

## BLAZED  
The Ashes

The third instalment in the 'Blazed' trilogy

Corri Lee

Copyright 2014 by Corri Lee

Smashwords Edition

'Blazed: The Ashes' first published August 2014

This Smashwords edition published September 2014

Copyright 2014 by Corri Lee

The moral right of Corri Lee to be identified as the author and owner of the cover artwork of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright Design and Patents Act, 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system without permission in writing from the author.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

'Yes, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: For thou art with me; Thy rod and staff They comfort me.'

Psalm 23:4 Webster's Bible Translation

#  contents

#

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

AUTHOR INFORMATION

#

There were bright flashing lights.

There were harried voices.

And then there was nothing but blackness and quiet and calm. I didn't realise just how much I'd been craving the silence and stillness until I was floating there, blissfully numb and unencumbered by the burdens of life.

That serenity lasted for less than a minute.

I chased the light that appeared in the distance, as small as a pin head. Despite the lack of everything around me, trying to reach it was like wading through treacle—my body weak and languid. Every time I managed a step forward, something pulled me back again, like a thick rope threaded through several points in my body relentlessly yanking me back into the darkness.

I was within touching distance when I was hauled so mercilessly back into the perpetual nothingness that the light vanished completely and left me suspended in limbo.

My selflessness hadn't thrust me to toward Heaven. Neither had it thrown me down into the Devil's lair. No, I was destined for the worst Hell of all; a life of denied penance.

I killed Natasha Valentine in cold blood and while I might have considered slitting my wrists in her kitchen to be some sort of act of spiritual redemption, the universe had other ideas for me. Maybe the powers that be understood how little I valued my own life or maybe they just had a sadistic sense of humour, but I wasn't going to be allowed to die in the early hours of that morning—that would be too easy. I was going to be forced to live with the consequences of my actions.

The resuscitation team who scraped me up from a puddle of my own blood wouldn't give up on me, no matter how many times I flat-lined. My destiny to live was as ironclad as the fact I'd resent them forever for not letting me pass quietly.

The final time my heart kicked back to life, I remember a searing wave of pain like nothing I'd ever felt before. It coursed through my body like venom and I tried to scream with it, begging someone—anyone—to make it stop. Whether or not that plea was heard, the agony levelled and I became still, a soul trapped in a body that couldn't move of it's own accord.

I went into a coma, I think. It was impossible to tell when I felt tired while I was already sleeping. It was disorientating, to hear garbled voices around me but not see the source one minute, just to slip into a dream the next. I'd have dealt with either one individually better than them both combined.

For a while, I thought I might still die. Nothing about the hushed, indiscernible voices around me sounded positive. It took a while before I realised that the fact I heard them more often meant I'd probably survive. If I'd been able to, I would have cried. Maybe they'd have understood that my death was better for everyone, not a cry out for attention or misguided deed of self-revulsion. I was beyond help or redemption. Keeping me alive would be a disaster.

The more reality began to seep in, the more sounds I started to notice. Most prominent was the monitor tracking every selfish beat of my black heart. Every beep was mocking, reminding me that I was living when I shouldn't be.

Beep. That was a beat you don't deserve. Beep. There was one of the many millions you stole from her. Beep. And one you didn't even want. Beep. These beats are wasted on you.

What kind of life could I possibly have now? One straight out of hospital into a prison cell, most likely. My friends would hate me. My family would be shamed and have to tackle the negative publicity my actions attracted. I'd become a pariah, never again loved or accepted. And Blaze...

I'd loved the green eyed god from the very start, though it had taken until far too recently to say the words aloud. The lives we led didn't allow for us to fall in love but it had happened anyway, and the price of that disobedience and rebellion had ripped us apart for a while.

The day after he'd presented me with an emerald engagement ring, my sister had brutally revealed that he already had a wife. Later learning that the wife was dying and he was waiting for her money drove me to New York, where he was far away physically but emotionally still living in my pocket.

Except his wife wasn't dying at all. Her multiple sclerosis wasn't killing her; it was a con to pin down an entirely too trusting man who wouldn't be with her any other way. She'd refused to divorce him and we'd come up with a plan...

One I'd rendered redundant by killing her.

I knew that Blaze hated and resented Natasha, but not enough to wish her dead. More than anything, I didn't think he could possibly love me enough to accept that I was a murderer. I'd do time for my crime—more than enough for him to move on. Even if he didn't, I'd never ask him to live with my deplorable act.

How could I live without him now I'd found him—live with knowing it was my own fault he was gone? No stretch in prison would feel long enough, no amount of injuries inflicted in prisoner brawls painful enough to compensate for what I'd done.

Why couldn't they have just let me die?

Even the voice in my head that had goaded me into picking up that pillow seemed to have disowned me. She'd been very keen on me killing the bitch until it was done, then endorsed the idea of me following suit with a chef's knife. Since then, she'd been so quiet.

I hated that. I hated that even my own inner demons had abandoned me after I'd committed the worst of sins. I was truly alone in a world that had no place for me, yet forced to exist in it anyway.

"Will she be okay?"

That voice! God, I knew that voice and it made my pulse leap. Blaze was there, at my bedside, worried for my fate. It pained me to admit that he may have just been there to make sure I'd survive long enough to pay for what I'd done.

"When will she wake up?"

"When she's ready."

I knew that voice, too; the voice of suicide attempts past. Dr. Catherine Downes had been in charge of the mental health unit I was shoved into at seventeen, the last time I'd opened my veins. Her approach towards her patients was ruthless but admittedly effective, though I couldn't make sense of why she'd be there now.

"We did the best we could, Blaze. We won't know if there's any significant damage done until she wakes up."

Significant damage? I'd cut myself; what could they possibly need me awake for?

No... Wait. My medicated haze started to pass, making me aware of how heavy my body felt—heavy and confined. My hands burned like fire beyond the intensifying ache in my wrists. Moving my eyes under my lids exacerbated a pounding headache and even willing my arms or legs to move sent a shooting pain down the length of my spine.

It was terrifying and claustrophobic, and my heart rate gave me away.

"Is she—" A chair to my left scraped loudly. I could feel Blaze jump to his feet next to me. "Is she waking up?"

I kept my eyes shut and tried to calm down, hoping to pass off my excited heart as a reaction to a dream. The harder I tried, the faster it got. Maybe I could tip myself over into a heart attack...

"God, what's happening? Help her!"

"Why don't you get yourself a coffee?"

"Coffee?!" The tension between him and Dr. Downes hit me like a heat wave. "There's nothing you can do to her that will faze me."

"You're not the one I'm worried about."

I had no idea why that made him curse and leave, but it did and I was grateful. I wasn't ready to see his anger and disappointment yet, probably never would be. It was something I'd actively seek to avoid. The idea that I'd open my eyes to him and that incendiary look of love that I'd once mistaken for hate would be gone... _That_ was a fate worse than death.

"He's gone, Emmy." I opened one eye and immediately closed it again, the bright lights too harsh to withstand. The aches and pains were getting gradually worse, making my whole body coil up like a spring being wound tighter and tighter. "Morphine."

"No, I don't—"

"I wasn't actually asking. I know you, remember?" Yes, she knew me, and knew the cathartic joy I found in pain I felt I deserved. A few seconds later, my muscles started to relax and the hurt ebbed away. It was almost blissful, if not for the fact I could stand to open my eyes to the face of my darker days.

Dr. Downes gave me one of her notoriously critical eye-rolls and sat down next to my feet. "Oh dear."

"Yeah, yeah..." Knowing I stood to gain nothing by refusing to speak, I looked at the room around me—at the equipment I'd heard—before finally focusing on my own body.

_Jesus._ My arms were full of canulas and covered in tubes, my wrists wadded up with thick bandages that couldn't stanch the blood. I followed the one line, a red tube, up to an IV stand holding two empty and one slowly siphoning packets of blood. "What, are you stockpiling it for me now?"

She looked up at the AB- serum and nodded knowingly. "Almost. Your family started regularly donating after your last little mishap. That packet seeping into to you right now is fresh out of your sister."

"Figures." Death would have made me happy. My bitch of a sister, Tallulah, would do anything to keep me miserable. "How long have I been here?"

"A few hours." My eyes widened. It felt like so much longer. "Blaze found you just as you passed out from the blood loss. You came out of surgery roughly ninety minutes ago. Did a good job this time, didn't you?"

I bristled, annoyed by her backhanded compliment. Yes, I had done a good job and it would have had the desired effect if he hadn't found me. It was his fault...

"Screwed up, did he?" My brow lifted, her question coming too quickly after blaming him for my being alive. Yes, that _was_ a monumental screw up. "He blames himself, you know, for taking you to meet his wife."

"Yeah well, that didn't exactly help." I closed my eyes and sighed, letting my head sink back into my pillow. "I'm in trouble, aren't I?" It was stupid to even ask. Of course I was in trouble; I'd killed a woman.

"Oh, yeah. Your pretty friend, Esme, is quite annoyed to have had her beauty sleep interrupted."

"Beauty sleep?" _That_ was what she was bringing up? "Surely I have bigger problems than that?"

"Oh, sure." Dr. Downes shrugged uncaringly and ran a finger down her clipboard. "But nothing that won't keep for eight months."

"Eight—" Agony shot through me like a lightning bolt as I surged upwards to sit, mortified by that kind of timeframe. I couldn't possibly be... "I'm not pregnant?!"

She laughed and took a pen from her breast pocket, scribbling on my notes. "No, you're not. But that was an effective way to determine whether you're suffering any kind of restricted movement, yes?"

Sagging back down, I glared at her. "That was cruel." Her methods were always brutal but scare tactics were a new part of her repertoire. I didn't like them. "Why would my movement be restricted?"

"Um..." She tapped her neck with the end of her pen, encouraging me to take an inward look at my own. I hadn't realised it, but my head was held still by a plastic collar. _What the hell?_ "Can you move your legs?"

"I don't..." I tried wiggle my toes. They moved but it hurt like crazy.

"You had a lucky escape, then." Taking a deep breath, Dr. Downes clasped her hands over the clipboard and leaned ever so slightly towards me. "For now. Very soon, you're going to have to talk about why you did this. I don't care if it's me you talk to or somebody else, but your friends and family aren't going to let you get away without an explanation. _Was_ it Blaze?"

Trick question. I could say yes and she'd be on my case until I admitted that there was nobody to blame but myself. But even if I said that from the off, she'd be on my case until I gave a reason why and I couldn't. I didn't know why I'd killed that damned Natasha. It just happened...

"Why are you even here?" Evading the question completely, I narrowed my eyes at the Cardiff based psychiatrist. "How is it that you're in London on a general in-patients ward when you should be in a Wales psych unit?"

Sitting back coolly, Dr. Downes looked at me shrewdly and stood to pace around the small space surrounding the bed. "Don't think I don't know that you're deflecting but as you're asking; I was called in by your parents. I've only just arrived. And you're in intensive care."

"They called you all this way... For me?"

"Because they care for you." She promptly answered the next question I would have asked: Why? "You might not ever understand this unless you become a mother yourself, but it's hard to entrust a stranger with your child's well being. Your parents are lucky enough to be in a position where they don't have to. They trust me to 'fix' you, and for triple pay and reimbursed travel expenses, I'm not going to tell them that you're beyond repair."

"Am I?" Was I too much of a broken mess for even her to fix?

"Emmy." She smiled at me patiently and patted my leg. "We both know that the only one with the power to decide that is you. Face up to what you've done or spend the rest of your life trying to end it—the choice is yours. Just remember that we have a duty of care and as long as someone is hanging around to bring you to hospital, we'll always try and keep you alive. Though the more times you try it, the more people there'll be watching over you."

Wasn't that the truth? Five years on from my last suicide attempt, people had only just stopped hovering around in case I did something reckless. I'd just repaid that eventual trust with murder and self-harm. I'd be lucky if I was allowed to go to the bathroom without company.

"But why does anyone even care after what I've done? How can anyone forgive me?"

"Is forgiveness really what you want?"

I thought about that and decided I just didn't know. If I had it, there was no guarantee I'd accept it and there was no way it'd ever compensate for killing someone. What did it matter if I was forgiven or not? I wouldn't be near enough anyone to know it if I was, not in prison.

My eyelids started to get heavy. The morphine was making me drowsy. Dr. Downes urged me to rest and it was all the encouragement I needed to drift off into an unsettled sleep.

"I just don't understand it. We would have gotten through it, no matter what Natasha did. She didn't need to go this far."

_Crap._ I'd half-opened my eyes before I realised I'd woken up during another conversation I didn't want to interrupt. Thankfully, I got away with it—they were so engrossed.

"Emmy tends to act before she thinks. You have to have noticed that by now. The consequences wouldn't have occurred to her until the deed was done." Oh, Daniel... My dearest childhood friend. I could feel him holding my hand; he'd defend me through anything. "What are you going to do?"

"Talk to Henry. See if he can make it go away."

"He's rich but he's no magician, Blaze."

"You'd be amazed by things he can make disappear."

"But this?"

Blaze sighed. I felt it on the skin of my arms and reacted with goose bumps, as much for the sound as the sensation. It was so soft and full of resignation. It was the kind of sigh that made me want to hold him.

"Don't take this personally, Blaze, but I don't think this was about you. She most likely felt as though her wants and stability were threatened, so she lashed out in the worst way possible. Let's be honest with ourselves; last night was extremely uncomfortable for everyone involved."

"I shouldn't have taken her there... She didn't want to go..."

"It's not like she went with a premeditated plan for blood-shed. You know she doesn't work like that. She's just impulsive—too impulsive."

Or was I? I'd had those dreams of killing her for months, even before I knew she existed. I'd been plotting her death all along.

I wouldn't let my father—the multi-billionaire mega-mogul, Henry Tudor—buy my freedom and innocence. I wouldn't live a lie. I'd face up to what I'd done, it was the least I could do. Better that life than one living indebted and feeling dirtier than I already did.

"They're probably going to give her the option to stay here for a while, or travel back to the unit in Wales. Would you be okay with that?"

"No, are you kidding? They may as well lock her up." _Oh, God._ He hated me...

"But what about Natasha?"

"I... Damn it, I don't know. I need her to pull through before I can think about the future."

Pull through. Shit, was she still alive? Were we lying in the same hospital, hooked up to the same machines? She could still be with us, it wasn't like I'd done a thorough examination of her before I'd fled to the kitchen. But that still made me an attempted murderer. Would people find that as unforgivable?

There was a quiet tapping on the door. It opened, letting in the noise from the corridors. It sounded like visiting hours, though I had no idea what sort of time it was. Being disorientated was nothing less than I deserved.

"Henry."

Blaze stood to my right. I heard footsteps, the door closing, and then silence. It was obvious from the way the atmosphere stopped thrumming with his presence that he'd left—he lit up any room he walked into—but the hand still holding mine assured me that I wasn't alone.

Daniel might have been the only person I could talk to. He also might have been the only person who could make me feel worse than I already did. Deciding whether to reach out for his guidance was tough enough before he spoke, whispering to me while he thought I was unconscious.

"Oh, Emmy." He pulled my fingers to his lips and kissed them. "Why do you keep doing this to me? Why do you keep trying to leave me?"

"You should be so lucky." I opened an eye cautiously and forced a smile. "I'd haunt you, Danny Divine. You'll never get rid of me."

"Emmy!" Pushing to his feet, Daniel leaned over me and peppered kisses across my forehead between dry sobs. He was gentle, extremely conscious of my injured neck, but the way he held me still was firm and authoritative. "You're in so much trouble."

"How much?" He leaned away to raise an eyebrow at me. "Are we talking a slap on the wrist or a period of imprisonment?"

"Well, you flat-lined three times last night, making it a grand total of four times I've had to look at your corpse. On the one hand, I'm grateful you're not on a morticians slab—on the other, I've a right mind to make it a nice round five and finish you off myself."

I knew he was joking but his chide told me nothing. "Seriously, Dan. What am I looking at?"

Returning to his seat, he straightened the blanket around my waist and fussed over my hair of all things. "Heavy guard. Probably another round of intense mental therapy. Henry will throw money at anyone and everyone to get you the best treatment and your relationship will be irreparably damaged forever."

"Shit." It was the worst, I knew it. "Which of your hands wants to kill me?"

"Neither. Jesus Christ, Emmy." Daniel slumped back in his seat and stared at me like I was a stranger. I suppose I was; I couldn't even be sure I knew myself after what I'd done. "Why did you do it?"

"I..." How did I even start to rationalise it? "I don't know. It felt like a dream. I didn't realise I'd actually done it until it was too late."

"A sleep-walking suicide attempt?"

"No, I—" Why did he assume I'd meant that part? "Natasha..."

"Don't think about her." Was he crazy? How could I _not_ think about her? I'd see her dead grey eyes gazing up at me for the rest of my life. "We need to get you back on track before you think about her."

"I'm so sorry." A heavy weight pressed down on my chest, making it hard to breathe. I struggled to stay awake—struggled to make any sense of all the beeping and chaos around me. Reality slipped away, a welcome reprieve, and I returned to that quiet, tranquil place of nothingness.

There I stayed for who knows how long. The only thing that told me I hadn't died was the lack of a light to guide me—that or neither Heaven nor Hell wanted me. It was actually kind of nice, to just drift with nothing but my own thoughts for company. It gave me time to get my head straight, decide what I'd do the next time my eyes opened.

Admit everything. There was no better way. I'd just have to come out with it to the next person I saw and take responsibility because, one way or another, I was going to be forced to deal with the consequences. Maybe it would make it easier if I was honest about it.

But despite gearing myself up for the admission, the next time I awoke, I was alone. Totally alone. The machines had gone, the lights were dim and not even the cruel voice in my head had reappeared like she normally would in times of self-inflicted loneliness.

And then I became aware that the tubes and wires were gone, as was the collar that had supported my neck. It was eerily dark outside and the hospital was deathly quiet. In fact, I thought I'd been moved to another room.

I really needed the toilet. The room had it's own bathroom, just a few paces away. I underestimated how tough it would be to get there, though. My body felt like lead, my arms and legs so heavy I could barely lift them. Through determination not to wet myself alone, I used the strength in my elbows to sit up and look around.

My head spun. The pain in my back and wrists was so immense it was a struggle to breath through but I had to, to stop myself from being sick. Now my need for a bathroom was twice as urgent, I had just enough drive to straighten to a sitting position and dangle my legs off the side of the bed.

I was naked for all but a blue gown with an open back. The air touching my skin chilled me down to the bones and made me shake mercilessly. The only way to describe the way I felt was 'fluish', a feeling that only got worse when I saw the sign hanging from the headboard.

'Do not resuscitate'. Damn it, so close. I was way too uncomfortable to be having some kind of outer body experience or spiritual parting from my physical being. When did you ever hear of ghosts needing to pee?

So I must have been in bad shape to have that kind of order literally hanging over my head. _Really_ bad shape. Why hadn't my body quit when it was supposed to?

There again, it kind of did when I lowered myself to the floor and ended up sprawled out across it. Unable to support my weight, my legs folded at the first second and sent me plunging down with a wince and a curse.

Okay, so I'd be crawling to the bathroom. May as well get all my bending over out of my system before it became a little dangerous. Whispers about prison showers came to mind.

Holding on to all my expulsive urges, I gripped the sheets on the side of the bed to pull me upright. Disaster. The only thing I achieved was toppling the bed over and on top of me. _Oh, God._ Maybe I'd die after all.

"Emmeline? Shit!"

I'd reflexively curled up into a ball when I saw the bed coming toward me and had fully expected some kind of major head trauma, so to be surrounded by metallic clattering and to still be cowering several seconds later was more than a little shock. I shifted the hand I had over my eyes and looked sheepishly at the person who'd sprung in front of me to take the impact on my behalf.

I wanted to cry so I did. The person I'd avoided on the occasions I'd woken up was spread out protectively in front of me, trying to right the madness I'd created. His chest heaved with exertion as he straightened the bed and stood briefly to hit the emergency assistance button on the wall.

And then he turned to face me and I cried harder because he looked so sad and betrayed. Frozen still, Blaze stared right into my streaming eyes for too long before sinking down to his knees and letting his head hang wearily.

"I thought you were dead. We all thought you were dead. You shouldn't be alive right now." I didn't answer, too afraid to say something that would have him launching at me to finish the job and arranging me back on that mattress like I'd passed naturally. Who'd have blamed him? "You wouldn't stop bleeding. You went into hypovolemic shock. You had a fucking heart attack right in front of me. How are you still alive?"

I swallowed down a hard lump in my throat, dashing my tears away in some bullshit semblance of dignity. "I'm sorry."

"You're sorry? Sorry you're alive or sorry you were so close to dying we've been arranging your funeral?"

_I'm sorry I'm alive._ I turned away, so ashamed of myself. I hadn't thought as far ahead as heart attacks and DNRs when I decided to die, believing that I'd be alone to bleed. Putting my friends and family through hell wasn't my goal, and I hated that it had played out this way.

Graciously, Dr. Downes burst through the door with a couple of nurses, who made no delay in scooping me up off the floor, flashing bright lights in my eyes and strapping inflatable blood pressure cuffs around my arms. Being harassed reminded me of how sick I'd been feeling, and I disgracefully wriggled out of their reach to throw up over the floor next to me. It was excruciating and sent a fresh burst of white hot pain through me. Maybe this was the curtain call...

"Eyes open, Emmy." I dopily obeyed the doctor's command and willed myself to look at her. I'd only ever seen her so serious once before, when she'd been the only one to convince me to calm down enough to have a nasogastric tube fitted. "I win this round, Tudor. You've caused a lot of trouble today. Anything to say for yourself?"

"Yes, actually. You should really do something about the stability of these beds. It could have killed me."

She laughed and urged the nurses to back off. "She's fine. Let's get her in for a full CT and MRI, get some bloods to lab and tell her family she's awake."

"I'll tell them." The medical types parted, clearing a direct path of sight to the man they'd blocked out when they arrived. Dr. Downes frowned at Blaze and looked between us carefully, gauging the lingering tension.

"No..." Reaching out, she gripped his arm above the elbow and pulled him toward me. "She shouldn't be on her own. Should you, Emmy?"

_Crap._ It took the length of just one stolen heartbeat to figure out that she was trying to force us into opening a dialogue. Boxed in, I offered the only answer I could think of—"I need some 'personal' assistance."—and tried not to fall to pieces when I was lifted up into the arms that had once provided such comfort, yet now only gave guilt and worry.

Carried and set down on the toilet, Blaze turned his back on me to give me some privacy. I hated that he was so quiet and stoic when he would have usually baffled me with a poetic sentiment and reassurance. I had no idea where I stood—whether he was angry and which way that ire was directed. All I knew was that the silence was intolerable.

"Well..." I muttered, leaning limply against the support rail on the wall. "This is awkward."

"Don't, Emmeline." He shook his head, turning only slightly in my direction. "Don't make light of this."

"I'm sorry."

