Page 188 of My Dark Prince
“You ruined my life, you know.” I ignored the burly men and straightened my spine, standing taller, staring at that vacant window. A poisonous chuckle pushed out of my throat. “It’s amazing how I grew up thinking you would be in my epilogue when it turns out you’re nothing but a badly written prologue.”
“Miss.” The other security guard edged closer, not even an inch from me. “Time to go home.”
At least he was gentle about it. Even he, I suspected, knew his boss was a prick.
“I’m going, I’m going.” I waved a dismissive hand in his face, still laser-focused on that detail. “I just want to say one last thing, because I know he’s listening. You got what you wanted, Oliver. You are officially dead to me. I am never going to forgive you. I am never going to accept your apology, should you issue one. You ruined everything. Congratulations. You became as bad as Seb.”
Chapter Eighty-Six
Briar
That won’t happen again. And even if it does, you belong across the country, you fool.
I pulled my shoulders back, digging my fingernails into my jeans until my hands stopped shaking. I’d grown up in the past fifteen years. I could handle whatever life threw at me. Life should fearme, not the other way around.
With that, I thrust open the door, finding Oliver splayed on his still-made bed. The moon trickled in through the balcony door, casting a thin ribbon of light on my fiancé. He looked something straight out of a Courbet painting – red-rimmed eyes fixed on the ceiling, his shirt half unbuttoned and the unmistakable stench of alcohol wafting to me.
My sweet, tortured boy.
I felt like an interloper, as if I’d interrupted an event I wasn’t invited to – a showdown between Oliver von Bismarck and his demons.
“Ollie?”
Silence engulfed us for a few moments. I didn’t think he’d even heard me until his response rattled my bones.
“I think I broke him forever.”
We both knew who.
With false confidence, I strode to the bed and sat on its edge, caressing his cheek. Its temperature shocked me. Cold, and frigid, and wet from tears. Oliver von Bismarck was not a crier. He never drank this much, either. Not even as kids,when we snuck sips of wine. He always made sure to manage his consumption, somehow both the instigator and the responsible party in all our adventures.
I rubbed away a tear with my thumb. “Who did this to you?”
Whoever it was – I’d kill them. Even if that person was Sebastian.
“I took him to a doctor. Well, bribed him under false pretenses, if we’re being technical …”
He tried to scoot up against the headboard but swayed from the booze. Instead, he twisted over the edge of the bed and puked his guts out. His entire lunch and a sea of vodka swirled together in a soupy lake.
“Ah, shit,” he muttered.
“Hey, don’t worry about it.” I squeezed his shoulder, helped him upright against the headboard, and passed him two Advil from the nightstand. “I’ll clean it up.”
I rushed to the supply closet, returning with paper towel rolls, a trash bag, and antibacterial wipes. Ollie tossed his head against the leather rest, mumbling his apologizes while I paused to order chicken cháo on DoorDash.
When I finished and washed my hands, I settled beside him on the edge of the bed, brushing away hair from his sticky forehead. “Let’s try again. Take two. Tell me what happened, baby.”
“We haven’t been to the doctor in years – five, at least – and never to a plastic surgeon. He fucking hates anything medical. But he seemed so much happier lately. I thought … I thought things would be different this time.”
So, Oliver noticed the change, too. The wheels churned in my head, pieces stitching together.
I sighed, rubbing Ollie’s shoulder. “You took him to a plastic surgeon.”
“I wanted to see if we could reconstruct his face. Give him some of his confidence back.”
I didn’t point out what we both knew – that Sebastian would never be the same. His face would never be the perfectsculpture it once was. The doctor could graft skin, implant cartilage or silicone or whatever, reconstruct his lips, but the evidence of his horrific accident would still be there.
They couldn’t completely erase the scars that slashed across his face. There would be signs, and people that once knew him would spot the difference between Old Seb and New Seb. He’d live with the stigma of his past forever.
