dropped my glass. And I ran—like I was running for my life. My therapist says it’s normal, and time will heal me, some, at least.

I don’t have too many nightmares anymore, and I usually never look over my shoulder. I don’t feel fear out here in Colorado. Or I didn’t, back when my family and the Parsons had settled, and I thought Bryce was probably just hoping to forget about me.

Now he’s angry.

Now he thinks I’m out for vengeance.

I know how Bryce is. He used to think everyone was out to get him. Out to ruin him. Even me, at times. I should have known, after what happened to him on the beach with Liam… Of course he’s paranoid and angry. He feels betrayed, even though it’s not my fault, what happened. Even though I didn’t tell.

My phone buzzes on the table, and I jump. “Oh shit.”

When I see an unfamiliar number on the screen, my insides turn into a block of ice. My eyes devour the words as my fingers grip the phone.

‘Hi Lucy. It’s Dec Carnegie. Saw the news today. Wanted to check on you and offer my support. If you need anything…’

I let my breath out. My head throbs.

My fingertips are sweaty on the iPhone’s screen. ‘Thanks so much, Dec. I’m doing okay.’ Pregnant and paranoid. Got knocked up at your party. I grimace to myself, then add: ‘Thank you for asking. I hope you’re doing well.’

‘Can’t complain. Give me a yell if you need me.’

I send him the little emoticon with the smilie face blowing a kiss and set my phone down. God, I’ve got to chill out. Xanax or alcohol might have been in my toolbox for a similar circumstance recently, but not anymore.

I pass the next few hours baking chocolate chip cookies, pacing around the first floor of the house, and running a bath I can’t bring myself to take, because I don’t want to take my clothes off and sit naked, just waiting for something to happen.

I remember, as I stand there by the claw-footed tub, that my little info sheet from the OBGYN said hot baths are off-limits anyway, so I tell myself that’s why I don’t take a soak.

I know from the months after that night that my bedroom will just make me feel worse—more inept, more afraid, less steady—but I’m not sure where else to try to go to sleep. Dressed in loose cutoff sweatpants and a UGA t-shirt, sans bra and panties, I slip into my bed, set my phone in easy reach atop the duvet, and fold my hands over my lower belly.

Hi there, baby…

I stare up at the ceiling: high, so if there ever was a wildfire that brought smoke into this area, it would drift up rather than irritate the lungs of the guests.

I try to list all the reasons that I’m safe right now, from the home’s alarm system to the .22 in my nightstand drawer to the fact that Bryce wouldn’t want to risk his reputation further by messing with me. Maybe he’s only suing because his pride is hurt, from having his ass kicked.

My eyelids are finally sagging when I see a light. A millisecond later, my phone rings.

Unknown number.

SHIT.

I let it ring and ring and ring. Then at the last second, for reasons I don’t understand, I answer.