"You keep saying that but I'm no closer to knowing what for. Because you screwed up my life and tried to irretrievably walk out of it? Or because you tried, failed, and now you're resorting to dry wit and sarcasm to soften the blow?"

"I... God." How could I argue when he made such an indisputable point? I had screwed up his life—screwed it up good. And now I was trying to joke my way out of it?

"I so want to be angry. You committed the worst of sins and you broke your promise to never leave me by trying to take the cowards way out. I spent today missing you even though you were lying right there in front of me. I had to keep looking at your god damn mother to remember what colour your eyes are."

"Blaze..." It seemed strange to me that those words could make me feel better. Something so morbid yet so sweet gave me reason to believe he didn't hate me.

No longer caring for my privacy, he spun around and dropped to his knees again, slowly creeping across the cool tiles toward me. "I drove to you it. I spent too much time focusing on what I thought was best for us that I forgot what was right for _you._ If I'd paid more consideration to what you were feeling—"

"No! Shit. No." I reached out shakily and rested my hands on his shoulders. "You couldn't have stopped me. _I_ couldn't have stopped me. You had nothing to do with it."

"Nothing? You didn't think about me once? My feelings or esteem? How I'd have to live my life afterwards?"

"Actually, you were the only thing on my mind." He went rigid and shrank back, hurt by the honesty. "That didn't come out right. I meant..." I didn't know what I meant. My head was such a fucking mess. "My subconscious took over and made me do what it thought would make your life happier. Natasha would have ruined your life and—"

"God." Blaze shrugged my hands away and leaned his head against my knees. "I don't want to think about her right now."

"But we need to talk about it. About her."

"We don't. It's taken care of. You don't need to worry about anything."

"But—"

"Emmeline." He sighed and tentatively lifted his gaze to mine. His eyes were so reddened through sadness and exhaustion but no less vivid. Maintaining eye contact was difficult for me, but he held on to my attention like no other person alive could. "Since I woke up in the early hours of this morning, I've seen you dead more than I've seen you alive. I'm still not convinced you're going to pull through and you're going to leave me for good. Is it too much to imagine that I might not want to waste time talking about my fucking ex-wife?"

"I guess not."

Feeling drained after such a short time awake, I leaned my head atop his and closed my eyes, hoping to scrape back a little energy. It didn't work. I started drifting instead, which only got me briskly jostled.

"Don't you dare fall asleep. If you're leaving me, you've got to give me closure first. I need to know why you did it."

"I don't know!" I complained, feeling around me for a safe place to lay down. "I just... did."

"Emmeline..." My face was held steady, pinioning me with minimal force. Protesting to the ache in my neck, I went lax and accepted that my excuse just wasn't going to cut it.

"You could have split up with me. You didn't need to do this. I know I fucked up—"

_"You_ fucked up? Why aren't you tearing me a new one for my crime? I took a life."

"You _tried_ to take a life. Nearly succeeded, too. And you tried to take the only life that matters to me. Yours."

Releasing me, Blaze sat back on his heels and rubbed at his eyes. He looked as miserable and as regretful as I felt. "I understand if you don't love me anymore..."

"Blaze!" Forgetting my weakness, I made to jump to my feet, just to end up in a heap on the floor in front of him. Before he could stand to help me up, I grabbed his legs and hugged against them. Refused to let go. "I love you too much. Don't you understand that? I couldn't stand the idea of losing you."

"You will never lose me, Emmeline. You can't possibly contemplate what I would do or fight through for you—what I have done and battled for _us._ There is no obstacle too big between us."

"Even death?"

He looked at me dubiously; then cautiously pulled me up from the floor to sit on his lap. Brushing the hair back from my face, he skimmed his fingers across my cheek and nuzzled gently against my neck.

His tenderness was exactly what I was afraid to lose. I loved how he'd brought me so far through life in such a short time and made me stronger. He was the rock that grounded me, the solid foundations that I was built on. I'd fall apart without him. My suicide was inevitable.

"We still need to talk about Natasha."

His chest puffed out on a sigh. "No, we don't. I told you; that's taken care off."

"It'll come back to haunt us someday very soon."

Cursing softly, Blaze pulled back to look at me and tapped the end of my nose. "I'm telling you it's okay. She can't say anything that'll separate us." _Of course she can't, she's dead._ He caught the look of confusion on my face and canted his head to one side. "Her quarrel is with me, Emmeline. In the nicest way possible, she doesn't care about you. She didn't even come out of her bedroom to find out why her house was crawling with paramedics."

"She's... Oh, God." My stomach roiled. She was either still lying there dead and nobody was any the wiser or she was flouncing around that big house of hers with one hell of a bargaining chip against me. Either way, I was in deep trouble.

"Are you okay? You look like death."

"I feel like Death." Withdrawing, I chewed on my fingernails and fretted over how long I had before the ugly truth got out. Blaze could say it would be okay because he didn't know any better. Unless he'd spoken to her... "Are we really going to be okay?"

He nodded and smiled for the first time since I'd woken up. "We are. And you owe me big time."

Didn't I just?

#

Blaze stayed with me through the following hours of testing and prodding, kind and attentive while I was covered with new drips, braces, dressings, wires and an oxygen mask for good measure. My family and friends were kept at bay by the nurses, who worried that the stress of their grief would be too much for me.

I learned how Blaze had instinctively felt my absence and started searching Natasha's house. He'd walked into the kitchen just as I fainted and hit my neck on the lip of the breakfast bar. He'd timed it so well; he'd run to my side and caught me before my head hit the ground.

Of course, I would have had to try and do away with myself in a mansion fitted with emergency call buttons. Between his limited first aid training and the express line to paramedics, I was in a house most ill-equipped for suicide. The only things I had on the side of death were my shitty platelet levels and alcohol-thinned blood. I'd bled faster than they could control.

Blaze never took his eyes off me, which would have been lovely if he hadn't looked so glum. He might have smiled when he told me how he was the only one who believed I'd wake up but I saw how the memories of that day replayed in his mind.

He wouldn't let me sleep. I was exhausted but he'd shake me every time my eyes closed. It was hard for him to believe that the next time I fell asleep wouldn't be the last and I suppose I understood that. Truth be told, I was scared myself.

With his love and support, I thought I might be able to get through anything. He was a much stronger person than I was unless it came to matters of losing me. Murder—attempted or otherwise—was something he'd unfortunately seen in his life before when he'd lost his father. He could handle a lot more than the average person.

Which was just as well when I started to deteriorate. Oxygen levels already low, every breath I took felt like it followed a marathon. My slashed wrists might have stopped bleeding but they felt just as fresh and sore as they had the very minute the flesh had been cut apart, and my back felt like it was broken in several places. I begged and pleaded for pain relief, thinking death might be my better option for a whole new reason. It was more than I could bear.

"Emmy, I'm sorry but I can't." Dr. Downes held my hand and stroked it gently, apologising again and again. "We gave you everything we could before we thought we'd lost you for good. I'm not happy to give you any more yet."

"How long?"

"Maybe in the morning."

I lifted my head to look out of the window and reluctantly nodded. It was so dark, though I had no idea what time it might be. I knew she'd only make sane, reasonable suggestions so I acquiesced on one condition.

"Don't let my mother see me like this." She wasn't like Blaze. My last attempt at killing myself still tormented her and she'd never deal with seeing me writhing like I was.

Blaze kissed my forehead and rose to his feet. "I'll keep her away. They owe me."

"Why?"

"The DNR." He returned my inquisitively raised eyebrow with one of his own. "I fought them on it until I was blue in the face, Emmeline. If I'd been your next of kin, I'd never have allowed it."

Smiling, I closed my eyes and tried to relax the best I could. "Why doesn't that surprise me? You won't let me go, will you?"

"No." He tickled my chin until my eyes opened again. "I was fully prepared to revive you myself. Typically, the only time I left your side was when you decided to wake up. Now, you stay awake until I get back, understand?"

I nodded and watched him war with the part of him that wanted to stay by my side. Even when he was outside the room, I could tell he was watching me somehow, making sure I obeyed his order. Despite how low I'd been just hours before, being close to him had given me back a little fighting spirit.

"You're very lucky." I glanced up at Dr. Downes and smirked. Jeez, she didn't need to tell me that.

"He is one hell of a man."

"I was actually referring to your somewhat miraculous recovery and once again coming out of it relatively unscathed. How you pulled yourself back from the cusp of multiple organ failure with nothing to show for it but some nasty cuts and some spinal bruising, I'll never know." She hung my notes on the end of my bed and grinned. "But as you mention it, he is rather wonderful. Gorgeous, devoted, wears his heart on his sleeve... Which begs the question why you'd leave the bed he was lying in to kill yourself?"

My happiness faded, replaced with cruel reality. Since he'd sworn we'd be okay—that my life wasn't ruined—I'd almost forgotten how it was I'd come to be in that hospital.

"Well?"

"I thought I'd done something terrible," I said vaguely. "I thought I'd lose him because of it."

"Something terrible?"

I shook my head quickly and looked down at my wrists. "I was wrong." At least I thought so. "My perception might have been a little warped. Things have moved so fast between us—so much has happened since last June. I've been unsettled and it's revived a few... doubts."

"Fat Emmy." Dr. Downes bowed her head slightly, remembering my vicious inner monologue from my teen-years. She was the one who'd diagnosed me as borderline schizophrenic and understood better than anyone how muddled I could get in times of disruption. "Your medical records say you were given anti-psychotics in New York. You're not taking them anymore?"

"Crooked shrink. Blaze flushed them."

"I see." After a thoughtful minute, she brushed a crease from my sheets and slowly exhaled a deep breath. "Trust me?"

"I do. Implicitly."

"Good. I'll get your head straight if you promise to slow down with the drama."

"Really?" I wrinkled my nose mockingly. "But you know what they say; 'live fast, die young and leave a pretty corpse'. Is my corpse pretty?"

"It's so beautiful it should never be seen by human eyes." Blaze slid back into the room, one hand in his pocket and the other holding a travel mug. Seeing it reminded me of the time he'd brought me a rum cocktail for 'lunch' when I was working in the book shop, Double Booked, and cheered me up a little. "Everyone is heading to the closest hotel. Your parents wanted to stay but... You know."

"They owe you. I owe you." Who _didn't_ owe him at that point?

"Right. So I hope you don't mind watching me pee because the only way I'm leaving that seat next to you tonight is if I'm in that bathroom and I'm going to keep you in eye-shot."

Excusing herself, Dr. Downes squeezed his arm on the way past and whispered something that made him frown. His reply seemed hostile but was spoken too quietly for me to make it out. Whatever their disagreement was, it looked like she'd win.

"All right, fine." Blaze held his free hand up and strode over me to start fiddling with the heart monitor until it's beeps rose to a dull roar. "But this is staying on."

"Jeez, turn that down!" Wincing, I reached for him, thinking I might understand what he was protesting to. "Two sliced radial arteries, severe shock and a heart attack didn't kill me. I don't think a few hours shut eye is going to finish me off."

"I know that, I think. The daft quack over there was suggesting _I_ sleep."

"Oh." I rolled my eyes and pinched him until he turned the monitor back down. In the unlikely event of my heart stopping again, it wouldn't just left to chance for someone to realise. Nobody really trusted that there wasn't a serious problem waiting to spring out and surprise—and disappoint—us. It _was_ a little unrealistic. "She's right, though. If you get so much as a sniffle from being run down, they won't let you in here."

"Fair point." He kicked off his shoes and plonked down in the chair, sipping smugly from his mug. "But this is coffee with a triple shot of espresso. I'll sleep when you wake up and Daniel comes to watch over you."

_Damn it._ "You're impossible."

"Yeah, and four hours ago I was asking your friends to be pall-bearers so—" He clicked his tongue and gave me a 'beat that' look. I couldn't, obviously, so resigned myself to the fact he was going to win every argument for the foreseeable future. As exasperated as me, Dr. Downes bade us good night and left us properly alone for the first time in hours.

Even with my eyes closed and the distraction of pain, I could feel Blaze still watching my every move. There was no way to stop him so I had to focus on breathing instead, almost meditating to block out everything but thoughts of sleep.

And time did pass. The next time I opened my eyes it was light outside, so I must have slept. The only thing that disturbed me was the weight on the bed next to me, and the way it squirmed. Apparently distressed, Blaze had fallen asleep with his head on my bed, and mumbled and cried through a dream. Nothing he said was coherent but I understood that he dreamed of death and regret.

I couldn't bear to see him like that. Just able to reach him, I stroked his hair and whispered words to soothe and awaken. It took a while for the dream to pass, but he woke immediately afterwards and took a moment to look at our environment.

"Fuck..." Pinching the bridge of his nose, he surged to his feet and pulled my weak body up into his arms, crushing me against him with a force that would have hurt even if I'd been in perfect health. Resisting a whimper, I held strong until he found his senses and laid me back down, fussing over his aggressive advance.

"It's okay," I assured him, desperate not to let him see how sore I felt from his assault. "Tell me what I can do to make you feel better."

"What _you_ can do? Jesus, Emmeline." He lifted my head much more carefully to remove and plump my pillow. "I drove you to suicide last night—"

"No, you didn't."

"Drove you to suicide." The moment of silence after that sentence dared me to disagree again. I didn't, even though I knew it was stupid. "I'm the one who has to make up for it."

"You're not. Really. And I owe you, remember? For Natasha."

Blaze paused for a beat; then put the pillow back behind me and nodded. "So maybe we're even."

"Great..." I winked and held out a hand for him to hold. "So tell me how to skip past you into first place."

"Ah, Miss Tudor..." Laughing begrudgingly, he raised my hand to his lips and kissed each finger. "Always hungry for the advantage. You can get there by never making me think I've lost you again. Once was enough. A further four times was overkill."

"Okay..." It wasn't an unreasonable request. I'd broken a promise and he'd saved my life. More than that, he was potentially covering up a murder for me. Vowing to live was really quite an insignificant request. If anything, I was obliged to spend the rest of my days doing anything and everything to make him happy.

Yes... I straightened a little on realising my new purpose. Everything I said or did from then on would be with his happiness in mind because as much as he insisted I didn't, I owed him. I owed him everything.

"Are you okay? Is she talking to you?"

"What?" My gaze snapped back to Blaze. She? "Oh... No, she's MIA."

"I should never have ditched your meds, Emmeline." He started kissing my fingers again, more urgently. "You should have been weaned off. I could have caused this."

"Damn it, stop that. You've done nothing wrong."

He paused for a beat. "If I had, would you forgive me?"

"But you haven't."

"But if I had?" Something about the way he was pushing the question made me anxious. It didn't quite feel like an admission of guilt, maybe a pre-emptive warning or quest for permission.

"Is something wrong?"

"No." His answering smile was a little too sharp and contrite. What had he done—or was planning to do? "But if I had..."

"I'd forgive you." Because I'd be a hypocrite if I didn't. He could never do anything as bad as I had, never let his dreams and jealousy rule him. The worst thing he could do to me is break my heart, but I was fairly sure that wasn't an option to him.

"Good." Relaxing, Blaze pulled the thin sheets up over my arms and glanced across at the steadily peaking line and dull flash of the heart monitor. "I dreamt that we were here, you know. When I woke up, I really wished it had just been a nightmare. I wanted to believe that we'd wake up in your flat and the past day and a half were all an illusion." His eyes skimmed across my body and up to my face. "I love you, Emmeline."

The strangest sense of sadness overwhelmed me. Love could and would make us do stupid things. Part of me thought we might not be in such a complication situation if he'd never said it at all but the rest of me was so grateful that he still said it now, after everything I'd done.

And because of everything I'd done, I could say with great conviction, "I love you more." He'd argue but I knew I was right.

If someone had told me that you'd wake up after a near-death experience feeling revitalised and ready to take on the world in a way you couldn't bear to before, I'd have told them to stop watching stupid spiritualist documentaries and get a grip. Twice over, I knew that the reality was typically a deep depression at having survived, some major guilt trips and often a considerable amount of pain.

But by some strange turn of events, I woke up a few hours later feeling like a million dollars. I could move without reservation, touch my chest without feeling wires stemming off my skin. It was almost a shame to open my eyes and spot the tray of standard hospital breakfast sitting in front of me.

"Oh, man. They're trying to make me feel suicidal again now?"

"Eat up. Doctor's orders." Blaze walked in from the adjoining bathroom, freshly shaven and chewing on toast. "They want to make sure everything works in the digestive regions before they consider discharging you."

"Oh. Ew..." No matter how nicely he'd worded it, I knew that every time someone checked on me, they'd be asking whether I'd taken a dump. "Why do they care about that?"

"You have a spinal injury, Emmeline. Your legs weren't taking your own weight yesterday."

"Paralysis?" Shaking my head, I scrambled to sit up. Ever on the ball, Blaze passed me the remote control that raised the head of the bed and moved my breakfast closer. "I can move them, though."

"Bit more complex than that. But don't think about it, just eat up. You look a lot better today."

Knowing that breakfast was my only safe meal, I dubiously pulled the wrapper off a set of pre-packaged plastic cutlery. "I feel better. I presume I'm drugged up to the eyeballs."

"Absolutely. Dr. Downes came in and took all your junk off while you were sleeping—gave you some intravenous painkillers before the canulas came out. We wanted you to wake up comfortable this time."

I paused midway through pouring milk over bran flakes, of all the cereals in the world. "Is this where you tell me I'm going to die after all?"

"What? No!" Blaze scoffed, peeled the lid off my tiny portion of jam and started spreading it across my cardboard. I mean toast. Spread it on my toast. "To be honest, it was intended as a sweetener. Everyone is nagging to see you, cupcake."

"Ah." So they'd drugged me and provided breakfast in bed as a bribe... "Do I get coffee first?"

"Decaf."

"Seriously?" What was even the point? If the choice was between decaf and one of Henry's fatherly pep-talks... "Let them in."

Even when mourning—despite it being unnecessary—Ivy Tudor was ever the trophy bride in a designer black shift dress, unreasonably high heels and a full face of makeup more suited to a dinner party or gala. She'd started sobbing the moment she set eyes on me and hadn't managed a coherent sentence in twenty minutes. At first I'd felt bad but the remorse soon transformed into teenagerish eye rolling and groaning.

"Okay, Mum. You're kind of overdoing the grief now. I'm here; alive, mostly well and ready to get kicking you out of here..." She wailed in response, which just made me sigh. In a weird way, I'd liked it better when it was just Blaze by my bedside. I didn't feel hospitable, not even a little bit. If my life became one with only us in it, I didn't think I'd mind.

Blaze smiled sympathetically and tried his best to diffuse the situation with a cheery, "Emmeline might be home tomorrow." Well... It stopped the crying. Unfortunately for him, it launched the spiralling rocket that was my mother's little seen temper.

"They won't seriously discharge her? She's ill—she needs to be under psychiatric care."

"No, she doesn't. Her doctor is sure that home is the best place for her. She's not depressed."

"She tried to kill herself!"

"I'm also right here! Jeez." I growled skyward, irritated by them forgetting how much I hated them speaking about me like I wasn't even there. "Don't I get a say in this?"

"No." Oh well, they were agreeing on something. "I'm already a registered carer, Ivy. She's safe with me."

"So safe she slit her wrists in your company. Pardon me if I'm a little nervous about charging you with her care."

My jaw hit the floor. I didn't even know my mother had it in her to be malicious and that blow was a little too low for my liking. I stared at her, willing her to apologise. When she didn't, I turned my attention to Blaze and telepathically begged him not to take it to heart.

Catching my gaze, he straightened his spine. "She's coming home with me, Ivy. I was the only one protecting her life when you all decided to let it end."

"What about her back problems? She can't walk up those steps to the flat."

Blaze bit his lip and shifted awkwardly away from me. "That's already in hand."

Curious, I crossed my arms and narrowed my eyes. "What the hell does that mean?"

"Not now, Emmeline."

"Yes now, Blaze. What have you done?"

"Nothing."

"You mean 'nothing _yet_ '." He had that look about him, the same one he'd had when he'd delivered the news of his wife wanting to meet me. He was up to something and I didn't like it. I'd have handled anything better if he was upfront about it.

"Oh, hey!" Digging his hand into his pocket, Blaze pulled out his phone with a flourish and pointed at it with every ounce of male model swagger he could muster. "Would you look at that. It's the phone I haven't checked in, ohh... Twenty-nine hours. I must have a ton of messages..."

"Nice try, Valentine. You're not off the hook." Flashing me a grin, he backed out of the door and almost collided with Daniel and Esme on their way in.

"Emmy!" Dan flew over to me and kissed me right on the mouth, which made me laugh. I promised I wouldn't die again because he'd touched me and he told me about the celebratory truffles his husband, Jonathan, had bought for us all to share when I was home. Esme, on the other hand, was a little less exuberant and took a protective, if a little hostile, position at my mother's shoulder. At a guess, she was mad at me.

"I am _so_ mad at you, Emmy." Suspicion confirmed. "You worried the hell out of us."

"I'm sorry." I'd said that so often the words were losing meaning. "I'm okay now."

"You were okay forty-eight hours ago, too. Look how that turned out. Do you have any idea the damage you could have done—how close you came to dragging us all down with you? Your dad has been attached to his phone and slowly draining his bank account to stop the media getting hold of this. Your sister spent an hour in the recovery position after giving you a pint of blood you just bled straight out—"

"And that's _my_ fault?"

She held up a crimson tipped finger to stall me. "Blaze and Chris made serious threats to kill themselves if you died."

"They did what?"

Daniel made a low hissing noise to shut her up but when wounded, Esme had a habit of launching for the perpetrators jugular. She had a point she wanted to make and I'd hear it whether I liked it or not. And I didn't. "Trying to do yourself over is one thing, Emmy, but when you take others down with you, it's unforgivable. Imagine if they hadn't waited for you to breathe your last. How would you have felt if you'd woken up and we'd had to tell you they were both dead? Think about that, because it's how we felt having to call your poor parents in the ungodly hours of yesterday morning."

"Esme, that's enough." It really was. My heart was pounding to a frantic rhythm of guilt and speculation. If it had happened, that could have made my death count three. My actions could have killed three people; two of them I didn't think I could live without. No, I _knew_ I couldn't live without them. That was entirely the point of trying to die in the first place.

"The hell if it is, Daniel. She could have come to any one of us before heading for the knife block. We would have been there for her."

"In all fairness," I snapped bitterly, "you're the last person I'd try to wake up if I fancied a midnight cutting frenzy. It'd take too long to peel your fucking eye mask off."

"Stop! Jeez..." Rounding the bed, Daniel seized Esme by the wrist and promptly led her out of the room. She left nothing but her glare and an awkward silence behind her. Neither of them spoke until they were outside, and then they underestimated how thin the walls were.

"Are you trying to kill her off completely? You can't stress her out."

"I'm supposed to consider her feelings after she was so selfish? Someone has to tell her that she's ruined her life this time. I know you won't."

