wanted was to rid her from my life. To forget about all the ways she’s tormented me, everything I did either too good or not good enough.
My body shaking more violently the more I recall everything that woman put me through, I scream. Unable to stand my reflection, all my imperfections glaring at me, I grab the metal tissue box off the vanity and hurl it against the mirror, the glass shattering.
A loud knocking thunders on the door, followed by someone trying the handle, but I ignore it, screaming again as I take off one heel, then another, throwing them at the mirror, more glass falling to the floor. I step on the shards in search of something else to throw, the pain on my feet a welcome distraction to the storm brewing within me. I grab the hair dryer and toss it, followed by the soap dish, Anderson begging for me to let him in.
I continue throwing everything I can find — shampoo bottles, vase with flowers, and even a few towels. When there’s nothing left, I allow my tears to overtake me as I lean against the wall and slump to the floor, hugging my legs to my chest, blood covering my feet.
The door flies open and Creed barrels inside, frantically scanning the room. But his worry is no match for Anderson’s. Glass crunches beneath his shoes as he hurries toward me and crouches down, pulling me into his arms, my sobs echoing in the sudden silence.
“It’s okay,” he soothes, kissing my temple. “It’ll all be okay. She won’t get away with this.”
I wish I could believe him. But she already has. The truth is irrelevant. In the court of public opinion, I’ve already been judged guilty.
Nothing anyone says or does will change the verdict.
Chapter Thirty-One
Anderson
“Are you sure you’ll be okay?” I ask Nora as we stand in front of my residence. The dark SUV that drove us from the airfield idles behind us, waiting for me to get back into it.
She lifts her eyes to mine, but they’re as empty as they’ve been all afternoon, all signs of life gone.
I’d never seen Nora as broken as when Creed burst through the bathroom door and my gaze fell on her defeated frame, her feet cut up, glass everywhere.
From the beginning, she had a habit of hiding behind a mask of perfectly groomed hair and impeccably applied makeup. But I was able to see it for what it was. A cry for help. A silent plea for someone to finally set her free. And not just from her sorrow over losing Hunter and her baby. But also from her mother’s torment.
Now I can’t help but think I dragged her back into the darkness. Forced her into this life where she lost another piece of who she was daily until it got to be too much and she snapped.
Thankfully, we were able to get out of the hotel without incident, the French police dispersing the assembled paparazzi almost as soon as they showed up. During the short, tension-filled flight back to Belmont, I’d grown hopeful it would all blow over. That the people here wouldn’t buy into the lies. That they’d focus on the woman who captured their hearts these past few months.
Who joined in on a nationwide search for a missing child, tromping through fields alongside a volunteer group looking for any clue as to her whereabouts.
Who donned a baseball hat and sunglasses to serve meals at a soup kitchen when she saw they were desperate for help. Something no one in the royal family would ever do, except for Esme and myself.
Who spent hours trying to respond to every letter she received, not wanting anybody to think their messages fell on deaf ears.
But when our plane landed to a swarm of media and outraged locals, I knew that wasn’t the case.
It didn’t matter the OB who delivered Ember gave an interview painting Nora in a vastly different light, claiming she’d never seen a patient so distraught.
It didn’t matter the local police chief where the accident happened also made a statement that there was no physical evidence to support Dr. Harcourt’s inferences regarding foul play.
It didn’t matter that Hunter’s parents also made a statement in support of Nora’s strong character and sympathetic nature.
The die’s already been cast. Nora’s mother gave everyone a sensational story. In the court of social media, the people are the judge, jury, and executioner. The truth is completely irrelevant.
If I thought Nora was broken before,