Page 70 of Princessa
Chapter 37
I’d never experienced grief before.
Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance.
And during the days Arabella went away, I’d wavered back and forth among all stages, except for acceptance. I was never going to accept that she left me.
After I’d read Arabella’s cryptic text, I called her, over and over, only to be sent to voicemail upon the first ring. It was late—after midnight—but I woke Oliver and Adam, and told them we had to head back to the resort right away.
Finn and Camille were unreachable, enjoying their honeymoon in Paris, and when I called Emma, she answered long enough to say “fuck off” before ending the call.
It was like I’d been placed in a Twilight Zone episode, my body and soul spinning into a vortex of the unknown.
After the six-hour drive, I instinctively ran up to her suite and barged in, using the key card she’d given me.
I don’t know, but part of me was hoping to find her fast asleep, Diamond on her head, making it all nothing more than a fucking nightmare.
When I realized all of her things were gone, pieces of me died a quick and sorry death.
Down at head security, I confronted Wendy, since she was the last one I knew of who must have had contact with Arabella upon her arrival back from Paris.
When Wendy admitted not walking Arabella up to her room—which was fucking protocol—Adam asked head of security to show us the video-monitoring feed from the moment Wendy left Arabella on her own.
It took about fifteen agonizing minutes to go through all the feed up until the moment I saw Arabella talking to Wendy in the lobby. Then, I followed as she stepped off the elevator for her room. She didn’t look upset, or bothered. Nothing on her face indicated she was about to walk out of my life.
At her door, I watched her pause as she entered the key card into the slot and when she spun around, horror flashed over her face.
“Pan over to what she’s looking at!” Adam demanded. And the technician monitoring the system did what he was told.
When the camera moved to the right, I froze.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.Fuck.
Iris.
Pulling my phone out of the back of my jean pocket, I dialed Finn.
Voicemail.Fucking honeymoon.
Then Gaspard.
Voicemail. It was 5 a.m.—what was I expecting?
Then my father.
“Son?”
I explained that Arabella had taken off, likely scared off by something Iris did or said.
“I’ll phone Lord Devon Godiva.”
The next twenty-four hours were torture.
I didn’t sleep, eat, and quite honestly, I barely breathed. Mom had tried to reach Arabella’s mother countless times, but like my calls to the woman my heart ached for, they went straight to voicemail.
“We will fix this, son.You will get her back,” Dad assured, trying to put me at ease.
Fact is, we were waiting for Lord Devon Godiva and Lady Iris to arrive at the palace. Mom and Dad called a formal meeting with them with plans to make Iris admit to whatever it was she did.