"She hasn't—"

"Yes, she has. If she seriously thinks everything will be okay after this because she lived, she's more of an idiot than I thought. As much as Blaze says he's okay, he's going to see the mess she left for him to clear up every time he looks at her. Their relationship is as good as over."

Right on cue, Blaze edged around them back into the room, directed a confused nod towards them; then stood stock still. I'd sort of expected him to be a little appalled at finding me in tears, but I sure didn't expect him to slam the emergency call button and start ushering my mother out of the room.

I didn't understand it until I felt a warm wetness on my upper lip and looked down just in time to see a drop of blood hit my gown. My fingers brushed my nose and came away covered; it was just a nosebleed. "Jeez, relax."

"I..." Blaze reined himself in and sat on the bed next to me, brushing his hands over my face and hair. "You're bleeding."

"Yeah, it's a nosebleed. They happen. No need to kill yourself over it."

He frowned; then rolled his eyes and looked back over his shoulder to the small gathering of my two friends, mother and my newly arrived father for good measure. "They told you."

"Esme told me." I didn't feel even a little bit bad for ratting her out. "You're supposed to be stronger than me, Blaze."

"I'm only strong if I have a reason to be." Emptying his pockets onto the bedside tray, he kicked off his shoes and climbed under my sheets with me. Taking advantage of my medicated state, he pulled me over into his lap and urged me to lean back against him.

It was heavenly. He hadn't showered in a couple of days but he smelled musky rather than disgusting, all him and nothing artificial. His bulky arms roping with muscle came around my waist and settled there, tender but a firm reminder that I'd never escape him. Until the day he died and beyond, I'd be his and he'd make sure I knew it. We were forever fused as one.

"As it is, I didn't even get outside." He kissed the top of my head and rocked me slightly. "I saw your doctor out there. Provided there's no more bumps in the road, she'll discharge you into my care tomorrow."

"That's so soon." He'd be like my nurse. How degrading for him, never mind for me. Would he be paid an allowance to care for me like he had for Natasha? I didn't want to be the next job that restricted how far he could travel for photo shoots and filming... "Maybe I _should_ go back to Cardiff." His sudden stillness made me regret the offer. "Blaze?"

"Why would you say that?"

_Because I've ruined your life enough already._ "Don't we have enough to rebuild without you having to baby me?"

"By babying you, do you mean giving you medication, changing your dressings, helping you out of bed and taking you to appointments?"

"Yes..."

He manoeuvred me to one side, giving me no choice but to look up at him. "Would you be saying this if you'd had life-saving surgery? Like an emergency appendectomy or organ transplant?" I pursed my lips. Where was he going with that question? "You _did_ have life-saving surgery, Emmeline. And a blood transfusion and you have a back injury... You think my wanting to care for you is less noble and motivated by love because of _how_ you got these injuries? Don't confuse empathy for pity, cupcake. It's as much for me as it is for you."

I didn't doubt that. I knew him well enough to know he was a loyal man who was driven by obligation because he wouldn't let himself leave a job half-finished. God knows that had been what kept him with Natasha. He said himself that had he walked away, he'd have wasted years where he could have been touring the world as a rockstar.

Jesus Christ. He was an ex-rockstar and he wanted to spend weeks helping me dress myself. Talking about kicking a man when he was down.

But I didn't get chance to object because his phone rang. I felt his groan hum through his body, one of resentment and apprehension. That groan stopped the minute he answered.

" ...Yes, that's me... I am... Oh."

Daniel rushed forward to help me sit forward so Blaze could escape from behind me and take his call out in the corridor. Everyone stared at me, like I was supposed to know what was being said. I didn't, but all the possibilities ran through my mind.

He was barely out of the room before he turned back on himself and stared down at his phone. "That was the police." So I'd considered every possibility but that one.

"Did Natasha cry statutory rape already?" My dear uninformed mother squeaked with alarm, her bloodlust on fire. Things like that were a scandal for our family, which is exactly why Natasha had come out with it over dinner. She knew it would tear us apart somehow and for all intents and purposes, it just might.

"Um... No." Blaze set his phone back down on the tray and leaned on the end of the bed, arching so slightly towards me. "If it's okay, I need a word with Emmeline. In private."

"Why?" I couldn't believe I was actually questioning him. I _knew_ why, if I admitted it. "What's happened?"

He looked at me with all simplicity and obviousness in the world. _You know what's happened._ "I'd rather discuss it in private."

"Please, just say it."

And he did. From his tone alone, I understood what I'd let myself believe, the harshest surreality I couldn't have honestly expected to be true.

He had no idea what I'd done before I'd tried to kill myself. Nobody did. When they'd spoken of unforgivable acts and horrible crimes, they'd meant the damage I'd inflicted on my loved ones, not the abhorrent pillow smothering that had led to it. Of course they didn't, I'd have been questioned by now.

How foolish of me to believe my father and lover would protect me over something so callous and evil. How naive to believe I'd committed the perfect crime.

With two simple words, my life was over.

"Natasha's dead."

#  THREE

#

I could hear the power of four minds churning over those words until they started to make sense. All the while, Blaze kept his eyes on me, and that was more unnerving than anything. As emotive as the man usually was, he was giving away nothing. He looked as lively inside as a fallen tree and that emptiness was directed right at me.

Of course he'd never say he'd forgiven me if he'd been aware of the truth. I was a fucking murderer and he now he knew it.

My friends hadn't figured it out. My parents thought so well of me it wouldn't even occur to them. They couldn't possibly have raised a child so immoral.

"Oh my God, when?"

Blaze didn't look away from me when he answered Esme's question. "In the early hours of yesterday morning."

"You mean—"

"Yeah. Around the same time Emmeline..."

Losing the end of that sentence, I closed my eyes, disgusted with myself. What if he'd gone to her bedroom instead? He could have saved her instead of me. That would have made sense; she offered him comfort and stability. I offered nothing but uncertainty and drama.

"A moment with her. Please."

The room quickly emptied out, though they all lingered outside. The tension between us was so thick you could see it—a massive wall building higher, brick by brick, with every passing second. The longer we were silent the harder it would be to breach it so I blurted out—

"I'm sorry!"

"No, you're not." Puffing out a withheld breath, Blaze dropped back into an unsteady pace around the room. His arms and legs swung with each step; he was working up to something, I knew it. "I knew it was going to happen."

"You knew?"

"Well... Yeah." Gaping at me like I was an idiot, he snorted a laugh and sank down onto the bed next to me. "I knew she was dying, didn't I? I'm just shell shocked at her timing. Talk about being an attention whore."

"Sorry..." I swallowed the lump in my throat. "What?"

"You nearly die and she has to go one better. That's Natasha all over. Or rather it was."

"But she... Oh." _Oh, hell._ He hadn't figured it out. He didn't know I'd done it. Too trusting Blaze had been screwed over by her lies about multiple sclerosis handing her a death sentence and now he was buying my bullshit, too. Did I correct him? Would they figure it out anyway? Should I have told him before it became a murder investigation?

"That explains all the voicemail messages I have. Jeez... The relief nurse found her when she started work at nine yesterday morning. I feel like I should tip her."

"I can't believe you're making jokes."

He smiled softly and took my hands in his, brushing his thumb over the emerald engagement ring I'd worn through every bitter second of the past two days. "But I'm glad she's gone. She really would have screwed things up for us, cupcake. She might have tried to put us through something we might not have survived."

"She _has_ put us through something we might not survive." When the truth came out... My God.

"Emmeline..." Squeezing my hands, Blaze inched closer to me and took a wary look out through the window into the hallway. Esme and Ivy tried to act like they hadn't been watching. "I realise this is in poor taste—which is why I sent everyone out—but if the past couple of days have taught me anything, it's that every moment with you is precious. I've got to get proactive to make the most of you, because just look at how fleeting life is."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying..." He sighed and adopted his never-failing puppy dog eyes. "There's nothing holding us back now. Let's make our life together. I want to marry you, Emmeline. Soon."

I recoiled back a little, mortified to be having this conversation on the tail of his wife's death. "What's the rush?"

"You're the rush. I don't know when you'll try to leave me again, or if I'll get you back a third time. I want to find a new house for us both, start planning a family, and get married. Soon."

His neediness made me feel light-headed. "How soon?"

"We said we wanted to marry in the spring, in my mothers garden under the cherry blossoms. That gives you eight weeks to find a dress."

"Eight weeks?!" I yanked my hands back from him and took an inward look at myself. Even if I hadn't killed Natasha, I wasn't ready to get married. I was twenty-two, stupid, and I barely knew who I was. I'd never been in a rush to say my vows and I'd been mentally working with a timescale much more generous than two months. "My wrists will barely be healed by then. That won't make for pretty pictures."

"Anyone looking at your wrists rather than your face is a fool. Please..." Gripping my chin, Blaze urged me to look at him and leaned forward to nuzzle his nose against mine. "I'll take care of everything. You just need to find a dress nearly as gorgeous as you and turn up."

"You're going to care for me, arrange a funeral and organise a wedding in eight weeks? Talk about burning the candle at both ends, Blaze."

"I'm delegating the funeral to Mona and Patrice. After Natasha's parting shot, I might not even turn up."

"You're her next of kin."

"Then maybe she should have treated me with a little more respect."

I couldn't really argue with that. She'd spent more than six years lying about her health and thrown her toys out of the pram when it looked like she might lose him. Their marriage was almost based on blackmail.

Would ours be much better based on a lie?

"Before you think about saying no," he warned me, "remember how much I love you. What I'd give up for you, what I'd lie down and take. What I _have_ taken. What I've done. I'm utterly committed to you."

"You're trying to bully me into marrying you?"

"Is it working?"

I huffed and folded my arms, trying to look affronted. It was so damn hard when he was giving me one of his sweet, goading smiles. Aware that I really wasn't that offended or distressed, I knew that the only thing stopping me was _still_ Natasha.

"You don't know what you're committing to."

"Neither do you." Huh... He had me there. In spite of our time together, I knew the basics about him and his family, which was really very little in the grand scheme of things. "We have plenty of time to find out. Please, Emmeline. Everything I've ever truly cared for I've loved unconditionally and it's been taken away. The only permanent people I have in my life are you and my mother, but you're too easy to find slipping through my fingers. At least give me a reason to make it harder for you to disappear."

God, that was his motive? "You don't need me to sign a piece of paper to prove I'm ridiculously devoted to you. Seriously." He had no idea...

"Don't I?" Stroking my forearms, he stared wistfully down at my bandaged wrists. "Signing a marriage certificate pales in significance to what I'd do to keep you with me. Even if you say no, I'd stay by your side forever. You have no idea of the lengths I'd go to, to assure that. This is the only thing _you_ could ever do to let me know we're on the same mutually obsessive page."

That would have been a really good time to correct him—point out that I would and had gone to great measures to abolish things that could interfere with our future. But something about seeing him sit there, head low and begging me to be his wife, made me even less keen on the idea of coming clean.

He'd lost too much because of Natasha and now she was gone, he didn't even have anything to hate. Before I'd walked into his life, resenting her for keeping him tied down might have been his reason to live and I'd taken it away. If he felt like _I_ was his new cause...

"You really want this?"

"Yes. You have no idea how badly." No... I thought I did.

I reached out and stroked his face. He was so savagely gorgeous and he wanted me so much, in spite of my multitude of flaws. What the hell was I complaining about? Even with my own reservations in mind, I was lucky that he still wanted me—it was nothing short of a marvel that he'd ever wanted me at all.

And all I had to do to make him happy was buy a dress and say a few lines. I could do that. "Eight weeks it is."

"Carefully does it... Slowly... Ah. Shit. Sorry."

I rolled my eyes as my foot caught on yet another doorframe. After another two days in hospital, a few false starts and several repeated diagnostic tests on my mother's insistence, I'd finally been discharged and was homeward bound.

Well... Apparently not that homeward, it seemed. I'd been looking forward to returning to my little cave of a flat, kicking back in bed and watching a sci-fi marathon on my ancient television. Instead, we'd been driven to one of Henry's hotels and pushed up to a suite.

Yes, pushed. My legs still weren't cooperating. It was probably only a matter of time before I made a full recovery, I was told. 'Probably' made me nervous. I didn't want to spend the rest of my life in a wheelchair. I could move them; why the hell couldn't I stand on them?

"I thought you were trained for this."

Too carefully, Blaze pushed me around the door into the lounge area and helped me out of the chair onto a couch. Most of my favourite creature comforts were waiting for me—coffee, some of Esme's butter cream cupcakes and a sketch pad. _My_ sketch pad, actually. How odd...

"Never had a wheelchair user under my care before, Emmeline."

"Hey, I'm not a wheelchair user. The wheelchair is using me." He laughed and scurried around the smaller rooms of the suite, hitting switches in the kitchenette, grabbing blankets from bedrooms and barking orders down the phone to the front desk. I watched him as he moved, noticing more and more of my personal effects scattered around. "How long are we staying here?"

"Umm..." He made a face he thought I didn't see. "Not long."

"Blaze..."

"Ah, okay." Hissing out a breath, he slumped down onto the couch next to me and worried a fleece blanket between his fingers. "I don't know how long we'll be here. As long as you're in the chair, at least."

"Is that why so much of my stuff is here?"

Wincing, he tipped his head just slightly to a stack of boxes I hadn't noticed. It wasn't just some of my stuff; everything I owned had been packed up and moved into the suite. His, too. Dread slithered through me, freezing every cell it touched.

"What have you done?"

"I didn't... It wasn't... We thought you were..."

I held up a hand, then used it to cover my mouth. He didn't need to say anything else, I could fill in the blanks myself. "The moment that DNR was put in place, Henry let out the flat to someone else. Oh my God..." Why was I even surprised? There was a waiting list as long as Schindler's for a vacancy in that building and my dear old dad was all about making an easy buck.

"It wasn't quite as shallow as you think." Blaze wrapped the blanket around my shoulders and encouraged me to get comfortable. Like that was even possible in a neck brace. "There are too many stairs in that place. We have no idea when you'll be able to tackle them, it was crammed to the rafters with our stuff and you know..." He ran a hand through his hair and quickly shuffled away to the kitchenette. "We need the extra space. I don't care about any of the stuff in Natasha's house except her grand piano. I want to keep it."

"But you arranged this before you knew she was dead, didn't you?" He ducked out of view before I could catch his gaze. "So that excuse doesn't work for me."

The roar of a boiling kettle cut me off. Helpless, I sat there and took in the opulence of the suite. It really was very nice, all very upmarket and A-list. I could tolerate a couple of days in it, but weeks might make me go crazy. It was just too... posh.

"So eight weeks to get my legs back, arrange a wedding, organise a funeral and now find a new home..." I squeezed my eyes shut and rubbed them. "Great..."

"I told you, the funeral isn't my problem." Leaning around me, Blaze passed me a glass of water with one hand and a colourful selection of tablets with the other. "And the wedding isn't yours."

That just wasn't true. I might have agreed to it but that didn't mean it wasn't a massive problem for me. The more time I had to think about it, the more I thought it was a horrible idea. The reasons to do it, for a start, were terrible. The small amount of time until it happened was obscene. The constant fear that he'd find out I'd killed Natasha in the early days of our marriage and accuse me of luring him in under false pretences was paramount...

"Could you please find my laptop?" I gulped down the tablets and took the coffee he offered moments later—my first cup in nearly five days. The chambers of my brain felt like they'd been collapsing from the caffeine withdrawal and the sight of that steaming java made me almost cheerful. "Henry booked a meeting with his financial team about those discrepancies for in three days time. I'd like to be there."

"Are you out of your mind?" Blaze didn't speak again until I paused to look at him. "You just died. Four times. You're not working again yet."

"Damn it..." Not wanting to argue but determined to not become a vegetable, I took a fortifying gulp of coffee and braced myself for a fight. "I can't just sit around and do nothing for weeks on end. My brain will stagnate and if I did, as you say, die four times, it needs the exercise."

"But—"

"Blaze. Please. It's a few spreadsheets and one meeting under the care of my dad. What's the worst that can happen?"

He squinted, sighed, and then turned on his heels and paced away into the master bedroom. Figuring I'd lost the battle, I settled back and tried to figure out how I'd win the war.

I didn't share my mother's inclination to be a kept woman. If I was going to have money, I wanted to work for it. The way Henry earned his money—through the endless scamming and screwing of associates—had always made me avoid his business before but since I'd become a part of it, I wanted to be invaluable.

Which I was. Nobody had noticed the hundreds of thousands of pounds being drained out of his business accounts until I'd dug into a gut feeling I'd had. I didn't want to find out the truth through the grapevine. This find was my baby.

Blaze strode back into the lounge area, took my coffee away from me and deftly swept me up off the couch. Only the fact he'd caught me off guard stopped me screaming at him, _'My coffee, damn it!'_

"The meeting will be moved back to next week; you rest today, start working tomorrow and if you're still in the chair, I'm going with you."

Stuttering, I glared at him while he tucked me up in bed, brusquely kissed my forehead and dimmed the lights. "Are you shitting me right now?"

"No, Emmeline." He paused in the doorway and shook his head. "You'll do as your told while I'm responsible for your wellbeing. Understand?"

I did, and what really surprised me was that I wasn't exactly distressed by the idea. For most of my twenty-two years, I'd fought to be an independent woman who made her own fate, yet his uncharacteristic caveman behaviour made me feel settled. He'd always treated me like his equal, but now to treat me like a child...

He cared. My health was his only concern and he'd look after me whether I liked his methods or not. He'd devote his life and sanity to it—scold and growl at me because it was in my best interests. It would have been just as easy for him to let me scupper my recovery by pushing myself too hard or not getting enough rest but he put in the extra mile for me. Always had. Probably always would. For no reason other than that he loved me.

"Okay." He looked stunned by my compliance and faltered on his way out. "Don't leave me in here alone too long."

"I won't." He nodded towards the flat screen television mounted on the wall opposite the grand four-poster bed he'd laid me in. "I need to make a few calls, but how does popcorn and a movie marathon sound?"

"Good enough for me to overlook the fact you're taking over my life."

"Don't worry." He winked and turned back into the lounge. "I'm planning to return it with interest."

I knew that wasn't just a romantic pun. If he could, Blaze would extend my life expectancy by several years by any means possible. I'd have to outlive him—it would be his life's mission. I was almost certain that if he ever lived another single day without me, he'd stay old, lonely and miserable until he died of a broken heart. That might have been a conceited opinion but it was his own fault for telling it that way. My life and love were the two things he treasured most.

At least, that was what I thought until twelve hours later, when the quiet of night was disturbed by a man tortured by nightmares. Between my injuries and the amount of medication pumping through my body, I could do nothing but lay there, paralysed and unable to reach out in comfort.

His moans were heartbreaking, the sobs into his pillow unbearable to hear. What the hell was he dreaming about to make him have such a distressing nightmare?

Maybe the memory of finding me bleeding was replaying again. Maybe it would haunt him for years. A combination of muscle relaxants and pain killers carefully administered and hidden by my new carer had put me into a dreamless sleep and masked my own nightmares, but it definitely wouldn't help him. I'd broken him, heart and soul, with my suicide attempt. It would undoubtedly haunt me, too.

His hands started to twist in the valance covering the mattress, pulling it away at the corners to wrinkle uncomfortably underneath me. Feeling a cold breeze on my uncovered leg, I had no choice but to reach out a hand and search for him.

"Blaze. Wake up."

"Don't take her from me..." His hand clapped down over my wrist and squeezed it like a vice. The resulting pain was so intense I felt sick and saw spots. I knew he hadn't done it consciously or on purpose, but for a moment I really hated him.

"Damn it, you fucking asshole. Wake up!"

"Natasha!"

The valance was completely tugged away from underneath me so quickly it sent me rolling once, twice, and a third time that sent me face first off the bed. The heat in my wrist told me I was bleeding again but that wasn't what hurt the most.

He'd been dreaming about _her._ He missed her. The nightmare that should have been about me had been about her. He cared for her more than he let on—more than me. His subconscious told the only veritable truth he wouldn't and I'd always valued the way he was totally honest and open. Or at least the way he had been.

But how could I think badly of him for keeping secrets when I kept the worst?

His nightmare seemed to pass the moment he yelled her name. The only basis of that was the absolute silence in the master bedroom. Eventually I heard the movement of fabric and a quiet, "Emmeline?"

"Down here."

"Emmeline?" I felt him loom over me. "Holy shit, did you fall out of bed or something?"

"Yeah," I snapped. "That's what happened."

"Why didn't you... Oh. Crap, I... Emmeline, I'm so sorry." So he'd seen state of the bedding...

"Can you just roll me onto my back or something? Thanks."

His bare feet slapped down onto the hardwood floor, muted for a moment by rugs preceding the harshness of the main lights. He groaned when he must have looked back at me, righted the bed and carefully rolled me over.

"Fuck. Your wrist."

"It'll stop when it's ready. Just put me back in bed."

"Emmeline..."

I pressed a finger to his lips to stop him going on. I wished I could walk so I could just get up, leave and be spared the guilt of taking away what he truly loved most.

Blaze murmured behind my finger. "I feel terrible. You have no idea."

"Yeah. Me, too."

"Please don't leave me."

I leaned back from him, feeling the backs of my eyes burn with tears. "Why would I?"

"What I did..."

His reaction to saying his wife's name and shoving me out of bed was a little too adverse. There was more to it, I just didn't understand what. What _had_ he done that was so awful? What was it he thought I'd just learned? Would he even told me if I asked?

I was too drowsy and felt too unwell to find out. Forgetting myself, I tried to pull myself to my feet and almost threw up thanks to the amount of pain it induced.

"Cupcake, shit. Don't move." Scraping me up, Blaze tucked me back into bed and raced out to grab his phone.

"Don't call anyone," I called after him. Frankly, I didn't care if I bled to death overnight this time. Esme was right; our relationship was ruined now the first bride was out of the picture. How screwed up was it that we only worked while when we had a third wheel that stopped us growing as a couple? Who knew how long he'd dream of her and beg her not to leave? And I'd have to hear it, maybe every single night.

Or not. He bottlenecked in the doorway with his back to me and drummed his fingers across the frame. "I'm going to sleep in the other room. Probably won't even sleep, actually..."

"Don't do this..."

"I'm not doing anything." He turned back to me and sagged with defeat. "It was stupid of me to sleep in the same bed as you while you're still recovering. I could have really hurt you and that's the last thing I want to do. It'll be just like the old days when I'd fuck you rigid and sneak out while you were sleeping."

I couldn't believe he was trying to make light of it. "Except we're supposed to have gotten over that hurdle of not waking up together and I'm rigid for all the wrong reasons."

"Cupcake..." He grinned slyly down at the floor and drew distracting little pictures with his toes. "I'm supposed to be making you better and having my wicked way with you would put you in traction for months. And if waking up with me means so much, I'll get up early and come back in here for you. It's just the sleeping part that worries me."

