Page 229 of Swallow Your Sorries

I think back to that photo of the untouchables on the yacht. The one I found in Gant’s phone right before I sent the email that would change both of our lives. The yacht could’ve belonged to the Auclairs or anyone in the photo’s family. It’s not a big deal. Sailing in Monaco isn’t a big deal. Eating a three-course, three-figure meal isn’t a big deal. For them.

It is to me and I don’t want a taste of what would be yanked away come graduation.

Your Grace:Not well. Neither have you.

ElleBelle:How would you know? Have you been stalking me?

Your Grace:Since I’ve met you. Now come here and put us both to sleep.

Butterflies erupt in my stomach at that.

ElleBelle:You know, you’re technically not ‘Your Grace’ anymore.

YourGrace:So change it toMy babyand come to the greenhouse.

I shouldn’t feel so giddy at seeing those two words, but warm tingles shoot through me uncontrollably. Still, I’m not going to change it. Yet. It feels too close. Too intimate. Too cruel.

But the minute I re-enter the dorm to don my clown shoes, the warm feeling evaporates into the cool night air streaming through the French doors.

Suitcases.

Piled up in every corner are suitcases. Stassi’s pale, powder pink ones, and Aria’s insanely cute periwinkle set. Then there’s mine. An overstuffed backpack. I’d been worried that I hadn’t packed enough of my rags as Gant lovingly called them, but now I wonder if I’ve packed too much by packing at all.

Mum.

The landlord.

The apartment.

Our home.

Ae we homeless now?

Numbly, I slip on my trainers and grab my jacket before shimmying over the balcony's railing. It feels like second nature now. So unlike that first night, I’d followed Rin.

Instinctively, I pause at the living room window and duck into the bushes to check on Miss Trix. She’s back in her favourite spot on the chaise, scouring job advertisements.

She really is hellbent on getting Miss El-Agha out of Beaulieu, if only part-time…

And that’s when a thought hits me of how to get her out full time because as Miss Trix continues to scroll, an advertisement for Libeulle requesting models for a promo shoot pops up.

Hadn’t Miss Trix said Miss El-Agha used to be a model?

Modelling is competitive, even for some hole-in-the-wall clubs, but I happen to know the boss.

Stepping back quietly, I slip into the shadows and into the forestline.

When I’m within a metre of Gant, he doesn’t say anything.

He turns and disappears into the lush foliage without a word, because for once, he doesn’t want to chase me. He wants to lure me into his trap and it’s working, because as if I’m tied to him on an invisible string, I follow him right to his web.

The greenhouse is glowing with a thousand candles as usual, but it’s far brighter tonight because the table at its centre is stark white now, covered in a thick mattress pad and dressed in linens. Against the grim backdrop, it seems like a sacrificial sanctuary, so clean and unmarred, unlike the dark ceiling and earthy floor that I know are creeping and moving.

There’s something about that white pureness that draws me in and makes me want to run all at once.

Behind me, the door shuts and I whirl around to see Gant, looking like a dream, as always. Maybe that’s a good thing. A reminder that this isn’t reality.

It can’t be.

---