and she’s been managing the Summer Palace for over thirty years. Her mind is sharp. She would’ve sent someone to get me if she couldn’t make it to the station herself.
Something is wrong. I can feel it in my bones—although that might just be the cold making my skeleton tremble.
Walking back out to the main station lobby, I take a deep breath. The place looks like it’s about two hundred years old. Thick, stained glass windows are set high in the walls, and crumbling mortar is sandwiched between discolored bricks. The tiled floor has a worn-out strip through the center of the lobby, where passengers have walked from the front door to the platform.
And most importantly, there’s not another soul in here.
Just me and my inadequate jacket.
I could sleep in the train station and wait for the staff to arrive tomorrow morning. That’s probably the safest thing to do, isn’t it? Wait here, where there’s shelter?
Maybe Grandma just got delayed. Maybe she’s on her way, but the storm outside held her up.
I should stay.
But what if she’s just outside? There could be a taxi waiting for me, or a royal vehicle ready to take me to the palace. Or maybe someone outside will be able to help. One of the locals. They could point me in the direction of the palace. Give me a ride. Call a taxi for me. Anything.
A cold draft snakes around my legs, and I curse myself for wearing a dress. My tights may be thick, but they’re no match for the cold. I thought I’d be in a warm train, then a warm car, then a warm castle. This is my first time in Nord since I was an infant, and my only chance to make a good first impression. Dress to impress, they say.
Ha.
Dress to freeze to death, more likely.
If I stay in the lobby, will I even survive the night? I lift my chin and exhale, watching my breath dissipate in a white puff before me.
It’s frigid in here.
I need to find some help.
Glancing at my phone once more, I lift it up above my head to try to get a signal. Nothing. I open the messaging app to try to sneak a message through to my grandmother, but it bounces back as soon as I hit send.
When I click out of the message screen, I see the very last message I received while I was on the train. My ex-boyfriend of six months sent me a nasty slew of insults at three o’clock in the morning last night. Drunk, probably.
Gerry: Don’t expect me to be waiting here when you get back, Rowan. Enjoy Nord. It’s as cold as your fucking heart.
I read the message for the thousandth time, my fingers squeezing my phone so tight my nail beds turn white. My eyes prickle. For the first time since I left Farcliff, I want to cry.
Gerry and I were supposed to get married—but then he told me he wanted me to stay at home once we were husband and wife. He told me he expected me to leave my career behind to care for our future children. He expected me to be a housewife.
Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing wrong with being a housewife. My mother was a single mother who worked hard and also happened to be a damn good homemaker. She was an angel, and she died with no one but me by her side.
She took care of me like it was her sole purpose in life, and sometimes I wonder if she would’ve been better off without me. After all, I wasn’t anything but a burden to her, from the time I was born to the time she died. She could have moved on if not for me. Maybe even lived longer instead of working herself to death for my sake.
When she died, I vowed I’d never again be a burden to anyone. I promised myself I’d be able to stand on my own two feet and support myself.
My work is my life. I started my architecture firm when I was twenty-seven years old, and I’ve spent the last six years working my ass off to make a name for myself. I’m supposed to give that up for Gerry, or some other guy who wants to be the hero who supports me?
Please.
I don’t want to do laundry for four hours a day while I wait for my husband to come home. I don’t want to feel like he needs to