I conceded to myself that the sleeping part worried me, too, but for reasons far different to his. What kind of future did we have as a couple if we couldn't even dream safely side by side? Getting to that point in the first place had been torturous but now to take a step backwards and return to it? We'd build a marriage on him sleeping in the guest room after performing his spousal duties and lying about what was driving us to weep while we were sleeping? Was he just scared of what I'd hear—scared of me realising I was second best?

"I'll bring you breakfast and your laptop in bed when you wake up. Want me to set an alarm?"

"You know what?" I faked a smile and prayed he didn't see my heart splitting open. He didn't need a guilt trip heaping on top of his stress and grief. "Let me sleep in and leave the laptop out there. I'll just... rest tomorrow." Rest or mope, I couldn't be sure which I really meant until I slept on it. Blaze either didn't pick up the subtext or was just happy to pretend it wasn't there, waved dumbly and shut me into the dark room.

Alone. And he shut me out as much as he shut me in. I'd always told myself as a child that watching my parents marriage was like watching two speeding cars travelling in opposite directions down a one way street, and swore I'd never be in a relationship like theirs.

Which I wasn't. Both Ivy and Henry knew when to hit the brakes or make a hasty yet skilful u-turn. Blaze and I were an impending catastrophe for another reason: neither of us knew how to save the other. We'd hurtle towards each other with no abandon until we collided and what would become of the wreckage, nobody knew, least not me.

There was only one thing that was certain. The crash would be followed by an unholy burn.

#

The first week of eight passed in a bizarre blur that made me feel kind of sea sick. By the time I woke up the next morning, Blaze had already spoken to his mother, coerced a registrar into performing the ceremony in her garden and booked our hotel for the wedding night. Over the next three days, he had a large gazebo ordered, half a guest list written, fabric swatches for cravattes strewn everywhere and was eagerly staring at his phone, awaiting the call of Chase Garret, his Monday's Miracle replacement front man for the thumbs up on not only their attendance but their participation in the wedding.

I couldn't believe it. What seemed like only five minutes ago, my life had been unremarkable and boring. I'd complained and wished for change. Now I was a multibillionaire's murdering daughter who'd marry to the sound of one of the UK's biggest rock bands. It just didn't seem to be my life anymore.

Determined not to be a burden, I'd tried to get myself out of bed and had only ended up back on the floor. Rather than admiration, my tenancy won me nothing but a critical tut and a lecture on how sabotaging my recovery wasn't going to get me out of dress shopping. The damn wedding was blinding his comprehension of the fact that keeping myself down wasn't my motive. I was trying to scrape together some semblance of normality in what had become a very abnormal existence.

I didn't let his disapproval distract me. When he wasn't looking, I'd prevail in my attempts to become mobile again with or without his help. The cocktail of pain killers made it easier, dulling the pain that came from pushing myself. As long as they kept prescribing them, I'd be okay. The consequences of doing too much were an afterthought I could overlook until Blaze retreated to sleep in the other room, as long as I didn't have to face them while he was looking right at me.

The day before my meeting with Henry, I stood in the en-suite bathroom and nervously picked at the dressings around my wrists. I hadn't had the courage to look at the wounds myself but Blaze had, choosing to wait until I was completely passed out at night to sneak in and clean them up.

For me, seeing and redressing the wounds myself was like a rite of passage. It was my way of taking on board what I'd done and accepting the responsibility. Of course, this time was a lot different to when I'd been warily unwinding the bandages last time—the circumstances weren't the same. But it was a step in the right direction.

One impeded by my 'carer'. Or rather 'molly coddler'.

"What the hell are you doing out of bed? Without your collar on? Standing?"

"Can't you just be glad that I can?"

Ignoring me, Blaze carried me out of the bathroom and put me back in bed, grabbing my discarded collar along the way. "You need your rest. I need you fighting fit."

"Damn it." I slapped his hands away when he tried to swaddle me like an infant. "You keep me cooped up in here, I'm not fighting shit. How long are you planning to keep me prisoner?"

"I'm just doing my job, Emmeline."

"Yeah, that's right; I'm just work to you now. Another destitute rich girl dependent on your care. I was your fiancée first, remember that? I used to be more than a mercy mission."

Blaze sank down next to me and pulled the duvet right up to my chin, firmly pinning my arms down underneath it long enough to put the collar back on me. "Can't you just understand that I'm trying to do the best for you?"

"I'd understand it if I was asking for your blessing to go skydiving or knife juggling at the circus, but I'm not. I know I did something awful last week but should you really be keeping me trapped up with only my own thoughts for company when it's my thoughts that drove me to it?"

He sucked in a quick breath between his teeth. I'd been aiming for a raw nerve that would bully him into giving me a little leeway and I'd hit my target dead on. "Low blow, Emmeline."

"I know." I shrugged flippantly. "But you're giving me no choice but to start striking below the belt."

Cursing softly, Blaze leaned away from me and glared stubbornly at the floor. He'd been doing a lot of that recently, making me feel like the evil manipulator. It drove me nuts because I hadn't asked him for anything but my basic human rights to feed myself and pee without company. "What do you need?"

Miserably, I shook my head and burrowed down into bed. Even if I won this round, I'd never get the prize I really wanted. He'd give me the top range sports car but I wanted the hot model in the driver's seat, one far more concerned with arranging what should have been the happiest day of my life but wouldn't be when he was alienating me in the process. "I just wanted to sit in the same room as you and do some work in an upright position so I didn't feel like a complete outcast. But it doesn't matter. I'm not in the mood anymore."

I rolled over quickly so he wouldn't see my eyes well up. I knew that what I had done had tied me to a life of servitude, but maybe I'd misjudged what really made Blaze happy. It seemed like marriages borne of obligation to incapacitated young socialites was something he thrived on, whether or not that was a trend he kept to consciously. I may not have had the social side down but I ticked more than a few boxes that made me just like Natasha—blonde, younger, rich, unwell, madly in love with him and I'd do anything to get my own way.

I expected him to stand up and leave, just pretend he didn't see me shaking with the need to cry like a couple who'd grown apart over years. He wouldn't ask and I wouldn't tell; it would go on that way forever. Perfect on paper, nobody would see how flawed we were inside. Part of me had stupidly believed we'd be okay, right up until he'd had that nightmare and started closing himself off. We were doomed.

"The funeral is in two days." Keeping very still, I waited for him to carry on. "She's been in my life for the longest time. I'm struggling to believe that she's really gone and I'm a bit lost now she's not around."

"You're mourning. That's normal."

"Sure, call it 'mourning' to make it sound better. But I'm really just finding it unbelievable that she's really gone. Right up until the day she died, Natasha always had something she could use against me to ruin my life. I won't really trust that she doesn't have a coup de grace lined up until she's a pile of dust in an urn. If I'm seen looking too happy about her daughter's death, it'll provoke Mona. Better I'm not seen at all—you, either."

Stalling for a beat, I rolled to face him and reached for his hand. He was scared for some kind of posthumous backlash? "Why didn't you tell me this?"

"Plausible deniability." He shook his head at my confused frown. "Trust me, please. Stay with me over this hurdle and tell me we're okay."

Between his sudden severity and strange personality adjustment over the past few days, I didn't know that I could. Promises alone could keep us together but I wasn't sure what we had beyond that anymore. It wasn't so long ago that I looked at him and saw the end of the beginning of a lesser life—just two weeks, in fact, when he'd been crouched on bended knee in front of me at the top of the Empire State Building. Now I saw that the life of unsaid secrets we had was the lesser, and it felt like the beginning of the end.

But part of me was masochistic enough to fight for longer before our flame died completely, not because I owed him but because he was my gravity—the only thing that kept me grounded and stopped me floating out into a big empty space of loneliness that would kill me. I needed him as much as I wanted him. 'Okay' or not, I'd stay with him through an Olympic track of hurdles.

"As long as you want me to keep my promise to never leave, we're okay."

"Good." The sound of a phone ringing outside broke our solemn meeting of minds, and his newfound openness. In the blink of an eye, I saw the shutters go back up and my access to his true feelings cut off, for now at least.

"I need to get that. When I'm done, we'll talk some more about you sitting with me."

I didn't even have it in me to argue that there was nothing more to talk about.

The short time he was talking was long enough for me to fall asleep and apparently long enough for him to have another pendulum-like mood swing while I was dozing. I opened my eyes to find him sitting at my bedside, smiling calmly like the Blaze I'd fallen in love with—the one who let nothing faze him—ready to scoop me up and carry me to the suite's dining room, where I'd sit and be allowed to feed myself without issuing any further emotional blackmail. Like that didn't unnerve me enough, I'd vaguely heard him asking the person on the other end of his phone call if 'it was all really dead and buried', but had no further hints on what he meant.

He was keeping something from me. The only thing he'd ever omitted before was Natasha, which meant I knew it was something huge and potentially devastating. Pressing him for answers on his big secret would have been a hypocrisy. All I could do was give in to his earlier request for trust and for once, that seriously bugged me.

He must have picked up on my anxiety while I was picking at the soup he'd put down in front of me. I'd smelled him cooking it that morning and was almost sure he'd picked that particular meal because he knew it was easy to digest, but I couldn't eat it. My mind was addled by a thick fog.

"Emmeline." Blaze reached across the table and prised the spoon from my hand. "You seem unhappy."

"Do you have a constantly running inner monologue?" His head cocked to one side. "I don't mean in a crazy way. I mean a soundless voice in your head that runs through all your thoughts and helps you make sense of everything."

"Sure." Nodding, Blaze pushed his bowl aside and folded his hands in front of him. "Do you?"

"I used to. I'm trying to figure out what happened to it." Honestly, I didn't know when I'd last heard it. I may not have died that week before but it definitely felt like a part of me had, or that a little piece of my soul had been taken away for killing Natasha.

"Do I need to call Dr. Downes?"

"Oh..." Of course, that had sounded sort of depressive and I supposed it was. But the last thing I needed was a counselling session where I couldn't admit what was wrong with me even if I'd wanted to. "No, I guess I'm just nervous about this meeting tomorrow."

"You needn't be. You're prolific, cupcake—just as Henry knew you would be. Only you could have picked up on all those anomalies."

Not just me. I never would have had the basis to cry embezzlement without Blaze's help. For years, Henry had subsidised him and his mother's up-keeping until Blaze had the means to support them himself. Student loans, tuition fees, the house Connie Valentine lived in, medical expenses... He might not have been getting that money anymore but someone was.

"Something still baffles me about all those payments."

Blaze stood to clear away his bowl and cutlery, nudging mine a little closer. "Go on."

"Well... Why did my dad invest so much in you? You and your mother seem to have gotten the same treatment as Tallulah and me—he spoiled you like family. But you're not, right? Because I'm pretty sure he'd dissuade incest."

"We're not related." His response was a little hollow and didn't fill me with faith. "Not by blood. By misfortune, maybe. He was my father's best friend."

"Oh..." My stomach churned at the coldness in his voice. Another secret it seemed, except this was one I didn't think I was ready to hear. The infamous Mr. Lundy had been stabbed to death in the left side when Blaze was just four years old. Conversations about him reminded me of my own self-harm scars on my left side I'd always worried might be an uncomfortable reminder of the tragedy, then of the scars Blaze had inflicted on himself during my trip to New York. Honestly, I was so bad for him...

"You've gone very pale."

I looked down despondently into the cooling contents of my bowl and inched away from it. "I'm sorry. I don't think I can stomach this right now."

"Are you sure you're okay?"

No, there was no denying that I was far from okay. There was an emptiness inside me that was growing rapidly by the second. Even with so much to be grateful for—my life, Blaze, my family and friends, the upcoming wedding—I felt nothing but an all-consuming sadness enveloping me from the inside out. If it got any bigger, I felt like I'd implode.

"No." My eyes filled with unprovoked tears I made no effort to contain. "I'm not okay."

Instead of freaking out like I'd expected, Blaze leaned down to kiss my forehead and told me to sit tight for five minutes. I'd known the phone call to Dr. Downes was coming when I heard it happening and if she carted me off to Wales to be strapped down and heavily medicated, I didn't think I'd mind. Feeling empty and thoughtless because I was drugged up to the eyeballs had to be better than feeling that way sober, and maybe without me around, Blaze would get over his insane idea that he needed to be with me.

Not that I wouldn't miss him. I wanted to believe that had he not taken me to Natasha's house, we might not have planning a rushed wedding but we'd still be blissfully happy. We'd both been in a good place spiritually and we weren't weighed down with secretism. I wanted that back.

"Okay, my destitute rich girl." Helping me to my feet, Blaze dipped to pick me up and carried me through to the master bathroom-cum-wet room. It was filled with the roar of running water and hypnotising smell of jasmine that rose from the bubbles filling the floor-level tub.

"You going to drown me and put me out of my misery? You could have done that in plain, cold water."

"Bloody hell, you _are_ feeling shitty. Putting you out of your misery is exactly what I had in mind but not in that sense." Cautiously peeling my flannel shirt over my wrists, Blaze unclipped my collar and started stripping off. Depressed or not, my lips curled up into a lecherous grin. I wasn't too low to appreciate that he was seriously gorgeous and had the body of a god.

"Ah, my nefarious plan to cheer you up is working."

"Don't read too much into my smile, Blaze. It's magnetic."

He scoffed and held out a hand to help me down into the pool of bubbles without giving me too much time to leer. "I know I've been sort of gung-ho about all the wedding planning over the past few days and I haven't paid you enough attention. But I'm going to fix that right now."

"You're going to pamper me to soften the blow of being carted off to the nut house in a minute?"

"What? Hell no."

I took his hand and dipped my toes into the steaming water. At first the heat was too extreme, an overpowering burn that made me want to retreat. But as I adjusted to the temperature, my stresses started to melt out of me and take with them every care I had. I might have fallen asleep from the relaxation if Blaze hadn't climbed in behind me and started scooping water up over me to wet my hair.

"I'd never send you to the unit, Emmeline. It would be like punishing you for being unwell."

"I guess..." It _did_ feel like a prison there. The food was terrible, the staff largely impersonal and time to sit with friends rationed. Admission to the unit usually came with a minimum stay and the amenities were basic to say the least. It would have been nothing less than I deserved to be locked up. Getting off scot-free like I was didn't seem right. "What if punishment is what I want, though?"

Blaze pulled my hair back into a loose ponytail in his hand and gave it a gentle, chastising tug. "That's why I'm responsible for your decision-making right now, to ensure you don't commit to stupid ideas like that. You don't need to be locked away. You just need me."

That might have sounded self-righteous or even ludicrous if it hadn't been so true. For the rest of my life, my days would be spent fearing that he'd find out what I'd done and stop loving me. That was what had made the past week so hard—thinking that he might secretly love someone else more than me. As long as there was only us in a room, it would be extremely difficult for him to do that.

Between my guilt, growing aches, desperation and the warmth of the bath, I was exhausted. Blaze exacerbated that fatigue when he conscientiously washed every inch of me, taking special care around the bruises that had blossomed from my descent to the floor, then moved up to massage my neck in firm but pacifying circles. It almost hurt, but in a way that felt cleansing. Therapeutic almost.

"Why did you call Dr. Downes?"

His hands paused for a moment, only long enough to reposition on my shoulders. "I've noticed you scratching your wrists. That's good because itching means they're healing but it's got to be getting you down. She's sending a nurse to come and remove the stitches later."

"Oh." I looked down at my damp bandages and thought of how I'd been standing in that same bathroom contemplating them just hours earlier. "I haven't seen the damage yet."

"It's probably better that you don't, cupcake."

"That bad?"

"You played with a big knife in the dark. No, it's not pretty."

I supposed there was some validity in that. My suicide at seventeen had been nervous and methodical. This had been reckless and destructive with no thought. I'd sliced open my arteries, for Christ's sake—of course it would be ugly. Regardless, I didn't want to confront it in front of a stranger. "I want to see before she comes, Blaze. I think I need to."

"Okay." Without argument, Blaze reached for a hand towel next to the tub and dried off his hands. The lack of a battle might have worried me if I wasn't so preoccupied with the sudden apprehension of being immediately faced with something I knew would be hard to look at.

Still seated behind me, Blaze reached around my waist with his chin on my shoulder and started to unwind the bandage around my right wrist. He'd been taking such meticulous care of my wounds that they didn't stick or snag, just unravelled softly and soaked up the water before sinking down to the bottom of the bath.

"Take a deep breath, my love."

He didn't make that suggestion to be sweet. I didn't pale easily, but the first glimpse of open flesh sent my head spinning. It looked as though my inner arms had been mangled in machinery, held together unprettily with surgical staples and a thousand sutures struggling to reconstruct dying skin that was grey, torn and jagged.

And the left was worse. I'd been warned that the sensation and movement may never be perfect but didn't give it much credence until I was staring at the reason why. It was no small wonder that I'd nearly bled to death—really no shock that I'd needed transfusions. I'd caused maybe irreparable harm to my self and definitely to another.

It terrified me to know that I was capable of it.

I must have sat there speechless for a long time before the tears came. Blaze, Daniel, and who knew who else, had seen those injuries when they were fresh and bloody, not cleaned and cared for like they were now. The miracle wasn't that I'd survived. It was that I'd survived with these people still able to look me in the eye.

Even though I hadn't earned the right, I leaned back against Blaze for comfort. "I'm so sorry I did this."

"I'm sorry I gave you a reason to."

I quickly sat back up and turned to face him. "Blaze, no." He pulled me around to sit on his lap and cupped my face between his hands, running a rough thumb over my lips. His eyes shone with love and sadness that was almost too much to bear. He couldn't seriously still be blaming himself.

"You're here and that's all that matters. But if you'd have died, I'd have blamed Natasha for eternity." Okay, no. He didn't blame himself. He was telling me he blamed a woman who couldn't possibly be responsible. They called it _self_ -harm for a reason.

"What if she was already dead before me? Would you blame her them?"

"Emmeline, some witches leave their curses behind even after you've drowned them in a well and burned their bodies at the stake. Dead or alive, I'd have held it over her head."

"Witches? Is that why she's being cremated?" His deadpan stare answered better than words could have. "Oh... But it wasn't her fault. I did this to myself and admitting that is the first step to getting past it."

"Emmeline!" I fought against the urge to keep debating the point and held my tongue because I knew the conversations where I heard my name repeatedly were the ones that would go on forever until Blaze made the point he wanted and it stuck. "I either blame her or I blame myself and you were absolutely fine until you met her so I have to believe it wasn't me."

"Okay." Accepting that, I shrugged and let myself relax a little. If he'd found another way to deal with it all by pointing the finger at Natasha, that was okay. She was sort of the reason I'd played Iron Chef with my veins, after all. "But you're allowed to admit that you miss her, you know."

"Miss her?" Blaze sat bolt upright so quickly it almost plunged me down into the bathwater. "The only way I'm missing her is if I'm standing at her feet in the Chapel of Rest trying to catapult jelly beans up her nose with an elastic band."

"Blaze!" I tried to admonish him with a glare but couldn't stifle the laughter provoked by that vulgar metaphor. "So you're still at the anger stage of grieving and that's fine. She took a lot from you and you think she tried to take more. But don't think you're not allowed to mourn a friend."

"I'm not mourning," he argued. "I'm glad she's gone. I don't understand why you think otherwise."

His denial was starting to grate. Folding my arms, I sighed and lifted my chin in pre-emptive defensiveness. "You called out her name the night you rolled me out of bed. Begged whoever not to take her away."

"I didn't—" Blaze froze and gaped at me. "Oh my God. That nightmare was about you, Emmeline! I was begging _her_ not to take _you_ away. My nightmares are about thinking I've found her body but finding you instead."

"Oh." Recoiling, I slid back off into his lap to seek refuge in the fading bubbles. Talk about getting the wrong end of the stick—I'd completely misjudged and it was more than a little embarrassing. It all could have been remedied if I'd grown a pair and asked him but no, I'd let myself believe he'd been feeling like the wrong bride had died that night.

"Jeez, Emmeline. Has this been eating at you all this time?"

"Maybe."

"Damn it." Blaze quickly scrambled out of the tub and towelled himself off with purposeful strokes. "I shouldn't have given you a reason to think like that. I'm sorry I've screwed up so much this week."

"You haven't."

He shot me a look rife with disbelief. "You're depressed and I've contributed to that with my distance."

"I'm not depressed!"

"You tried to kill yourself last week." For fuck's sake, he just wouldn't be told. "I keep giving you the ammunition for that loaded gun you're holding, and it's already gone off once. On your wrists."

"Maybe I just don't understand how you can still love me after this."

His breath snagged on an irritated sigh he didn't want to release. My low self-esteem could be chronic at times my life seemed otherwise awesome and while I hated it, sometimes I needed reassurance that I was still thin, pretty, interesting and what he wanted. Anyone looking at him had to wonder why he was with a scruff like me—hell, I wondered it every time I saw my own reflection. My appearance had been the least of my concerns during my period of convalescence, my sense of humour all but dried up. If I didn't have beauty and wit anymore, what did I have to keep him?

"And you're telling me you're not depressed." Like he'd read my mind, Blaze crouched beside me and hugged his knees. "Cupcake, you always knew my love is unconditional."

"Just because you say that doesn't mean I believe it. Wheelchairs and heart attacks are beyond the pale for a normal relationship."

"Our relationship isn't normal." Another good point. No doubt he had a drove of them to whip out and use to make me feel foolish for my completely justifiable insecurity. "And the only thing beyond the pale is the amount of concessions _you_ have had to make on my behaviour to be with me." Blaze shook his head and reached out to cup my face. The underside of the ring I'd given him felt cool and smooth against my cheek. Valentine's Day seemed so long ago... "It should be me doubting how you can still love me and keep coming back in spite of everything."

"I promised."

"You did." He nodded and cracked a lack-lustre smile. "We keep our promises to each other, don't we?"

"Always."

"Okay. Wait here."

I was confused when he stood up and paced out of the bathroom, leaving me submerged in cloudy waters I could have easily laid down in and refused to surface. The only things that stopped me trying it were intrigue and Dr. Downes' warning that the more I tried to end my life, the more people would try to protect it. Blaze might have been able to overlook one suicide attempt, but I'd be lucky to be forgiven for a fast second under his watch.

I wouldn't have had time anyway. He was back moments later, carrying a box so stuffed full of paper the lid wouldn't stay on.

"What's in the box?"

"The first promise I ever made to you."

Scouring my mind, I found the steps out of the bath and held out my hands in askance for a towel. Temporarily abandoning the box, Blaze helped to dry me off and covered me up in a thick fleece robe he'd hung up on the back of the door without me noticing.

"I don't think I remember your first promise."

"You will." He ushered me out of the bathroom into the lounge area, still very distractingly naked, and urged me down onto a couch where a fruit and cheese selection was waiting with my next dose of medication and a glass of water. How the hell did he do everything so quickly and efficiently? "If I remind you, do you vow to never question my love for you again?"

