Total pages in book: 34
Estimated words: 34243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 171(@200wpm)___ 137(@250wpm)___ 114(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 34243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 171(@200wpm)___ 137(@250wpm)___ 114(@300wpm)
I want to believe he loves me the way I love him.
I want to believe that.
But what I don’t get is why.
Why won’t he just say the words back when he already knows I’m in love with him?
And I know he knows. We know his whole family knows, and everyone working for him, too. It’s just him who doesn’t...say it.
The closest he’s come was one afternoon, maybe a month into the summer, when he brought me with him to the ranch and I said I wanted him to teach me how to ride. And I meant the kind of riding where a horse is involved and you sit on top of it and you go places, but Arkane apparently had other ideas about how one earns a riding pass, because six hours later I was knee-deep in manure, and he had informed me—with the tiniest curve of his mouth that wasn’t quite a smile—that the right to ride was earned, and that I had fifty more hours of mucking stalls before he’d consider it.
Fifty more hours.
Of horse poop.
And the worst part is I actually loved it.
Then there was the grad school thing. He asked me if I wanted to sit in on some of his classes, and I—proud girl that I am—said yes, because I wasn’t going to let him see that the idea made me nervous. And then I spent the next two hours in the back of the lecture hall trying not to stare at him, which I was doing a bad job of, because at some point my phone buzzed.
Arkane: Why are you so obsessed with me?
I typed out something furiously indignant, and I was about to hit send, when another text came in.
Arkane: The lyrics to a Mariah Carey song. I heard the girl next to me singing it.
I started hitting backspace because nobody needed to see what I’d just typed, and that was when the third one came in—
Arkane: But I think it’s a good question to ask. Because you are, aren’t you? Just like I’m obsessed with you?
I bit my lip so hard I could taste it.
Because if I let myself sigh even once, I’d be sighing for hours.
And that’s the closest he’s come. Obsessed. Not loved. And I’ve been rereading that text for weeks now, and I still can’t decide what it means.
But I’m too proud to ask.
Just so, so proud, that on the day of Joy’s birthday party, I just happen to come running back to the house late, having forgotten the time while I was in the stables (like seriously, why did no one ever tell me before how relaxing it is to muck stalls?), and because I’m using the service exit at the back (don’t want my muddy shoes to leave ugly footprints on the main stairs), the people in the kitchen don’t see me—
“They caught another one at the back.”
“How many’s it been this week?”
“Today alone, there’s three. This week, though? Maybe a dozen.”
“Why do they even try? He’s even had lawyers sending out all their letters. No one is to take photos of him and Miz Tiara. Mr. Young can’t say it plainer than that.”
That’s...that’s when everything becomes a blur.
“Why do you think he doesn’t want those photos, though? They look so good together.”
“Maybe it’s just a summer fling for both of them.”
“Do you really think that?”
“Rich people are hard to understand. Remember Miz Mirabella?”
“His prom date?”
“They were prom king and prom queen. They dated whole senior year, then...they broke up. No one knows why.”
Gasp.
“What if that’s the reason? He doesn’t want news to reach all the way to Spain, where Miz Mirabella is? So that if she ever comes back—”
I think I heard enough.
I think I really do because my vision’s already given up on me, and the last thing I need is to go deaf as well.
The first few steps up the stairs, I’m fine. But past the mezzanine, my legs start to wobble, and by the time I make it to the room they gave me—
I barely make it, actually.
My knees crashing on the carpeted floor as soon as the door closes behind me.
But the tears, they’re not falling like I expect them to.
Is it because I’m in shock?
No one is to take photos of him and Miz Tiara.
What if that’s the reason? He doesn’t want news to reach all the way to Spain, where Miz Mirabella is?
So that if she ever comes back—
No.
Not shock.
Because I remember Mom talking about this. Her whole mind becoming a blur. And then her doing something crazy that led to her and my anonymous “sire” splitting up.
I used to think that was all B.S., but now that my mind is still a blur and I just can’t get past thinking those words—
No one is to take photos of him and Miz Tiara.