“It’ll be too late then!”

I don’t say another word. I’m done discussing this. But my brother isn’t quite finished.

“There’ve been many times in my life when I thought Mum would be ashamed of me. This is the first time I’ve ever thought…she’d be ashamed of you.”

And then he walks away too.

I don’t take a breath on the way back to my room. I’ll lose it if I do. So I bite my lip and wrap my arms around my waist, passing security men in the halls, nodding to maids. But as soon as I’m through the door, I let go.

The sobs tear out of me, shaking my shoulders and scraping my lungs. It’s rage and devastation mixed together, the worst kind of heartbreak. How could he do this? After everything I’ve done—everything I was willing to do for him.

I saw it in his eyes—those gorgeous, tortured eyes. He wanted to believe me—but he didn’t. Couldn’t. Whatever tiny wick of trust still lives inside him has been burned one too many times.

Did he ever really trust me? Did he ever believe that we could last…for always? Or was some part of him just waiting, watching, until I screwed him over?

Well, fuck him. Fuck him and his fucking palace. No more. I’m done.

“Can I bring you some tea, Miss Hammond?”

I gasp loudly and I think my heart stops. It’s the maid for my room—Mellie, I think her name is. I didn’t see her when I first walked in because I was crying into my hands.

Her fresh face is awash with sympathy. But I’m tired of being surrounded—sick of the maids and the security and, and…Twitter assholes…and the fucking secretaries and assistants. I just want to be alone. I want to crawl into a corner where no one can see me or hear me, so I can breathe…and cry my fucking eyes out.

A hiccup rattles through my chest. “N-no. No th-thank you.”

She nods, eyes down—like a good little servant. She slips past me discreetly, closing the door behind her. Trained oh so well.

I lock the door. Then I march to the bookcase that connects this room to Nicholas’s and lock that too. I walk into the bathroom and turn the shower on to scalding. As the steam rises around me, I strip out of my clothes, choking on my tears. I step into the shower, slide down to the floor, and rest my forehead on my knees. And as the water pounds down over me, I let it all pour out.

I visited a children’s hospital ward once, in a facility that specialized in treating the rarest, most confounding disorders. There was a young girl there—a tiny, bandaged, pretty thing—who was unable to feel pain. Something to do with how her nerves communicated with her brain. At first glance, you would think a life without pain would be a blessing—she’d never have a toothache, a stomach-ache, her parents would never have to dry her tears after a knee-scraping stumble.

But pain is actually a gift. A warning that something is amiss and action must be taken to correct the situation. Without pain, an otherwise minor injury could lead to deadly consequences.

Guilt works the same way.

It’s a signal from the conscience that something is terribly wrong.

Mine eats at me—one slow, sharp bite at a time—in the minutes that I stay in the empty office. It claws at the lining of my gut when I make my way back to my room. It gathers in my throat when I pour myself a scotch, making it almost impossible to swallow it down.

I can’t shake it, can’t stop seeing it—the last look on Olivia’s face. Defeated. Crushed.

It shouldn’t feel like this. I’m the injured party. I’m the one who’s been lied to. Betrayed. Then why do I feel so fucking guilty?

It stabs at me like the jagged edge of a broken rib.

The glass clinks when I set it on the table, then walk to the bookcase and through the corridor that leads to Olivia’s room. But when I push on the bookcase on the other side, it doesn’t give—doesn’t move an inch.

I’d forgotten about the latch.

My mother installed it herself. It was the only time I’d ever seen her with a screwdriver in her hand—and the only time I’d ever heard her refer to my father as a fucking wanker.

They’d patched up whatever they’d been arguing about, but the latch had stayed.

And was apparently now being put back to use.

I push at my hair and stalk out of the room into the hall, down to Olivia’s door. I rap on it hard. But there’s no answer.

A young maid nods to me as she passes and my chin jerks in response.

I try the handle, but that door is also locked, so I knock again—working hard to tamp down the pissed-offness growing with every second.

“Olivia? I’d like to speak with you.”

I wait, but there’s no response.

“Olivia.” I knock again. “Things got…out of hand earlier and I want to talk to you about it. Could you please open the door?”

When a security guard strolls past, I feel like a fucking idiot. And that’s just how I must look. Knocking and pleading outside a door in my own bloody house.

This time I pound on the door with the side of my fist.

“Olivia!”

Thirty seconds later, when there’s still no answer, my guilt goes up in smoke.

“All right,” I glare at the closed door. “Have it your way.”

I stalk down the stairs, spotting Fergus in the foyer. “Have the car brought around.”

“Where are you going?”

“Out.”

“When will you return?”

“Late.”

His gaze rakes over me. “Seems like a damn stupid thing to do.”