"No." There was no way I could promise that. I'd question it every damn day. "You'll get no vows from me until our wedding day and that won't be one of them."

"At least you're honest." Tutting, Blaze set the box down in my lap and pulled off the lid.

My love notes. Hundreds of them. Some I'd seen before and still had as email attachments I'd never delete, others so new and written so hurriedly the ink was smudged and the penmanship barely legible.

"You're still writing these?" My eyes stung. When he'd emailed them to me while I was in New York, Esme had told me that me reading them wasn't what mattered. It was the writing and sending that was important to Blaze. But never in a million years had I expected him to carry on after I returned. What was the point when he could tell me?

A lot of the notes were written on napkins; two in particular were from restaurants in Liverpool and Tokyo. Others were torn off larger pieces of paper, shorter notes on the back of receipts or cash point mini-statements. Everywhere he'd been in the days since we'd met, he'd written a love note to me—purposely carved time out of his day to document his affections.

"Here." He passed me a sheet of paper topped with the letterhead for the hospital I'd been in. On it was written less of a note and more of an essay. "I wrote this one while you were in surgery last week. The P.S. was written after they thought you—"

"No! God..." I shoved it back at him and held my face in my hands. I couldn't read that, not knowing that it would undoubtedly be his plea and farewell. "It's too personal."

"It's a letter to _you._ " Shaking my head, I reluctantly scanned the words. He wouldn't have been trying to make me read it if there wasn't a point to it, I knew that. It wouldn't be one he didn't think I could handle. "Please. Or I'll read it aloud."

"Jeez, all right." That was the only way knowing all his feelings could be worse.

My love, Emmeline,

Please don't leave me. I've done horrible, unforgivable things I don't regret but if I'd known the cost of them was you, I'd have lived a righteous life since the day I was born. I've wanted to believe that love is a good enough reason to do anything, that I've done more good than bad to still deserve you.

Please don't prove me wrong.

My life lacked reason until you staggered into it. I had no need to act out against all the unfairness done to me. Until you, I had no reason to leave Natasha and her lies, and didn't see that spite was no good reason to stay. You gave me hope and you gave me freedom. You made me see that there was more to life than getting my back-pay and proving that I could be the bigger man.

I've lost you once before and in doing so, I lost myself. Knowing that I was responsible hurt more than anything, so to know that I've done it again...

You would be my only regret, Emmeline. I was so obsessed with bringing about changes that would make our lives perfect that I completely missed how perfect they already were. There had to be a better way to have everything, a way better than making you feel dejected, out of place, insignificant and alone. I understand those feelings now because they're all I have. Everyone knows it was my fault and even though they're hiding it, I know I did you wrong. I did so much wrong last night, even though I'd convinced myself it was right. And of everything, driving you away was the worse thing I've done. Ever. Because without you, the rest was pointless.

Forgive me. Open your eyes and tell me it's okay. Tell me I could never do anything that would cause me to lose you forever. You don't even need to say anything, just wake up. If you can do that for me, the rest of my life will be devoted to you and giving you reasons to stay. The moment the cherry blossoms fall, I will marry you. That I promise. I won't leave your side for a single second, lay down across puddles for you and more than anything, I will never do anything to hurt you again. If I do, I won't stop you from leaving me. I'll even pack your bags for you. Just give me one last chance to prove that you can trust me with your heart the way you can trust no other. I'll never make you doubt me or feel like you're second best to anything. I love you too much for that to be true.

Blaze.

P.S.  
You woke up. And I wasn't there. I've failed you already.

But that doesn't mean you have to die. You have so much to live for that doesn't involve me, as much as I wish it did. You are everything and everyone in my life but I am such a small part of yours. People love you because you have a pure soul but you are the only person who's ever loved me in spite of my blackened and broken spirit.

Maybe I did too much last night. Maybe losing you is what I deserve. But again, you don't need to die! As soon as I know you're okay, I'll leave and I'll never come back. The smallest sign of life, and I'll go. I promise. But I don't want to live in a world that doesn't have you in it.

"Unpromise that." Tossing the letter down, I glared at the side of Blaze's head until he looked at me. "Unpromise that you'll leave because I survived. A retracted promise is better than one broken. Unpromise it now."

"Emmeline..." Shuffling towards me, he lifted me into his lap and brought my hands to his lips. "I unpromise it because there's no way I can keep it. When I walked into that room and saw you on the floor with that bed coming towards you, I knew it was my fault. You woke up _again_ without me there after I swore I'd never leave your side and the world tried to take you away because of it. You came back from the brink and there was no room for mistakes, yet I made them anyway. And I keep making them. Pushing you out of bed, making you think I dreamt of Natasha and not being attentive this week..." He sighed and buried his head in the aching crook of my neck. "I can't leave when I'm just so lucky to have you. Every time I screw up, it feels like I'm asking you to cheat death again by asking for forgiveness. As long as you keep giving me chances, I'm going to be here to take them. And one day, I'll get it right. I hope that's today. I just want to make you happy."

How was it that we could be so similar? Both of us wanted nothing but joy for the other but both of us felt like we'd committed an unforgivable ill that made us undeserving of the chance to bring it for them. Even when completely different, our motivations were exactly the same and we clung to each other desperately because we felt like we had nothing else. In the unhealthiest of ways, our relationship was ideal. Our wants and needs were the same and synchronised. When I'd been told that we shared a mutual co-dependency, it hadn't been entirely wrong. But if that made Blaze happy, that was fine.

Because God knows I couldn't bear to leave him when I'd been blessed with an unmerited chance, either.

#

Our relationship felt like it had resumed it's pre-Natasha stride after we spent the rest of the day having a cosy reconnection session. I gave his soup a second try and let him pick our evening meal; he let me choose the television channels and sent someone out for the snacks I craved.

To be told by the nurse who arrived to remove my stitches that all my injuries were healing well was a relief. In fact, she'd praised me gratuitously for plodding on down the road of recovery when many others would have relished the excuse to lay idle in bed. Getting up and about quickly had actually given me the best chance of getting completely back to normal someday soon. I'd done myself the world of good.

Blaze pretended not to hear the compliments, I suspected it was so he didn't have to admit that he'd played no part in my physical rehabilitation. He'd no less than dissuaded my stubbornness, actively seeking to keep me bed bound. After reading his letter, part of me wondered if he'd purposely wanted me to remain incapacitated so I couldn't leave him if I'd wanted to—if he wanted me to have no choice but to stay and be loved.

He also didn't return to our bed that night, preferring to stay in the other room. As disappointed as I was, I suppose I understood it. My previous tumble had scared him. Every aspect of us was more fragile than it had once been and it would take time to rebuild. Time was something we had plenty of. We each had our reasons to hold on to the other and it would take a miracle to make us loosen our grips...

Or maybe just one secret I felt horrible for keeping when he'd been so honest with me.

I knew I should tell him what I'd done but the words wouldn't come. Not even knowing that he was glad Natasha had died made it any easier to admit that I was the one who'd granted him that freedom. For the first time in years, he was his own man. Telling him the truth about that night and forcing him to keep it a secret would be a whole new prison I'd impose, if he didn't immediately turn me in. It would have been cruel of me to do that to him when he finally seemed... Happy.

Blaze found great joy in showing me all the wedding arrangements he'd already made. With his wealth of connections, it looked like our mid-April nuptials would be the wedding of the century. Just as I'd fantasised, he planned to wear an ivory waistcoat with a red cravatte, fitting with a generally bold theme of cream undertones with lavish splashes of crimson.

But that wasn't my fantasy anymore. The redness reminded me of the blood I'd spilled on an otherwise pure and perfect thing. It spoiled the serenity, creating a lingering hostility I'd feel on the day. Every red rose in a button hole I'd see as a drop of blood that had flown and hit my family and friends, marking them as evil for playing a part in something totally corrupt. All he needed was to add some black candles and lilies, and it would be a wedding fitting for the residing bride of the Anti-Christ.

He caught me looking at flights to Europe the next morning and mistook my travel interests as honeymoon shopping. In truth, I was looking for a way out. I wasn't sure I could maintain the charade of being an excited bride-to-be much longer, keeping my mouth shut while he planned a day I hated every bit of. Henry had villas and chalets all over the place. All I had to do was pick one and hide, maybe acquire a secret identity, coloured contact lenses and an offshore bank account...

"Pretty sure the honeymoon counts as wedding planning." Blaze lifted my laptop away from me and closed it down, pulling out his own tablet to check his emails. "And it's already booked. Shouldn't you be getting ready for your meeting?"

His sudden eagerness for me to work and sudden cessation of coddling made me suspicious. Scowling, I took an unhurried walk back to the master bedroom and found myself confronted with the reason why he was being so pleasant and amenable.

Bridal magazines in their dozens were strewn across the bed, the articles covering everything from dresses to hosiery, hairstyles to seasonably acceptable make-up choices. I gave them a contemptible scoff and walked straight past them into the bathroom, just to find myself surrounded by reminders that were much more difficult to avoid.

Every flat surface had a cleverly displayed quote about the persistence of love and fleetingness of time. Even the leftover steam on shower screen was artfully disturbed with a line from Romeo and Juliet. On the mirrored medicine cabinet that, of course, didn't hold my prescriptions bottles, Blaze had stuck the torn out page from a year planner, circled the date of our wedding and written, 'Seven weeks, cupcake. Time's a-tickin'.'

"Okay, I get it," I called through to him. "You want me to shop for something. Can't imagine what." He didn't respond, which I took as an admission of him knowing he'd gone a little overboard.

He did, however, win back a few Brownie points by laying me out the perfect outfit for my meeting. The blazer was a gorgeous sheer black with cut off sleeves that made no effort to hide my wrists, and the t-shirt he'd chosen was my age-old Green Day _Basket Case_ skinny. Full marks for satire and it made a shameless statement; I'd hit a bump in the road of life and I wasn't ashamed of it. If only that had been true.

Dressing for the day helped to dull the annoyance further. For the first time since I'd been wheeled out of Natasha's house on a stretcher, I'd be setting foot outside. I was nervous, almost excited to see if the world had changed as much as it felt to me or if the smog was as dense and dysphoric as ever. How much would being given a new lease of life change my perception—how different would I feel stepping foot on the streets of London as a murderer? Maybe it would be no different at all. Maybe I wouldn't be able to stand going outside ever again. Stepping out into the wider expanses of a life I shouldn't be allowed felt dangerous and risky. I was almost invigorated.

I took that exuberance with me to Blaze, hoping it would make what I knew would be a stupid conversation a little less unbearable. It wasn't like finding a wedding dress was going to be hard. Long. Floaty. White—or a close alternative. I could get it done in an afternoon.

Taking the seat next to him, I sat quietly and challenged him to follow up his publication abomination with a raised eyebrow, nothing more. When he just smiled and refused to speak, I goaded him with, "So... Seven weeks, huh?"

"Yup. Seven weeks of intense planning."

"And all I have to do is find a dress." Smirking to myself, I took my laptop back from the cushion next to him where he'd stowed it. "Give me seven minutes."

In two, I had a few hundred eBay listings up in front of me and honestly, some of them weren't half bad. All I needed to do was send my measurements off to some strange little man hiding in the deepest reaches of Hong Kong and bingo! A dress in four to six weeks. "Got a tape measure?"

"You _are_ joking?" Tutting, Blaze handed me his tablet. It was almost too weird that he had the contact information for a seamstress stored. "You can't buy a generic dress, Emmeline. You're the daughter of Henry Tudor; women will want to lust after your dress and have a cheap copy of it for their own weddings. Magazines will want exclusive photographs—designers will be queuing up to make it for you once your mother leaks the news. You're supposed to have the unobtainable. The wedding of the year calls for the dress of the century."

"Magazines, designers—what? It sounds suspiciously like our small, intimate wedding is becoming a media circus."

"With a dad and fiancé like yours, that's the way the coin drops, cupcake."

Jesus Christ. Like it wasn't bad enough we'd be putting up rockstars, there would be a receiving line of reporters crowding up the back of Connie's garden. So many people crowded into one place at the most perfect moment for my secret to be revealed...

"But that's not what I want."

With a quick, sharp exhale, Blaze took his tablet from me and rested it on the arm of the couch next to me. With all the patience of a saint, he shuffled around to face me and took my hand. "What _do_ you want?"

No wedding. None of the fuss at all. I wanted the past couple of weeks to be erased from my life, maybe kicking off again from the point where we were walking back through the arrival lounge in Heathrow after an awesome trip in New York.

"Just you, Blaze. You, our nearest and dearest, and if you must insist on marrying me, a registrar at sunset in your mother's garden like we planned."

He was quiet for a minute, and then looked vaguely disheartened when he murmured, "You want to get married in secret."

"I want to get married in _private_ , Blaze. Without a bunch of people I don't know and smiles that aren't genuine. I want it to be normal, not some big charade of happiness I won't necessarily feel." That sounded completely selfish and like I wasn't happy to be with him, so I added, "And unless you're asking Esme to wear a mask all day, the media can't be there."

Blaze winced and scrunched his eyes up like he was in pain. "Esme..." Clearly, he'd forgotten that my best friend's anonymity was a sticking point in her life. After running away from home as a teenager, she'd found success as a faceless voice actress and had turned down acting work to protect herself. Nobody even knew if Esme was her real name. One picture was all it would take to bring her abusive mother to London looking for a payout.

"Things are hard enough between us without me telling her she has to hide at the ceremony, Blaze."

"I know, I know." He scrubbed a hand over his face and gave my fingers a squeeze. "I got caught up in the idea of having the wedding I couldn't before with a woman I actually love, and forgot. I'm sorry. Of course we can't ask her to be uncomfortable or not attend, she's like family. No media, no fuss, I promise. I should call Chase and let see if they'll still come without incentive of publicity."

"They agreed to play?" I felt horrible. They were mid-tour and had to have done some serious negotiating to carve out time for us. All that wasted effort because I wanted a quiet affair...

And it was Blaze's day, too. I really had to force myself to remember that when I was so close to getting my own way. For whatever crazy reason, he really wanted this and he'd bend to any demand. But what kind of precedent did that set for our marriage? I didn't want to manipulate and dictate like Natasha had. I wanted him to be happy.

"I think they'd be wasted on a bridal march anyway. They'd get a lot more at the reception."

Blaze's eyes slowly moved up from my fingers to my face. He had that look about him—the same one I'd had when he was down on one knee in front of me. "Is it... safe to get excited right now?"

"Well, I'm saying I guess it's okay if you want to make the gazebo a circus tent and go nuts after the meal. Esme can wear a wig. I'll get drunk enough to tolerate cameras in my face—"

"I love you." With no preamble or consideration, he flew at me and knocked me on my back across the couch. I loved him, too, when he was kind and lenient, romantic or philosophical, but most of all when his sensibilities were rendered redundant by passion. He'd always been weak for me that way, throwing caution to the wind. He continually took chances on me that nobody else did. It was only fair that he got something good back from me.

"Take me now or lose me forever, Valentine."

His eyes glowed with the heat of lost control. "You asked for it."

I stepped out of the shower and caught sight of myself in the foggy mirror. My gaze lingered briefly over the cluster of love bites over my collar bone before snapping down to the floor in a daze.

Something Blaze and I had always done so well had changed in a way I couldn't stand. After a week without it, the sex had been awkward, like two teenagers fumbling and fondling underneath their school uniforms, determined to make the most of a precious half an hour of privacy before the parents returned home. I doubted that clumsy rush had anything to do with our time constraints.

He had to have felt it. There was no way Blaze couldn't have felt what I did—that desperation to give a deeper meaning to physicality. To start off with, we used carnal attraction to mask the scary, forbidden feelings we really held for each other. It felt like we'd just tried to prove to each other—and ourselves—that it was still the case now. Unsuccessfully, it seemed.

Not that I hadn't rocked his world. He was a man—a few thrusts and he could lock down any surfeit of emotions to make space for his caveman instincts. I, however, cursed with a woman's conscience, struggled to keep my mind on the task and stop thinking about what I was feeling from the neck up instead of focusing on what was going on from the waist down. Was I failing him by not being into it? Was he as hot for me as he'd once been after seeing me die four times? Would we ever be the same?

"Emmeline?" Blaze's voice at the bathroom door made me jump. "Henry's here."

"Be right out." Because going to a meeting about someone else defrauding my father with Blaze's name in mind was just what I needed, naturally.

_This is your life now. Get used to it and suck it up._ Shaking my head, I steeled myself with a sigh and set to work on drying my hair. There was no time to stand around debating the purpose of my imposed existence when one of my reasons for being alive was waiting for me to attend. I'd worked too damn hard while I was in New York to become a credible business woman and that wasn't a responsibility I could just shirk over a wobble in my mental health—that was probably the easiest way to explain it. Hell, I might have been able to believe it myself; I'd have to have been out of my mind to take a life.

At least that's what I hoped. It wasn't nice to think that 'murderer' came as a standard personality trait for me. I kept looking for signs of change or corruption in my behaviour and appearance but what was I really expecting? Horns, a pointy tail and a newfound interest in Enochian scripture? No, the most unpleasant and drastic transformations were the ones nobody could detect; the constant replay of the moment I killed Natasha that would push me to the limits of my sanity, self-control and morality.

Blaze's comedic outfit choice for me didn't really seem appropriate anymore. Barely dry, I paced into the bedroom to find something a little more professional and a little less... revealing. I understood that he was encouraging me to stand up to the world and say I wasn't ashamed of what I'd done to myself but I was. Deeply ashamed. And I didn't want to flaunt it.

The only shirts hanging up in the wardrobe had shorter sleeves like the blazer he'd picked and the only other jacket was a little short in the wrists. With no time to search through my boxes for something else and find a way to iron out the creases, I conscientiously kept tugging the cuffs, always conscious of a little glimpse of scar poking free.

So distracted was I, that I almost missed the hushed conversation going on between the two big male figureheads in my life.

"I'm going out of my mind, Henry. I've been acting like a fool and forgetting myself."

"I'd be worried if you weren't, lad." Catching myself just in time, I took a step back out of view to eavesdrop.

"I really feel like I should tell her. Get it off my chest, you know. She'd understand, wouldn't she? I can't go on like this."

The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. The anxiety in Blaze's tone topped by the vagueness of what I was hearing was just enough to make me jump to the conclusion that I was about to lose him.

"Emmy is a good girl, Blaze. She'd stand by you through anything but you shouldn't push your luck. Don't weigh her down to appease your own sense of responsibility. Plausible deniability, yes?"

"But she deserves to know."

"I deserve to know what?" I couldn't stand it anymore. Pushing up from the wall behind me, I walked right into the conversation wanting answers. If something was being kept from me—something that could effect my future—Blaze was right. I deserved to know.

Their nervousness didn't do them any favours. There was an edginess between them I'd never seen before, the distinct atmosphere of two cohorts in on a scheme together. I knew they must have had a fairly close relationship in the previous years but partners in crime?

"I... um..." Blaze looked at me, to Henry, then down at his feet. Stuck for words, he evaded eye contact. Why did he have to start lying? Why now?

"What he's trying to tell you," Henry interjected, "and what I was trying to avoid him telling you, is that he's agreed to go to Natasha's funeral tomorrow."

"Oh." All that fuss over a funeral? "Is that all?"

"He wants you to go with him for moral support."

Okay, now that made a little more sense. Slightly. There was something more that they weren't telling me, something bigger than asking me to go back to the place that had sent my life into a downward spiral. Luckily for them, I was so preoccupied with the idea of being stood over the grave I'd metaphorically dug that I was going to let it slide.

Putting aside the fact I'd murdered Natasha, I was also the woman who'd marched in and stolen her ill-gotten husband, seen through her lies and disturbed what must have been a finely tuned life of deception all round. Her family wouldn't be happy to see me there. Factoring the whole suffocation thing back in, I was sure going to the funeral was what they call 'returning to the scene of the crime', something said to be a common trait in fiends like me.

'Like me'. Heaven renounce my tattered soul. Henry was right to say I'd stand by Blaze through anything but hovering around his wife's wake under a premise of innocence might just have been a step too far into Hell.

"Can I think about it?"

"Of course." Almost shoving Henry aside, Blaze charged towards me and crushed me against his chest. "I don't want you to do anything that makes you uncomfortable."

"Wish you'd said that before I did you."

"What? Oh..." Slackening his grip, he took a step back and looked me over. His eyes hovered a little too long over my revised outfit but he didn't seem to disapprove. He must have realised his choice was a little tactless, too. "Are you sure you're up for this meeting?"

"Um..." Honestly, I didn't feel up to much of anything. It seemed like the day had started off on the wrong, uneven footing and it didn't give me much hope for the rest of it. But despite having been trying to shun it when we'd first met, normalcy was something I was starting to crave. The longer I stayed cut off from the world, the easier it would be to become a complete recluse. "Let me at it. I might need some help getting downstairs, though."

"You want the wheelchair?"

"Hell no." There was no way I was letting him bash me around in that god-awful contraption again. "Not after your threat to escort me if I'm in it. A steady arm will do—unless you _wanted_ to come?" As much as he tried to resist it, he couldn't stop his shoulders inching up to his ears at the suggestion. Okay, he didn't want to come with me. I didn't want to dwell on the reason why but I wasn't going to force him or take advantage of his reluctance to go back on his own threat, either. "It's not going to kill me if you say no."

"My agent called." Blaze's hands squeezed the tops of my arms restlessly. "He wants to meet me, but if you need me—"

"Go. You have to." For the first time in years, he had the freedom to progress his career. The fact anyone still had an interest in him professionally, being a thirty year old male model and all, meant he had true skill and talent that had been restricted by Natasha's 'needs'. I wasn't going to be the next in a line of crazy-ass women who kept him leashed.

"You're sure?" It took him a moment to accept, but I'd never seen him look more overjoyed. "Thank you. I'll call you when I'm done and take you out somewhere nice for dinner, okay?"

"Out?"

"Sure. We'll call everyone. I'm pretty sure we'll have something to celebrate after your meeting."

I nodded my agreement, even though the idea of going out with family and friends to laugh and celebrate made me feel dirty—like a crook. How dare I socialise and rejoice after what I'd done, when Natasha should be able to still enjoy the same frivolous things herself? What right did I have to go on with life in such a way when I'd ensured that it wasn't what I deserved?

"We may need your assistance after all, Blaze. Reporters are outside."

Blaze tensed but kept his cool as he released me and urged me towards the coat rack by the small of my back. "Are they definitely here for us?"

Henry had the decency to look concerned when he scanned through an email on his smartphone. His driver, Oscar, was also his bodyguard, detective and general go-to guy. He'd been protecting our family for years and had his own dedicated email account—the only one programmed to push new mail through to Henry's personal phone. If anything came through to that handset, you could guarantee it wasn't good news.

"It seems that someone from the hospital has leaked Emmeline's recent admission. The circumstances remain a public mystery and that's what they seeking to rectify."

"I don't see the problem."

