Tangled Games (Dating Games #5) - T.K. Leigh Page 0,96

different scenarios presented, ranging from continuing on as if nothing happened to doing what Dalton suggested — walking away from Nora.

It was an easier idea to wrap my head around when I contemplated doing just that in order to save her from being saddled with a lifetime of being married to a man who may one day lose the ability to walk, to control his bladder, to make love to her.

It’s harder to consider when I’m being ordered to end things.

“Most of the interview was speculation, no concrete evidence,” I remind them, grasping at straws.

“The preliminary research indicates that a large majority of our representative sample believed Dr. Harcourt made a compelling case,” one of the Privy Council members replies. “Especially when she’d mentioned Nora had somehow miraculously walked away from that car wreck with barely a scratch.”

“Unfortunately for us, photos from the accident report were leaked and are currently circulating on social media,” Dalton adds. “Everyone’s offering their opinion, regardless of their knowledge about this topic. It doesn’t look good. For Nora. Or the monarchy.”

I run a hand over my face, shaking my head as my shoulders slump, sitting in a way that’s incredibly unbecoming of a future monarch. “She was in that car.”

“So you say, but according to records we obtained, she lived nearby. Her fiancé’s parents also lived in the general vicinity. It’s not a huge leap to assume she knew the area well. And do you want to know what I learned after doing minimal research?”

I don’t respond, knowing he’ll tell me regardless.

“That the curve where their car was allegedly run off the road is a common area for drivers to lose control of their vehicles and go over the edge, so much so that there were yearly petitions to put in a guardrail. The town had recently granted the request and were slated to begin installation the following week, another suspicious coincidence. When the police interviewed her in the hospital, she claimed to have been pulled from the wreck by a Good Samaritan, yet even after her fiancé’s family offered a reward of over $10,000 for information as to who it was, no one came forward.”

“Maybe the Good Samaritan had no need for the money,” I say through a clenched jaw.

“Gabriel,” my father warns, eyes narrowed.

“But even if we somehow are able to track down this alleged Good Samaritan,” Dalton continues, “our polling shows it won’t matter. There is no scenario in which you’ll be able to save the monarchy and have the girl, too. It’s one or the other.”

I close my eyes, trying to use some of the breathing techniques Nora taught me to calm myself down, prevent myself from doing something I’ll regret. With every word Dalton speaks, it becomes more and more difficult.

“The local police chief already made a statement dismissing any claims of foul play.”

“The people don’t care about that. That’s akin to the editor of a newspaper issuing a retraction on page fifteen a week after publishing a shocking front-page story. And that’s precisely what this is. A sensationalized story, the stuff tabloids are made of. The only thing that can compete with it is if the truth is even more sensational, even more headline worthy. Which it’s not. So the best course—”

“It was me!” I shout, jumping from my chair, chest heaving, fists clenched.

“Excuse me?” Dalton asks.

“Me,” I repeat. “It was me.”

He studies me for a moment, then smiles, shaking his head. “I see what you’re doing. You think you can fix this by coming forward with some romantic tale about how you pulled her from the wreck. Make people forget her mother’s version insinuating Ms. Tremblay planned it. I—”

“No. That’s not it at all, although I did pull her from the wreck. If you were thorough with your research, weren’t giddy with excitement over the prospect of finally getting rid of Nora, you would have noticed the date of the wreck.”

He blinks, shifting through some papers, pulling out what I recognize to be a police report.

“It’s the same night Kendall Davies passed away,” I tell him. “At a hospital in Long Island.”

“Gabriel…,” my father cautions again. This time, it feels more out of obligation, as if he knows there’s no stopping this runaway train.

“I don’t—” Dalton begins.

“I’m the reason they crashed in the first place.” I point to myself. “I caused the wreck. I forced them off the road.” My voice wavers as a half-dozen eyes stare at me in utter shock. “I killed Nora’s fiancé and their