"Blaze..." Henry sighed and lowered his voice to a whisper I was probably supposed to pretend I didn't hear. "Her past... difficulties came out into the media spotlight when she went to New York and became a prominent figure. She walks out of this hotel for the first time since being discharged without you and with no immediate signs of injury, all it takes is a little speculation and curiosity for them to start digging around."

"I see..." So did I. If I went out there alone and upright, they'd wonder why I'd been hospitalised. It wouldn't take much for them to find out I'd attempted suicide and the first conclusion would be that it was because Blaze had left me. They'd want to know why and if they dug too deep... "So what's your plan?"

"If she's in the chair, she can keep her arms down and out of view. The collar would increase the suggestion of a back injury. Oscar can take you to your agent afterwards.

"Okay. Emmeline?"

_Oh, you've remembered I'm here._ No matter how hard I willed it, it seemed some things would always stay the same; listening to my loved ones planning out my life in particular. But for once, I didn't resent it. I was glad that they were protecting my dignity, even if they didn't know what else it was they were shielding from exposure.

"I'm so sorry."

Henry smiled serenely in my direction and shook his head. "Never apologise for being my daughter, Emmy."

"I wasn't—" I stalled myself because that's exactly what I was doing. Having me as a daughter caused him a great deal of stress, compromise and complication, yet he could still look at me with all that fatherly reverence.

If only he knew what kind of devil he was really worshipping—I wasn't sure he'd be so eager to care for me. Nobody would.

Stepping out of Henry's meeting room—or his 'war room' as he preferred to call it—I forgot all about the crowd of reporters hustling around me outside the hotel with no respect for my personal space. The flurry of notepads and camera flashes was a distant memory pushed to the back of my mind by the swell of success.

In the extra week they'd had before our meeting, our best financiers and sleuths had found out exactly where Henry's money had gone, even down to how anyone had found it possible to remove it. The man responsible hadn't yet been tracked down and arrested but it was only a matter of time.

And nobody would have known it was him if it hadn't been for me.

The culprit was one of Henry's personal accountants, a man known as Tobias. He'd been working for The Tudor Initiative since the early days and had always been respectable and trustworthy, right up until he'd suffered a massive brain haemorrhage. He'd been lucky to live through it but had started acting bizarrely; drinking to excess, gambling and cheating on his loyal wife.

Almost seven years passed, his repeated sexual harassment of the female staff in the company had forced Henry to take the regrettable action of firing Tobias. Warnings seemed to do nothing more than incite—the man wasn't just ruining his life, but starting to drag down others, too. Disgruntled, he went back to his office to empty his desk and that was when the years of fraud began. It was really quite impressive that we'd found out how he'd done it.

Stricken from payroll while he was in his discharge meeting with Henry, nobody noticed nor cared whether or not if he was in the building. He'd made enough enemies that in an emergency, nobody would want to report him missing or care if he was burned to the ground with the building. This disdain was something he knew of and exploited.

The running and maintenance of all finances relating to Blaze and Connie had been his baby from the very start. Originally, all money withdrew from Henry's personal bank accounts but at some point he'd made the decision to start classing them as business expenses. From that, I had to assume he'd planned to have Blaze work for him some day. That was the only way I could logically reason him forking out for university fees.

Anyway, with Blaze in a position of financial security, one of the many jobs Henry's now ex-accountant had been putting off was the cancellation of the routine payments to him. It was extraordinary how much money was siphoned out to him over just one month; an allowance, a bonus for studying, an additional element for the upkeep and maintenance of Connie and her property—unthinkable private medical costs, tuition, insurance... Many of those payments had already ceased but Blaze had still been receiving an allowance for himself and Connie, and her every need was catered to. In fact, it looked as though they'd each received the same amount I had when I'd left the family home.

Bitter and dissatisfied with the severance pay he was lucky to even be getting, Tobias must have looked at his chore list and wanted revenge. Over the next hour, he reinstated many of the payments and adjusted their frequencies, changing the receiving account details to an overseas bank account of his own. Fees marked to Cambridge University and the payment of Connie's cottage in Wales were made monthly under their names but into his pockets. Every penny they'd once been given started going to him.

And how did he get away with it? The moment he decided to take that money, he took advantage of the universal hatred towards him and called in an anonymous bomb threat to clear the building. Huge as The Parr was, he had plenty of time to do his work as the security team did a clean sweep of the building from the ground floor up. Beyond sneaking out of the building afterwards, who would question the long-standing debits if there was no hint that they should no longer be there?

Nobody but someone subconsciously looking for the names 'Blaze' and 'Valentine', of course. Henry believed that they'd been cancelled and didn't trust anyone else to know about them, for some reason. He wasn't losing enough money to suspect anything was amiss and I suppose to him, the amount was buttons. But to anyone else who had their feet firmly planted down on Earth with the rest of us, it was the kind of money most people only dreamt of.

"We'd never have discovered this if you hadn't come aboard, Emmeline." Grinning like the Cheshire Cat, Henry passed me half a glass of champagne and winked slyly. It almost made me smile to be a daughter having small amounts of alcohol sneaked to me by my dad. I felt almost normal, there again, it also made me feel incredibly immature. "I'm so proud and grateful of you right now."

Jeez. I didn't deserve either his pride or gratitude, not now. "It's no big deal. I just had a hunch, that's all. I couldn't stand by and do nothing while someone stole from us."

" 'Us'." He enunciated the word like it was foreign. "I think I like the sound of that."

"I meant our family. Calm down."

With a booming laugh, he dismissed my rebuff like a racist joke at an Amnesty International meeting. "I've always admired your lust for independence, my girl. And I always knew you were destined for great things. I have my fingers crossed that you'll continue to contribute now you're about to be a married woman. You don't need the name to be part of the family, please remember that."

"Like Blaze would let me renounce the Tudor name." No matter if I didn't like it, his relationship with my family meant he'd always encourage me to keep an active role within their strange dynamic. "If you recall, he's sort of the catalyst for this discovery."

Topping up my glass, Henry tapped his nose and winked again. _Our little secret._ Both of us knew I shouldn't be drinking but neither of us cared. Our relationship had been strained for the longest time and to interact so casually now, like partners... No. Like friends. "I do remember the unfortunate circumstances, yes. And I know you only agreed to join forces with me out of desperation. You've always been blatant about your belief that this business is corrupt but I want to assure you; I've never done anything to justify larceny."

"It's okay, you don't need to say that. I'm starting to understand that things aren't always as clean cut and hollow as they look." I was living proof of the adage, _'the road to Hell is pathed with good intentions'._ It would be hypocritical for me to ever judge him for anything he'd done to ensure his future was comfortable and full of the things he loved and desired. Maybe we were more alike than I cared to admit. "This is a lot of money, though—a hell of a lot to give to your best friend's family."

"I suppose." Henry carelessly scanned the printouts Blaze and I had sat and painstakingly highlighted just hours before everything had gone awry. Just the payments from the past twelve months totted up to an astronomical amount. "It was the least I could do to look after them when he was gone...

"As I _was_ the one who took him away."

#

Regis Lundy was a professional liar. His charm, good looks and crooked smile made him extraordinarily gifted in deception. Maybe all of his truths had been passed on to his painfully honest son. Who knew?

He'd fallen into drug dealing as an unruly teen, which ultimately led to him being part of a gang of what I suppose you'd call 'drug barons'. And my father was one of them, too.

They'd been as thick as thieves as boys, so it could have been that one followed the other into a life of immorality. That much I couldn't tell. All I knew for definite from the unfortunate, ghastly tale laid out in front of me was that their friendship had been used as a weapon.

Like any bunch of idiots who got themselves involved with something illegal, the gang had their enemies. Rival dealers with even less scruples formed a gang of their own and sought to put Regis and Henry's men out of business. There were threats, fights, thefts, kidnapping... Regis had been one such captive but had used his 'talent' to successfully deny any association with his fellows. They welcomed him in with open arms afterwards and thus, he became the mole.

He maintained that link with both gangs for years but his loyalty always remained wherever Henry was. He could be both saviour and destructor in a heartbeat, providing inside information that would either allow his friends to evade trouble or take a fall that would stop him being identified as spy. They lost and gained together, made sacrifices that were costly and stupid. Through everything, Regis never did a single thing to betray those who had actively helped him find the woman of his dreams, father a child and see them safely into a home that cost him nearly his entire earnings in rent.

It was probably around the time Henry met Ivy that their streak of good luck came to an end. Somehow, the rivals discovered they'd been double-crossed and found the weak link in the gang's chain. One of their members was a little less conscientious and jumped at the chance to do some undercover work of their own. False information of the rival gang's leader going out to do a deal without any backup was fed into the group—information that the rivals apparently 'discovered' had been leaked due to a mole at the last minute. Frightened, Regis did what he had to in order to protect his identity and agreed to be the one who went out and took down whoever arrived to kill their boss.

At the same time, Henry had been put forward to be the hit man thanks to a very helpful suggestion from the new gang spy. Time limits meant there was no rendezvous before the two headed out on their way—Henry to end the rivalry and Regis to save him from making the mistake that would cost them dearly.

Henry knew exactly where the 'boss' would be waiting. It was the same spot Regis had been told where to hide. Neither of them realised who the other was until it was far too late. Eight seconds, eight stab wounds, and it was over.

It was the greatest regret the bold Henry Tudor had in his life. Distraught, he'd scooped up his dying friend and carried him for nine miles to pass away in the comfort of his own home with his beloved fiancée and their four year old son by his side. By all accounts, he wept for days and stood guard outside their house until he was satisfied that Connie and Blaze were safe from harm by the hand of either gang.

His remorse was so great it was all consuming. He fell silent for weeks and almost lost Ivy through lack of communication. Connie offered forgiveness he wouldn't and couldn't accept, yet he vowed to provide all the things in life Regis had sworn he would give them. Blaze became like his own son but he knew he'd never be able to replace his best friend as a father. All he could do was become a positive male role model for him and encourage him to become a man his father would be proud to watch over from the Heavens, for that was invariably where he'd go.

Henry never returned to the gang. He left that life behind and started to carve a new path of hard work of a different kind. Regis had dreamt of running a shipping and distribution company 'led by kings' and Henry was determined to make it so.

My father was not always Henry Tudor. In his life before The Tudor Initiative and before he lost his best friend, he was a very common ruffian named Henry Jones. I'd always suspected his name was an alias, legally registered or not, but never imagined it could have come about in such a tragic way. My mother must have had some idea of how our picture perfect family really began; it was the best kept of worst secrets I'd ever learned of.

Could Connie really have forgiven him so easily? Just a month before the wedding they'd scrimped and saved for, Regis was taken away by a fleeting moment of bloodlust. Was guilt really a strong enough force to earn acceptance and mental peace, or was Constance Valentine just a woman of spectacular tolerance and inner tranquillity? It was hard to believe that she could be.

And Blaze—he looked up to Henry and trusted him, even after the huge loss he'd been caused. Was he truly so at ease with what had happened that he could overlook it or was there some latent resentment he'd never admit to?

Once again in my life, I needed him at a time he was out of reach. It seemed like his reassurance was always just out of touching distance at the most crucial moments. I needed to know what was going on in his head—how he really felt about Henry's involvement in his father's death. With his help, I'd have a baseline idea of how he could react if I told him what I'd done. If there was hope for Henry, there could be hope for me but if there was just that slightest niggle...

But he wasn't available. I knew he'd drop everything to take a call from me but his own meeting was important as mine had been. For all that he'd been through both with and because of me, he deserved a good turn. Some downtime, at least. I wouldn't disturb him.

Which left me lurking in my office, wherein the glass door gave me a perfect view across into the office of a man who'd once gone through the same motions I was going through now. Maybe he still was. Henry had spent twenty-five years living with the consequences of what he'd done. He hadn't done time for it. Nobody had made him feel bad about it. He'd still become successful and found a family of his own. In spite of it, he was really very lucky.

He didn't look like he felt lucky. I'd struggled to process what he'd confessed to me and fled across the hall, leaving him to nurse a bottle of bourbon he kept for emergencies. If we were as alike as I was starting to realise we might be, he'd taken my departure as rejection and disgust. Those two things were bad enough from a stranger; from family or a friend, it hurt like hell.

I felt an incredible wave of empathy for him. He had to feel so alone. In his mind, he was probably the only man in the world who'd done something so awful without truly intending it and the regret must have been eating at him for years...

I was one person who could relate to that inner hatred. He could tell me how he'd moved past it and got on with a better life the way he had. The advice he could offer was one of a kind and invaluable, if only I'd just reach out for it.

"Dad?" I'd crossed the way to his office so quickly my feet burned. Henry looked up despondently from the ice cubes melting in his glass and looked almost surprised to see me. "Can we talk?"

"Of course," he answered tersely, pushing the glass away. It was almost scary to see him locked down into a state of self-preservation only a fellow denial-abuser would recognise; focusing his energy on making the world think he was powerful and in control when really, he was broken inside. It wasn't something I'd ever seen in my father. He didn't look like the same man I'd grown to loath for his avarice and malevolence. "I thought you'd gone home."

Home? I didn't have a home. I had a hotel suite full of packing boxes and was undoubtedly just on the processing line to go into one of the many new properties Henry had in escrow. "I'm sorry I rushed out."

"Nothing more than I'd expect, love. So, what did you want to talk about?"

Wary, I tried several seats around his office before I found one that didn't feel like it gave off too much of a defensive aura or was too open to his view. Even when I found it, I chose to stand by the windows looking out over the garden at the back of the building instead.

I'd underestimated how difficult it would be to get the words out. It was the first time I'd tell anybody about the truth behind Natasha's death, and breaking that seal was difficult. It only took one person to destroy my life completely, like it wasn't already shredded to tatters.

"Emmeline?"

"I did something bad. Awful. Unforgivable, actually. And I need your help."

There was no telltale noise to suggest Henry had risen from his desk but he'd stealthily moved to the cabinet that held his stash of liquor. "You never ask for my help. Are you doing it now as an expression of pity or because you believe I'm a heartless monster who has no right to judge or disapprove of your indiscretions?"

Holy crap, talk about cynical. I'd always wondered if I'd gotten my jaded downtrodden side from Ivy but now I understood. Underneath all that carefully pressed and starched complacency and prowess, Henry was the dejected victim of a scheme and boy, was he sulking about it.

"Neither. I ask because you're a compassionate human being with regrets who's unintentionally caused great pain. A man who's haunted every day by the memories of darker times but knows how to rise above it."

"Emmeline..."

"I killed someone." The words came out so sharply, it left me stunned. There it was, the ugly truth I'd just blurted out. And Henry did nothing.

"I don't know what you think I can do about that, Emmy. Necromancy isn't my strong suit." He was making jokes about it. Oh my God, he didn't believe me. He thought I was kidding.

"Dad, I'm serious. I _killed_ someone."

The second time seemed to do the trick. The next words he spoke weren't to me, but a gruff order to our assistant, who sat ever patiently at her station near the lift entrance to our floor.

"Marcie, book Emmeline and I a table for lunch. Somewhere with good steak. And a private dining room."

He looked back at me through the glass wall of his office and sighed. "I believe we'll need the privacy."

As a man of many vices, Henry owned an array of restaurants and pubs across London and beyond. As a glutton, he relished in foreign cuisine and wasn't afraid to taste the exotic; fruity chutneys and taste bud decimating curries were just two extremes of his taste.

But as a red-blooded man, sometimes a slab of dead cow, cooked rare with a thick scraping of pepper, fried mushrooms and an egg was the greatest and most traditional comfort food.

We sat in a quiet steakhouse just a block away from The Parr with matching meals, matching scowls and matching secrets. Despite what I'd just said to him, he ate like a man at the end of death row, ploughing through the meal like he could temporarily shut off the need for oxygen.

"You haven't said anything," I pointed out, staring down at my own untouched plate. His steak was twice the size of mine, and mine had come with green vegetables rather than his coronary-inducing deep-fried onion rings. He'd have made those alterations to my meal on purpose and I appreciated it, but how could he really expect me to eat at a time like this?

"You haven't given me anything to say." Henry spoke again before I could disagree. "All you've made is this audacious claim to have killed. I don't know if you mean physically or spiritually, when, how or what you want me to help with. Did you hide the body—have you been found out?"

"No. Jesus. No... Nothing as grotesque as that." Feeling sick, I sipped at my glass of water and could have sworn I shrank down to the size of a mouse. Of course he wouldn't let me get away without providing the ugly details; had I really thought that he would? "I meant physically. Last week. I smothered her with a pillow while she slept. While _I_ slept. It was like my mind took over my body." I explained the dream-state I'd been in when I'd woken in Natasha's guest room—the saturated hue of colours; the lightning and thunder thrashing against the skies outside; the unsteady sort of at-sea movement of the floor underneath me.

And then the voice in my head.

"When I came to my senses, it was all over and she was telling me I was stupid to believe life could get any better. I'd lose my friends, family and freedom. I'd lose Blaze."

"So that's why you tried to kill yourself." Nodding sagely, Henry continued to hack away at his meal like I'd done little more than tell him a sweet bedtime story. "It didn't make sense at the time but now I see."

"You do?"

"You may think I don't know you, girl, but the minute I found out _what_ made you try to kill yourself five years ago, I understood why. You believed the pain of death was less than the pain of losing Hunter. I'd wager that the only thing different in this case was the man you wanted to hold onto."

He'd hit the nail on the head. He understood me better than I'd ever realised. "He's my world."

"And you're his. So how much trouble are you in?" Henry waved away an approaching server who obediently sped off in response. His lording it up over the lowly working-class masses had always bothered me before but I had to admit, a father in a position of power had it's advantages.

"None. I think that's what bothers me so much. I left a person for dead and the only consequence I've suffered is a few injuries. I feel like there should be more—a punishment or penance paid."

"You made a very good attempt at killing yourself, Emmeline. We all believed we'd failed you by missing the signs of your mental decline. Everyone will walk on egg shells afraid to burden you with conversations about their negative emotions. And Blaze, more than anyone, will wear himself into the ground watching over you. You might be the perpetrator but you'll be treated like a victim for years—maybe the rest of your life. You'll never be trusted with your own safety again."

Leaning toward me, Henry dropped his voice to a low whisper. "I understand because I've been there that the worst punishment you can endure is the one you inflict on yourself. Tell me that the hell you're putting yourself through isn't a severe enough castigation."

I absolutely got what he was saying. Getting away with it would make me feel like dirt forever, getting worse with every day I was kept in limbo. The constant fear that I'd be found out would slowly overtake any happy thoughts I could muster. I'd become an increasingly paranoid wreck. I'd lose myself as I'd lost my soul. But...

"It's not enough." I wanted to be found out and pay a penalty for it, just so it was out in the open. I deserved to lose Blaze, but I'd rather do it sooner when I stood a better chance of being respected for my honesty than hated for concealing the truth for days, months, even years. "I feel like I should confess. To Blaze at the very least. If he can forgive me—"

"No." Henry's command snapped out so harshly it made my stomach flip. If a speech bubble had sprouted out of his mouth like a comic book character with the letters in a giant red font, there couldn't have been more emphasis on it. "You can't tell him. Blaze came too close to losing you last week; I don't believe he'd be able to cope with knowing there is something that threatens to separate you again."

"And here's me thinking he might be a little more bothered about the whole murder thing."

"Given the circumstances of the act, I think he'd be very understanding. It would certainly help him understand why he found you bleeding to death last week, maybe even help him stop carrying the weight of responsibility."

"So I can tell him."

"No..." Pulling his phone from his pocket, Henry opened up a notebook application and flipped up the plastic stylus tucked into the casing. "I would prefer to ensure that you're well-protected before this goes further than us. I assume nobody else knows?"

"Just you, me, and the flies on the wall."

"All right, then." There was a visible shift from caring father mode to articulate strategist. Part of me felt terrible that he was going to help me cover this murder up, but a greater part was grateful that he'd do it so Blaze and I could eventually live a life that wasn't held back with lies. "I can't save you from yourself but I can save you from the outside world, Emmeline Elizabeth. So I'll ensure that the lid is kept firmly shut on this as I know it'll be hard enough. Now, tell me their name."

_Oh, God._ That might have been the only thing I could tell him that changed his opinion of the situation completely. Without a name, it was an unfortunate mistake done during a moment of instability. With it, there was motive and intent.

"Emmeline?"

"Natasha." Recoiling, I looked away and spoke to the wall next to me. "Natasha Valentine."

On the periphery of my vision, I saw him cock an eyebrow. "Come again?"

"Natasha Valentine. Blaze's wife." And because I felt the urgent need to justify it, I launched into a ramble. "She was screwing him over. She led him into marriage under false pretences—told him she could die any minute. She only had MS. Nobody dies from MS. I mean, if she'd gotten a bad infection or something, that might have killed her but they could kill anyone. It's not like she had cancer or something. She took the piss out of him and when she knew I'd figured her out, she threatened to make him publicly known as a statutory rapist. She sort of had it coming." _Crap._ Probably should have stopped a sentence earlier.

"You think she deserved it?"

I nodded dutifully. I deeply regretted killing her but fuck, not for the reasons I probably should have. "Yeah. Lil bit..."

If you make an admission like that, you kind of expect to be disowned on the spot after a bout of chastisement that would sting like a bitch. What I got instead probably hurt more.

Henry started laughing, a booming howl of utter disbelief. If I'd really thought that being judged and hung out to dry was the worst reaction of all, I obviously hadn't taken into account how painful it would be to come clean like that and end up ridiculed.

Tucking his phone back into his pocket, Henry brushed away a dramatic tear of hilarity and reached over to pat my hand. "You actually had me worried for a minute."

"You think I'm crazy."

"Of course. You're a certified nut case; I have the invoices to prove it."

I scowled. "You're not helping."

"Oh, love... I don't doubt for a minute that there may be something in that muddled mind of yours that makes your recollection of events very real. But I assure you, you didn't kill Natasha."

Before I knew it, I was on my feet. "How can you be so sure?" I promptly dropped back down into my seat like my backside was weighted with lead. Was I seriously arguing the point to defend my murderer status? I _was_ crazy!

Reigning himself in, Henry urged me to drink some more water and passed me a napkin. Without realising, I'd broken into a sweat. My heart raced so fast it felt like I'd keel over again. Blaze would have thrown a fit if he'd been there to see me get so worked up—he was convinced my heart would stutter to a stop again any minute.

"Emmy, there was an inquest. As you so astutely pointed out, aside from the MS, Natasha was otherwise healthy. With Blaze by your side and uninterested, her mother insisted on an investigation. Threw her money about until she got her way. Yesterday morning, the coroner ruled that Natasha died from a lethal overdose. She killed herself."

Every hair on my body stood on end, my skin prickling with an uncomfortable iciness that proliferated from the outside right down to my bones. "She can't have."

"She did. They took blood for testing and found enough sedatives floating around to kill five people. You may certainly have participated in her death, but you certainly didn't carry out the execution."

The words wouldn't process. I'd been in there, standing in her room staring down at her dead body with a pillow in my hands. "But I'm so sure I did it."

"Let us rewind then. Your dream—the last thing you remember doing?"

With great difficulty, I recalled that night. "Lowering the pillow over her face."

"Then when you came to?"

"Holding it." Numbly, I held out my hands the way they'd been when I'd regained awareness; chest height, clutching the fabric and facing down. "I realised it was there when I went to wipe my face."

"So you don't explicitly remember holding it down over her face long enough to suffocate her." Henry leaned back, drumming his fingers across the wooden table top. "And do you know for sure that she was alive when you entered the room? She may have already passed, or died right in front of you."

"Or she could have been killed by me," I argued. "Blood would have been one of the first things they checked—why look any further after that? Would they have even checked for signs of foul play with that answer already? She might have been going to die anyway but I still could have been the reason she died when she did." She may have only had minutes but I might have stolen them. Maybe. Who knew? I might have tried to suffocate a corpse. How redundant. How confusing. How indefinite...

My bewilderment seemed to win me some pity. My cut and dry situation had suddenly become a whole lot messier in a matter of minutes but either way, it seemed like I was going to get away with it. I needn't ever worry about anyone figuring it out. It wouldn't even come up for question. With or without my involvement, she'd have died.

"She really topped herself?"

Finally allowing staff into the room, Henry watched me cautiously between the arms and hands clearing our plates. Someone might have asked if something was wrong with the food but it didn't really register. I was sure that they'd likely cooked it perfection with Henry there and it tasted great, I just didn't have an appetite.

"She was a miserable young lady, Emmeline. She knew she'd done wrong to get what she wanted and with her lies exposed, she took the cowards ways out. I imagined she felt the same way about living without Blaze as you did, except she lived a long time wanting love he wouldn't give her. You have it."

"She really loved him."

"Too much or not enough—who knows. You found her out. You beat her at her own game. I won't placate you by denying that her defeat led to her demise. But her death was not a choice made by you."

"Wasn't it?" There was always going to be a chance that I'd just gotten there first. Whether she'd have died or not afterwards, that still made me her killer. It still made me evil and I still hated it. "You have to help me find out. I can't go on through life not knowing for sure."

"Emmeline, her family are happy to believe she killed herself and lay her to rest tomorrow." With the room once again empty, Henry tactfully re-approached the subject of my misdeed. "Imagine the pain you would cause them if you took away their closure at the last minute over a feeling that you _might_ be a murderer. Imagine your mother's pain—the unnecessary stress you'd put yourself through by admitting to a crime if it turned out Natasha had already died when you went to her. In absolving your guilt, you'd cause greater destruction."

"So we'll do it on the sly!" Desperate, I no longer cared how out of character and immoral I had to be to get answers. I couldn't stand to live with a big question mark over my head. "You're Henry Tudor; you can do anything!"

"Emmeline, no." Again, he snapped his order like I was a dog but rather than rebel, I listened. In less than two hours, he'd instilled in me the respect I should have had in him for years. I'd gone to him in a crisis. He was laying out the acceptable options. I had to step down off my soapbox and listen to him because despite telling myself I was better than him for most of my life, I wasn't. He was the father, I was the daughter, and maybe if I'd not spent my adolescence fighting his authority, I might not have landed myself in this predicament. Tallulah had submitted completely and she'd never have this sort of problem.

"I could help you persecute yourself but I won't. You have the chance to walk away believing you may not have taken a precious life. Having lived with knowing for sure that I have killed for twenty-five years, I strongly recommend taking the path of ignorance. I would sell my soul to the Devil to undo what I have done."

"Is that your final word on the matter?"

He nodded stiffly. "Yes, it is."

"Okay..." Emotionally exhausted, I closed my eyes and took a breath. I'd lived a life of denial for so long that it really shouldn't have been that much of an adjustment. Really, my chances of being innocent looked pretty good—if she'd already been dead, that just made me weird. That was something I could live with...

With help.

"Blaze..."

Knowing what I was thinking, Henry shook his head sternly and picked up the dessert menu, presumably as a distraction. "Can't you imagine how terrible he'd feel to have taken you into an environment that has led to all this self-doubt and confusion? He'd feel as responsible for Natasha's death as you do."

"Maybe..." Of course he would. He'd feel even more responsible for my suicide attempt, too. That's just the kind of person he was. "So how do I move forward?"

"Start by answering your phone."

"What?" I hadn't noticed the buzzing of my silenced handset in my blazer pocket until he forced my attention to it. With it hanging on the back of my seat, I hadn't been able to feel it, either. Dazed, I rushed to grab it before it rang through to voice mail and felt a bitter-sweet ache in my chest when I saw Blaze's name on the display.

"Hi."

_"Hi, yourself."_ Ah God, he sounded happy. As glad as that made me, I hated that I could and would probably drag him down again. _"Am I disturbing anything?"_

"No, I just finished lunch with my dad." Or rather he'd finished it. "Everything okay?"

"Okay? Well, it's... Ah, well... Um... Do you remember the audition I did last month while you were in Japan?"

"Of course." I'd fretted because of it. After making me promise to contact him when I landed, I hadn't heard from him right away because he'd rushed to Liverpool. It was an audition for the male lead in a movie—a job that could make or break him and the first one he'd be able to accept without serious limitations on his time and travel.

"Well... I got it!"

"You're kidding." _Oh, my love._ He was finally getting the good luck he deserved. "When do you start?"

"Filming starts in June; probably for three months but that's a provisional guess. The script is amazing, the director is really keen. I'll meet him next week, and provided conditions are met..."

"Conditions? What conditions?"

_"Well..."_ Grunting softly, Blaze audibly moved into another room where he was and closed a door behind him. _"The filming is in Chicago, cupcake."_

"Oh..." Jeez. We'd have been married for all of five minutes and we'd be torn apart for another three months. The circumstances might have been better than last time but that kind of distance would be a strain on any relationship.

"Yeah. So I told them that unless they can arrange for you to take three months out of work and get both of our visas and accommodation sorted, I'm out."

I took a moment to hear, rehear and comprehend what he'd just said. "Did you just say 'our' visas and accommodation?"

"Well, sure. If they can't make arrangements for you to be with me, I'm not going anywhere."

"Holy shit." He was insane. He had to be. "They went for that?"

"Well, as far as I know, there's someone on the phone to your assistant clearing your business calendar. You will come, won't you?"

"Come to Chicago?" Follow him around and sit on the sidelines, watching runners moon after him while he acted his ass off for the silver screen? Swank around, being the movie star's wife wearing designer sunglasses and designer dresses, smartphone in one hand, coffee in the other and a pretentious tiny dog tucked inside my giant Fendi handbag? Pretending life was perfect when I'd assured it could never be?

Henry tapped the table between us to catch my attention and mouthed one word. _Go._ Maybe he believed that it was my way forward, or else the best method of distraction or denial I could hope to be offered. I was blessed with the chance to go on an adventure, one I'd never have had a part in if Natasha had been alive. Blaze wouldn't go without me and if I refused to go with him in some silly mission not to enjoy life, what was the point of killing her at all?

"I'll follow you anywhere, Blaze. You know that." And saying that filled me with the greatest yet strangest sense of completion and pride. Spending three months in Chicago would make him happy, and that was all I now aspired to. Anything I had to do to know he was smiling on his end of a phone call, I'd do it because wasn't that my motive all along? Whether I'd killed Natasha or not, I owed him for the turmoil I'd caused. If I had, I owed him for doing something unspeakable—if not, I was just an attentive partner. As long as the only outcome was his joy, it didn't matter what it was built on. I'd act the same way in either case.

"So it's a double celebration tonight. Isn't it?"

"It is. We'll get our money back soon enough."

"Why don't we make it a hat-trick then? I'll round up the guys and book a table somewhere. You can bring your parents and Ivy can 'accidentally' let slip about the wedding."

The wedding... Something else that made him happy and something I'd been trying to avoid addressing. I guessed the time for wishing it would go away had passed. It was going to happen. It wasn't like it was a bad thing—I did love him.

We spoke for a couple minutes more to make and solidify dinner plans. When the call had ended, I stared at the phone in my hand for a while, mulling over my future.

I had two options. I could fight against happiness and make the rest of my life very difficult in the name of a guilt I may well be needlessly carrying around. Or I could go with the flow, let it all happen as it would and just hope it turned out that there was nothing to catch up with me later.

"Problem, love?"

I blinked dopily and lifted my gaze to Henry. Did problems even come into it anymore?

"No, I just..." A distracting idea jumped to the forefront of my mind, one more important than thoughts of the future. "Plausible deniability. It wasn't the funeral you didn't want Blaze to tell me about. You didn't want me to know how Natasha had died."

"You're right," Henry agreed sullenly. "You've been through the mill already, far worse than we even knew. You didn't need the burden of that additional guilt."

"I see..." If that didn't prove that my hell was of my own making, I didn't know what did. Without that realisation, I'd have convinced myself there were secrets I had no right to pry into. I'd never feel privy to the darker side of Blaze's life and that would inevitably have caused a rift between us. He wouldn't want to bother me with his problems for fear of pushing me over the edge and I wouldn't want to ask. We may as well have shot our relationship down at the paddock like a lame horse if that was going to happen.

My anxiety was all in my own head. Problems fabricated in complication-free areas because of my own negativity. I'd been blowing everything out of proportion.

I hadn't been my old self since the night I walked into Natasha's house and that needed to stop. Blaze wanted to marry the woman I'd been on that observation deck weeks before, not the far more neurotic mess I'd become since.

He'd once told me that our scars were the symbols of the hope we had inside us. Now, I had an impressive couple of additions to my collection, I should have now possessed enough hope to carry us both through a freer fate I'd, one way or another, created.

Whether his romantic cliché was true remained to be seen. But it had to be worth a shot.

#  SEVEN

#

Under a grey sky that cried with a hazy sleet, I stood alone. My eyes were trained down to the half-covered coffin lowered into the plot in front of me, one that had been bid a goodbye by treasured family and friends but now just left neglected to be taken care of by another. Someone else's problem.

How depressing, that once someone close to us dies, we entrust them to indifferent strangers who can't discern one body from the other, when we really ought to be tending to them more carefully than we had before for the moments we have left with the vessel holding an exiting soul. We die and our bodies are no longer precious. Our value lies in the memories we left behind.

Stepping back, I felt a dampness on my palms and looking down, I realised they were covered in earth. Checking myself over, I noticed my knees were muddy as though I'd been kneeling and my face felt caked with mud.

It was like I'd single-handedly dug that grave myself. And the casket within? One Natasha Valentine. Her fate was sealed the moment she walked into my life.

Semi-dazed, I woke from my dream and staggered stiffly through to the lounge area. The smell of fresh coffee instantly roused me, as did the sound and sight of Blaze singing along to the tunes banging out from a radio station.

We'd fallen asleep together the night before in reparation for the time we hadn't had for each other the previous day. After our respective meetings, we'd gone almost immediately to Esme's bar as a meeting point, then on to a social club afterwards. Ivy had joined us and that invariably resulted in the hyperactivity level of an evening cranking up from five to ten. With permission to start announcing our fast-approaching wedding, she'd had both Blaze and I bouncing between her high-society acquaintances for introductions and gossip. She was a vicarious partier who needed the presence of young people to fully break out of her trophy wife shell. When she was on the town with cause to celebrate, everyone knew it.

That hadn't given us a lot of time together and unlike in the days passed, we couldn't compensate for that with binge drinking and rampant sex. As long was he was 'on duty' as my carer, Blaze wouldn't touch a drop of alcohol and my body was still recovering from the trials of nearly dying, blood transfusions and general injury. All I'd had the energy to do was cuddle up to him and finally trade smaller details of our day, reconnecting and planning like we'd been able to before all hell broke loose. It was like none of it had ever happened.

The time we'd had before we'd fallen asleep had been blissful but Blaze had the same nightmare that had driven us to separate beds before. I didn't suppose I could begrudge him that. If I knew my man, he was blaming himself for Natasha's suicide as much as I was, having constructed the evening that had led to it. If it been the drugs that had killed her and not me, the proverbial blood was on his hands, too. He was too kind a spirit to not be tortured by that.

Oddly, I actually kind of hoped it _was_ me who'd done it so I could remove that culpability from his mind. No matter what, I had to take some of the blame and I wouldn't have wished that sense of responsibility on anyone.

Thankfully, my drowsiness was only a side-effect of the painkillers I'd been trying to wean off and, more mobile, I'd been able to drag myself out of bed before the nightmare made Blaze violent again. I accepted that separate beds might be a necessity sometimes and really had no right to complain when I'd made such a massive contribution to that situation. It was really far easier to not take offence, tell the distressed sleeping demigod next to me that I was okay—whether the reassurance reached him in sleep or not—and make a sleepy way to the other bedroom for the night.

The amount of racket he was making suggested he'd heard it, or at least that he'd just not been worried when he'd woken up without me. Blaze was distastefully cheerful for a man about to bury his wife and I told him so with a wry look when he spotted me and sped forth with my morning java.

"Behave yourself today," I warned him. "You might be happy she's gone but however painful it was for you when you thought I was leaving you forever, her family's grief is worse. Mona lost her daughter. For good."

"I know, I know." He rolled his eyes and led me over to the breakfast he'd served up. It was like he'd known I'd wake... "And I'm not sadistic enough to be that happy about saying a permanent goodbye. I'm just in a good mood."

"Okay..." Doubtfully, I took a revitalising sip of coffee and tried to shake off the residue of my own dream. I could still feel the thick dirt of the grave on my hands, which was utterly ridiculous. By choosing to die, Natasha had dug her own grave—not that she even had one. She was being cremated.

"Are you okay?" Blaze brushed the hair back from my face and pressed a quick kiss to my temple. "You've been very complacent since yesterday afternoon."

"Have I?"

"Yeah... It's like something in your mind has resolved but you're sad about it."

It was a struggle not to raise an eyebrow at his observation. He didn't miss a thing. It was unnerving. If he could tell that much without me giving any conscious hints, there didn't seem to be much point in denying it. "Dad told me how Natasha really died."

He was standing behind me so I couldn't see it, but I felt him freeze. "He did?"

"Yeah and you were right, I had a right to know. That said..." I sighed and stared down into my mug. "I don't think I should come to the funeral. I don't want to rub their faces in it."

"Come again?"

Turning, I looked up and narrowed my eyes at his frown. He looked so confused and I didn't understand it. He was a compassionate man—he shouldn't have needed it spelling out. "I'm sure everyone blames me."

"But it was my fault."

"Blaze. Baby." Standing, I turned my back to the table and sat on the edge, pulling him closer to fill the gap between my legs. "She spent thousands of days with you and never came to harm. One evening with me and she tops herself. Of course we share a degree of responsibility but I walked into her home and stole her husband. Of course it's easier and more logical for people to blame me."

"Oh..." Still frowning, Blaze stared down at our hands and linked them. His thumb brushed over the underside of my engagement ring possessively and I reciprocated the gesture. I might have technically stolen him but I'd defy anyone who tried to dispute the fact that he was _mine_. "I need you there for moral support, cupcake."

"I know, but it would be in poor taste for me to come with you. The home wrecker surfacing at the funeral of the wife she drove to suicide because she wouldn't sign the divorce papers? Mona and Patrice don't need that kind of insult. Not today."

"Emmeline, how do I put this?" Releasing my hand, Blaze rested his palms on the table-top on either side of my hips and dipped so our faces were level. The eyes that usually shimmered with love that had once scared me had hardened to precisely focused emeralds, free of emotion, almost cruel and reticent. "I didn't say I _want_ you there. I said I _need_ you there. You'll be at my side."

Something innate I'd never known existed inside me yielded. Blaze so rarely took an authoritative approach with me, exercising the tactic maybe only twice before. Even though I'd spent so many years trying to be independent, I had to acknowledge that I kind of really liked it.

So did he, by the looks of it, when he U-turned back out of his little spell of megalomania and studied me. "Are you turned on?"

My face flushed. He really didn't miss a trick. "No!" I objected, which just made him grin.

"You are! You're turned on by me bossing you around!"

"Am not." I tried to look affronted but was only too aware of the smirk on my face. "I'm begging you not to take advantage of this."

He scoffed with faux innocence. "Would I?" Yes, he would. Frequently, from the looks of him. The list of possibilities to be had from a discovery like this was endless and perverse. "I don't want to be a tyrant, so maybe I can reward your compliance."

"Would you punish my petulance?" My mouth snapped open. What the hell was I saying?!

Oh my God, was that my strange mind's idea of retribution? To be bossed around and penalised for disobedience? I couldn't pay with my life or legal proceedings, so I'd manufacture the scenario through some kind of sexually sordid role-play?

"Emmeline?" Blaze clicked his fingers around my head space until he had my attention. "Lost you for a minute there."

"Sorry." I accepted his assistance in climbing down off the table and noted how he moved my breakfast just fractionally closer to me.

That was the moment I realised he'd commandeered me from the very start. I'd been overthrown from the minute he walked into my bookshop and talked me into meeting him after my shift. I'd gone to places I'd hated and lived through experiences that caused a great amounts of anxiety because that was what he'd wanted. He'd picked my food, even my clothes. I'd even fled down Oxford Street with the intent to scam a businessman out of his lunch money because that was what he'd told me to do.

I trusted him implicitly and when he was as gorgeous as he was, a total power exchange to redeem myself for what I'd done to Natasha—whatever that was—wasn't really a repugnant idea.

"So how would you reward me, sir?" My voice came out huskier than I intended, which seemed to catch him off guard.

"Uh... whut?"

"How would you reward me—my compliance? Sir."

"You want me to—Oh. Ohh..." He crouched behind me, moving my hair to one side to access my neck. "You want to play the subservient, cupcake?"

My spine straightened with confidence. I knew his choice not to use the word many others would—'submissive'—was a conscious one, and one that made a distinction in our relationship. There would be no crawling on my knees, discipline or contracts, just me doing as I was damn well told. We didn't have the sort of arrangement where I needed to be degraded and bossed around. I needed to be guided and he was the one to lead me.

Well, I suppose when I'd gone out of my way to disobey Henry for so long, I was bound to end up with a few daddy issues.

"I'll play anything you tell me to."

"You like board games?"

I faltered, wondering if our ideas didn't match up quite as well as I'd thought. "Not really."

"Then eat your fucking breakfast, shower and get dressed within the hour or I may do something to _monopolise_ your sanity."

_Ah._ We were on the same page after all. Almost. It might have just been a little fun to him but for me, it was absolutely serious. It wouldn't be constant or permanent, but for now, he held all the cards because he knew how to play them better.

And I was completely at ease with that.

There's nothing worse than being at a wake you provoked. As a sign of respect, Blaze and I had agreed that it was best I didn't go to the ceremony as it was Natasha's family's chance to say a proper goodbye. That didn't need to be impeded on, desecrated and trampled by my presence. There was no need to provide the reminder of why she was gone.

Blaze had twisted that to justify not being there himself. His excuse was that he had neither the inclination nor the energy to pretend to be mourning. He was glad to see the back of Natasha and it didn't seem fair to impose his indifference and low-level happiness on her family. I'd have fought him on it but I knew he was right, and I knew it was a big deal for him to be going to the funeral at all. If he'd known just how badly she had treated him over the course of their marriage, I didn't doubt that he'd appear only to spit on her coffin.

But I wish I'd remembered the wake would be in Natasha's manor house before I'd let Blaze order me into going with him. The building looked twice as big as it had before and seemed to be full of an invisible, oppressive fog that was simply too intense to just be a result of the mourners inside. Everyone's movements seemed sluggish, a universal apathy filling every square inch of space. It was almost as though when Natasha had died, she'd taken the life of the house with her.

As if that wasn't enough, there were the whispers. Of course there were the whispers. They weren't even surreptitious little jibes I could have been imagining in a fit of paranoia. Everyone was looking at me. Everyone was judging. Worse, with Blaze clinging to my hand, they were judging him, too.

We walked a circuit of the ground floor, pausing to receive condolences from those who had the decency to keep their thoughts to themselves. I didn't recognise a single face but they all seemed to know who I was and had been given a reason to slyly check out my covered wrists.

My only suitable black dress had short capped sleeves. I'd pulled out the creased garment from my boxes with every intention of getting it pressed when Blaze had presented me with the dress I was wearing now. I'd been initially annoyed that he'd made time to shop for me, just assuming that I'd go with him. But now I appreciated that he had, and recognised that he'd wanted me to look good so I wasn't self-conscious.

The satin pencil dress skimmed my knees, a demure yet sexy length. The top section from bust down to wrists was a high-necked sewn in panel of thick patterned black lace. It wasn't the kind of thing I'd have ever bought for a funeral but between my outfit and Blaze's choice of pure black suit and graphite grey tie, we were the best dressed couple in the room. Anyone who wasn't staring because we'd driven Natasha Valentine into her urn had to be staring because we looked like we'd been transplanted in from Hollywood.

"Hey." Blaze ground to a halt and turned me to face him. "You doing okay?"

"I'm..." I shrugged, unable to put a word to how I was feeling. "Are you?"

"I'm..." He laughed and shrugged like I had. Really, there was no way to adequately describe how weird the whole situation was. "I just need to hang around long enough for the will reading. Then we'll leave."

"Okay." Even if he had an obligation to stay longer, I wasn't going to push it. I didn't want to be on enemy territory any longer than necessary.

"I'm going to have nightmares tonight. The last time I was here... Promise me you'll stay out of the kitchen." There was a note of amusement to his request but I didn't take it lightly. If the shoe had been on the other foot and he'd tried to kill himself the last time he'd walked in there, I wouldn't want him near the kitchen, either. The remembered anguish would be enough without the visual stimulus.

"I promise. And I swear, you'll never have to see me looking like that again. You'll never be patrolling the room at my wake."

Blaze lifted his chin defensively. "Damn right I won't. The only way I'm going to be at your funeral is if I'm in the coffin next to you."

The conviction of that threat was chilling because it wasn't one that came with a timeframe. Eager to move him away from the subject, I rested my cheek over his heart and closed my eyes to block out the sight of Natasha's photographs on every flat surface.

"A seamstress is coming out tomorrow to take my measurements—the one you put me on to."

"Caroline?" Blaze's posture loosened on a sigh. "I'm glad. I thought Ivy might talk you into using her seamstress. Caroline made the dress you wore for Cornelia's masquerade mixer."

"Oh, really?" That stunning viridian gown I'd been wearing when I found out he had the wife he'd hidden from me. I'd crammed it into a bag when I'd gotten home and hadn't seen it since. I wondered what had happened to it. "I could have gone to her last night but it seemed in poor taste to start dress shopping before... Well, you know. Before your first wife's bon-fire voyage."

"I understand." He stroked a hand restlessly up and down my back, the other cupping the back of my head and impatiently flexing. It couldn't have been clearer to me—or to anyone else watching—that he was trying to shield me with his own body. As long as he was with me, nobody else could get close. That suited me down to the ground. "Where the hell is this damned lawyer?"

"I'm sure he's just been—"

"Who the _hell_ does she think she is?"

My attention snagged on a conversation behind me, maybe just a few feet away. It wasn't a voice I recognised but that question seemed so resolutely aimed at me. Blaze opened his mouth but I discretely held up a finger to quiet him.

"I mean, hasn't she done enough? My sister is dead thanks to her."

Patrice. Of course. I hadn't spoken to Natasha's sister when my friends and I sat on the opposite side of the dining table from her. In fact, I didn't think I'd even acknowledged what she looked like. I figured I could be excused for not paying attention, though, given the abnormal circumstances.

"It should have been her. I'm not even kidding. She should have been the one who died and Natasha should have been found."

"Hey, not cool." I was less stunned by the reproof than by the person I was sure had snarled it. It couldn't be... "You don't have to like her, but that's my little sister you're wishing dead."

"Tallulah. Of course." Blaze murmured softly above me. The vibration through his chest caused me to lose my bead on their conversation, which bugged me to no end. It actually sounded like my callous sister was sticking up for me. "They're the same age—they were best friends in school. That's how she knew about Natasha."

So they'd known each other for a long time. It was astonishing how frequently I forgot that we'd all grown up Cardiff. We may have dispersed after school, but we'd all somehow ended up back in the same place. As easily as I could have met Blaze at one of my mother's dinner parties, I could have met Natasha or Patrice, too. We might have been friends.

"You wasted your blood on her, Tally. You should have left her to it."

"Damn it." Grabbing my hand, Blaze spun me on the spot and headed straight for the conversation. For the first time, I paid attention to the woman who'd allocated me at the number one position on her shit list.

Patrice was a less attractive version of her sister, or else I saw her that way because I didn't perceive her as a threat. She wasn't quite as lithe and elegant as the late golden-haired beauty had been but she was well polished and it showed. She was a 'deb'; an upper-class socialite who made gossip pages by flashing their crotch climbing out of limos. The only clue I had that she might not be as dissolute as that was the young boy who stood miserably at her side.

Blaze had joked about the roller-skating aptitude of his seven year old nephew the first time he'd taken me out into 'his' world. I'd never questioned before whether that was a bond forged by blood. From the way the kid's eyes lit up when he spotted us walking towards them—and the fact Blaze had no siblings—he was the fabled child and that had to make him Patrice's son. It didn't seem like Blaze would strive to maintain a connection with Natasha's family; had the poor lad not only lost an aunt, but an uncle, too? Like I didn't feel bad enough.

"Blaze," Patrice hissed, wrinkling her nose like he'd arrived with a putrid stench. "Have you no respect, bringing _that_ with you?"

"I had the respect _to_ bring her, Patty. Trust me, having her here is the only thing stopping me from turning this wake into a party." Blaze jerked his chin in her son's direction, winking. "All right, Tommy?"

"Hi."

Patrice took an obstructive step between them. "You have some nerve bringing your new bitch to your wife's funeral. Natasha loved you—seeing that she'd lost you killed her. She died of a broken heart."

"Oh, please. Her final mortal task was to promise Emmeline and me a future so bleak I nearly lost her, then she killed herself because she knew not even rail-roading our prospects would drive me to her. Don't make out she was some kind of saint."

"Blaze." Grabbing any part of him I could, I tried to squeeze some decency into him before the debate became a spectacle. I could already sense heads turning and ears pricking. "Don't do this. Not today."

"Listen to your whore, Lundy. She might slit her wrists if you don't."

"Seriously, don't even joke about that. She was nothing but nice to Tasha." Reminding me she was there, Tallulah jumped to my defence for a second time.

I'd always struggled to see any of myself in my sister. She was a miniature version of Henry; all bulk with the same colouring and narcissistic tendencies. There as none of our winsome mother in her appearance, and our matching blood type was the only supporting evidence I had of us being related.

She'd never even acted like a sister. Only two years older than me, we'd never shared any precious moments of bonding that other siblings might. We'd simply coexisted for my twenty-two years and never actively interacted unless she was ridiculing, taunting and teasing me. She hated to see me smile. The first time it looked like I was happy, she'd tried to tear it from my hands.

"Crawl back into your Petri dish, Tally. I don't need you to fight my battles for me. We both know you only tried to keep me alive because I wanted to be dead."

"Are you shitting me?" Her clay brown eyes bore into me, betraying her tea-spoon deep emotional range. "My concern and my love aren't two things you're entitled to just because you're my little sister. I don't have to care about you and you're damned lucky to have something you haven't earned. Do you know where I was when I got the call from Dad telling me what you'd done?" I answered with silence. "Heathrow. On my way to Italy for an internship interview with _Vogue_."

My cheeks heated with shame. I knew so little about my sister, including that she'd ever aspired to a career in fashion. "I had no idea."

"Of course you didn't. You were mad at me for telling you your dumb boyfriend was married, but it wasn't like anyone else was going to." She turned her piggy gaze on Blaze. "You certainly weren't. I gave up that interview to be by your side while you were dying and I _offered_ to give you blood. I didn't try to stop you from dying because I wanted you to lead a miserable life, Emmeline. I tried to keep you alive because you have too much to live for."

What the hell was happening to my life? Every fact I thought I knew was changing, every person I thought hated me emerging from their deceptive cocoons as loving, worried friends. I seriously questioned whether I'd really died and was in a realistic afterlife of delusion, or even whether I'd caused a rift in space and floated into an alternate universe.

"Thank you?"

"Whatever." She snorted and slipped back into the personality I recognised only too well. This conscientious phase seemed to have passed, though who knew what this meant for the rest of our relationship as sisters. "Just put me in a nice bridesmaid dress. They won't consider rebooking my interview if I'm photographed at your wedding in a meringue."

"Blaze?" The voice of an elderly gentleman split the atmosphere of what had become an extremely odd and befuddling encounter. Even Patrice looked like her heart had melted a little, which was amazing considering how arctic her mood had been just minutes before.

We all turned to the man, all reeling it seemed. He held out his hand to each of us and greeted us brightly in spite of the event. He had to be the lawyer. Only a man who'd scented a commission in the water could smile like that at a wake.

"The upstairs office is ready for the reading. If you'll follow me..."

"See you in a bit." I kissed Blaze's cheek and stepped away from him, just to be overruled by the lawyer.

"You'll be coming with us, Miss Tudor. At Mrs. Valentine's request."

"Excuse me?"

"There's a message for you from her. And a gift." Panicked, I looked between the equally baffled people around me. A message? And a gift? What the actual fuck? "If you'll please follow me."

Feet like deadweights, I allowed myself to be led through the house and up the stairs I'd once sat and cried on. Nothing could have prepared me for this kind of surprise. Just like nothing could prepare me for what came next.

#  EIGHT

#

"If you'll all take a seat. Thank you."

Since I seemed to be in a paralysed stupor, Blaze lowered me down into an armchair in the mostly unused first floor office, and balanced on it's arm next to me. Patrice took up two seats of a three seat couch, leaving one for her mother, Mona, who trapped me with a death stare when she entered the room after us.

"What is _she_ doing here?"

_I honestly have no fucking idea._ The lawyer turned his back on us and the raging hostility hovering in the air to recover some documents from his briefcase. "Miss Tudor is here at Natasha's request, Mona. She was quite implicit about it when we last spoke."

"When was this?" Mona hissed.

Sighing softly, Blaze slung an arm around my shoulders and urged me to lean back with him. With him sat just a little higher than me, I could comfortably lean my head against his chest and hear his heart beating within.

It was racing. With frustration, I thought. Mona was out for blood, and it was clear that she was going to be difficult and argumentative.

"When did you speak to my daughter?"

"Roughly two weeks ago, Mona. While Blaze was in New York. She made some minor alterations to the will."

Blaze's pulse leapt for a few seconds. I didn't doubt for a moment that he'd have told Natasha about his plans to propose and from her previous actions, I could guess with some certainty that she'd have egged him on to look like the dutiful declining wife who wanted nothing but his happiness. Any idiot could tell that was as genuine as cubic zirconium and if her recent alterations involved me, what was the gift she'd for left me? Poison?

"So, are we ready?"

The general murmur of assent pushed the lawyer into a low, bellicose ramble.

"I, Natasha Evelyn Valentine nee Smythe, being of sound mind and judgement do hereby declare this my final will and testament, to be read allowed by my lawyer and executor, William Sargent, on the day of my funeral. As per promises I have made in the past, in the event of my death, I make these final demands.

"My collection of vintage dresses is to be auctioned and the proceeds donated to a charity for multiple sclerosis. They are no good to me now and I would not wish this ungodly disease on anyone. Please support this decision and see that they are sold for a good price.

"To my husband, Blaze Valentine, I bequeath the majority of my estate and the letter enclosed with this will. I was a horrible burden on you and caused you many years of pain. Truth be told, I was knowingly selfish and my letter will explain to you why. I only hope that Emmeline loved you enough to wait for you, and that your lives can now be bound without restriction. I wish you both nothing more than the happiness you deserve and apologise for having kept you apart."

The lawyer, William, passed Blaze the aforementioned letter. It was in an antique looking papyrus envelope and held shut with a lavish wax seal. Without delay, he broke the crest free and scanned the letter quickly. Every sentence he read, his left eyebrow rose a little higher until he reached the end, blinked and said, "Well then. Carry on."

"What does it say?"

He shot an icy look across the room and tightened his arm around me. "None of your god damn business, Mona. Carry on, Bill."

Flustered, William skimmed through to refind his place and coughed to even out his voice.

"In addition to my estate, I entrust Blaze with the management of the remaining assets outlined in this will. All that I own is now under his jurisdiction. I emphasise that this means everything, from the light bulbs to that beloved piano he reveres. You've earned this, my love."

"The following codicil was written earlier this month. It addresses you, Miss Tudor." Numb, I nodded and twisted my hands in my lap. What could possibly have been important enough to leave in such a monumental document?

"To Emmeline Tudor, in the company of my family and husband, I leave you my sincerest apologies and my wedding ring. Of course, I don't expect you to wear it. However, it was never rightfully mine and it seems only fair to pass it on to the woman who loves my husband enough to wait. You're an incredibly patient, noble and beautiful creature. Your heart is far purer than mine. Take care of him. He deserves happiness far more than you could understand."

Her ring was platinum and engraved with Arabic script too small to read. Made for such slim fingers, it was unusually heavy to hold in my hand. I suspected nobody else would feel that weight, and that I detected it only because I knew what luring Blaze into a dishonest marriage had really cost her.

"The next part is..." William hesitated and lowered the document slowly. "It's a little personal. I feel I should warn you that—"

"Get on with it, Sargent."

He bristled and squared his shoulders to continue.

"To my mother and sister, Mona and Patrice Smythe, you know your lack of faith in me earns you nothing, though you undoubtedly thought I was too spineless to carry through with my side of our wager. You never believed that Blaze would stay with me to the bitter end and now you've been proven wrong, I hope you regret under-estimating me.

"When Father left his fortune to me, I know you thought you'd somehow inveigle it from me. I subsided your expensive tastes and provided you both comfortable lives while you contested his decision to sign the house to my name. You never understood that he knew I was the most trustworthy of the three of us, and that he knew you'd fritter away the fruits of his labour on extravagance. You'd have bankrupted us. Marrying Blaze was the only way to ensure that you'd never find a way to prise a single penny from my cold, dead hands.

"You took him for granted. You placed too much value on breeding and failed to see how utterly wonderful he is. You shallow, impertinent fools. Every day, I've regretted how I had to win him over. Every day, I've lamented how I had to keep him tied down. For suffering that fate, he deserves it all and I sincerely pray he doesn't continue to make your lives as easy as I have. You're in for a shock, now reality is about to slap you in the face.

"To my nephew, Thomas, I bequeath a half-a-million pound trust fund to be released to him on his eighteenth birthday. On that day, he will receive a letter from me, explaining how manipulative you really are. He will be offered a choice; loyalty to an evil family or the reward of masses of cash to permanently disown you. I'll assure his decision is legally binding. Bear in mind he'll be a rebellious pisshead student. Good luck with that.

"However, I'm not enough of a cow to leave you with nothing to remember me by. With this will, you each have an envelope containing the details of bank accounts I have set up in your names. I'd love to say it's as simple as handing them over and sending you off with a wad of cash each, but it's not.

"As the main beneficiary of my estate, it is no longer my money to give away. Your access to those accounts will be decided by Blaze—"

"What?!" William and Blaze smirked at each other as he continued to read.

"—though given what he's just read, I doubt he feels too generous. Armed with the truth, he'd be well within his rights to deny your pleas and ignore my suggestion. If you convince him otherwise, only he knows how much sits in those accounts for you.

"I'm sure he'll distribute the wealth fairly. If he doesn't, it's no longer my problem. From my perpetual position off your mortal coil, I leave five words of wisdom. 'You reap what you sow'."

"And that's the lot." Oh so casually, William turned to pull an envelope from his briefcase and produced a fountain pen from his breast pocket. "Blaze, if you will, this is everything you need to sign to take over her estate. She was most insistent that everything is turned over as quickly as possible."

"Hold on." Mona shot up to her feet and started tapping one restlessly on the thin carpet. I'd never seen so much violent yet so strictly contained rage encapsulated in a single person. "Are you actually telling me that this tramp gets more from my daughter than I do?"

"Well, like the ring wasn't already enough..." Blaze took the pen and started to scrawl his signature across the stack of papers. "Once we're married, she'll share everything I do. So... yeah." He nodded and jutted out his bottom lip. "I guess you could say she's getting everything and you're getting sweet F.A."

"We'll contest it." Patrice hauled up to stand by her mother. "We'll contest the will. This house, at the very least, should be given to us. We fought for it once before."

"I don't want the fucking house. You can have it."

"Really?"

"Sure." He grinned wickedly and picked up the two remaining envelopes left by Natasha. "At a price. Knowing how much is in these bank accounts, I'd gladly sell you the house for the entire sum of both. Of course, you'd have to get jobs to pay the bills and sacrifice the high-lives Natasha gave you."

The frisson of alarm from the two women was lightning-fast but super charged. I'd assumed that Natasha came from a background of wealth but it seemed as though I'd misjudged how it had come about.

Until her father's death, she and her sisters had been kept. Mona had most likely gone from a home with her rich parents straight into a marriage with a rich husband and had never had to work a day in her life. Her daughters were an extension of that lifestyle.

"Of course, you could take the money and continue to live in the manner you're accustomed to for as long as possible."

Mona took a daring step towards us and eyed the envelopes. "There's enough in these accounts to buy the house?"

Blaze smiled sharply. "Enough to satisfy me, yes. I left my mother behind in Wales to move here; I wouldn't undervalue it. So I suppose what it comes down to is what means more to you: sentimentality or Natasha's monetary value."

It didn't seem possible that he could have so swiftly negotiated the transfer of assets, but he had. Without even really thinking about it, Mona and Patrice snatched their envelopes up from the desk and sealed their decision to favour money over whatever of Natasha's residual energy was living within the walls of the house.

My heart sank a little, having done my best to consider their feelings since the moment I stood over Natasha's dead body. I'd been careful to stand back as much as possible through what should have been a time of incredible misery and loss.

Just to find out they didn't really care. Not at all.

"I believe my wife-to-be has something to tell you." Pinching my leg, Blaze tapped the pen on the newly signed deed for the house to draw my attention there and, with his eyes, pierced a message into me that was impossible to misinterpret. _This is mine now. They're not welcome. Make them leave._ Telling them himself would leave them seething but having me deliver the dismissal packed an extra punch.

For the massive injustice done to him, I was happy to straighten myself out and train my gaze between their heads, not dignifying them with eye contact while I said, "This is private property. You're trespassing. Get out of _my_ house before I have you forcibly removed."

The added insult of insinuated possession must have been exactly what Blaze had wanted from me. He howled with a giddying kind of cackle as Mona and Patrice fled the building, not skipping a single step until their gripes and footsteps could be heard crossing the gravel driveway outside. I couldn't decide if this new menacing side of him was something I could handle, after only ever being around the gentle, kind man who did nothing but sacrifice little pieces of himself for anyone who asked.

He had a darker persona hiding. I'd glimpsed it in his frosty words to Natasha after the evil mother was out of earshot on our first meeting. There was a lot of resentment bubbling within him and he could justify it, even if he wasn't entirely aware of that.

A few John Hancock's and he owned all he'd earned. The struggle I'd once imagined we'd have to endure for years—one that had been so huge it had separated us for three months—had drawn to an end. The only remnants of Natasha in our lives were her former home, her piano, and her bank account. We were free.

Yet I'd never felt like more of a prisoner.

"Come rest with me, cupcake."

Blaze lifted my laptop from my thighs and hoisted me up from the couch, jostling me from slumber. My head had been so crammed full of confusion since we'd left Natasha's—our—house, and I'd spent the rest of the day making good tracks towards burning myself out so I'd be too exhausted to think anything over.

My stomach had been too twisted up to eat, my body too weary to walk. Once we'd gotten back to the hotel, I'd crawled under a blanket on the couch and invented work to do.

It was all so messed up. What bothered me most was that will reading, but the altercation with Tallulah had been a head-fuck in it's own right. The ground didn't feel as steady under foot as it should have now there was nothing in the world making my relationship with Blaze a taboo. Maybe that had been part of the thrill.

"What's on your mind?" He carried me to bed and perched next to me, reading me in his weird way I'd always found confounding and a little irritating. I'd always tried to be an enigma; a desensitised contradiction who had enough heart to be attractive but kept the rest so well hidden it was impossible to access my true emotions. I'd built my psyche up in a way that made it impossible for anyone to break through. He'd seen through me and found the chinks in my armour from the word 'go'.

"Nothing," I lied. "It's just been one of those days, you know."

"No bullshit between us, Emmeline. Never."

I didn't know why I kept trying to outwit him. It was pointless.

With a thousand questions in my mind, articulating any of them was hard work when I was tired. So I went with the one that came easiest. "Honestly? I want to know how much money was in Mona and Patrice's bank accounts."

"Hmm." Blaze's face became blank, just as it did any time he was about to avoid telling an outright lie by dodging around it. "Not as much as I might have made out."

"What happened to 'no bullshit'?" Pissy, I crossed my arms. "Don't be evasive with me. I can't stand it. I detest it."

"All right..." Sighing, Blaze matched my pose and had the grace to look awkward. "Natasha left them five-hundred apiece. And I don't mean five-hundred thousand."

About halfway through that sentence, my mind quit. _"What?"_

"They bullied her, Emmeline. Emotionally, they made her feel an inch tall. Knowing how little they thought of her, she thought her revenge would be best served as cold as the park benches they'll be sleeping on."

_Jesus Christ._ "Why didn't you tell me about this?"

"I didn't know." Managing a little smile, Blaze reached into his back pocket and passed me the letter he'd been given at the reading. Folded up roughly in quarters, I thought it was a horrible way to treat what was basically a relic. Horrible and disrespectful. "There was a lot I didn't know until today."

Natasha's final message to Blaze read like a love letter, which was enough to make me want to continue the maltreatment by tearing it up. Getting over it, I paid attention to the words rather than the tone I was imagining, and realised it was basically a written confession.

Written on their wedding day, Natasha admitted that she wasn't as ill as she'd made out. She admitted that her intention was to keep him chained to her and she explained why.

"They had a bet on you?"

"Yeah." Not looking even slightly bothered, Blaze nodded and picked at his fingernails. "Mona never believed I was man enough to stick with Natasha through her illness. She thought I'd get bored of the nobility, probably. Tasha knew better. She had faith in me."

Shaking my head, I read and reread the passage where she explained how she'd first gotten her diagnosis and been told by her supposedly loving mother that no man would ever want a disabled wife. Desperate to prove her wrong, Natasha went to Blaze with her 'dying wish', knowing only too well that he was the kind of man who'd make it happen for her, especially as he felt bad about their one night stand.

Disgruntled by her choice of partner, Mona and Patrice had wagered their inheritances that Blaze would leave her high and dry. Natasha had fought the divorce so vehemently to defend his honour and her money. She never counted on him falling in love with me so deeply.

"When she realised you'd found a way to detach from her, she... Her suicide was almost a mercy mission, wasn't it?" Dying then and there was the only way to win that bet. She loved Blaze that much.

"I think she knew it was coming," Blaze agreed. "Going to William while we were away, after I'd told her my plans to propose because you were ready for it..." He sighed heavily. "It's possible that she may have been planning to kill herself for a while."

"My God." I felt sick. Even if it had only been a dream, I'd made malicious plans to murder the woman whose intentions toward my lover had only ever been sweet and overtly generous. What she'd done for him was way over the top, but it screamed out that she really had loved him.

"Pushing the divorce made her panic. She'd still be alive if we hadn't—"

"Hadn't what?" Blaze's low growl made my chest tighten. "Hadn't tried to cut my strings to liberate me from her puppet show? She had to die, Emmeline. It was the only way to end the charade. Or would you rather I'd been only yours behind closed doors forever?"

"I..." _Shit._ The terrible thing was that he was right. If she was so determined to give him that money instead of her family, her death was the only way to do it. It didn't matter whether it came naturally or by her own hand. Without him as her next of kin, her family would have fought it, refusing to allow the ex to take the fortune regardless of whether he was named in the will. He had to have stayed 'with' her to earn his share. The length of time it could have gone on was finite. "You hate her, don't you?"

"I hate what she did," he clarified. "But I get it. There were better ways to get around it, though. This letter came seven years too late."

"Make peace." Stroking the inside of his forearm, I aimed to calm him, like he was a snarling animal. "You have an incredible gift for forgiveness."

"You think?"

"If you can forgive Henry—"

His arm slid back out of my reach. "Why would you say that? I've never had a reason to need to forgive him."

"Blaze." I chose to believe he wasn't insulting my intelligence by acting like nothing had happened and that he really didn't know about my talk with Henry the day before. I didn't have the energy for an argument with him. "I know what he did to your dad."

"Oh. Oh, cupcake..."

Thinking better of him had been the right choice. Wriggling closer, Blaze ran his fingers down my cheek, neck, and over my collarbone before his hand dropped down into my lap. The touch was reverent but at the same time sympathetic. Like I was the one who needed pity.

"I never wanted you to find out."

"I'm fine." That wasn't a lie. Not completely. As far as the whole Regis-Henry-past life thing went, I was okay with it. Sad for them all, but not overly traumatised. "I just find it fascinating how you and Connie were so accepting."

Bringing up the subject reignited my intrigue. I twisted around onto my knees and rested my hands on Blaze's thighs, getting as close as I could without making my interest morbid. "How did you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Forgive him. How are you that strong?"

Visibly perplexed, Blaze studied me carefully before pulling me into his lap. The air crackled with anticipation, making the hairs on my arms stand on end. I'd not long been complaining that I didn't know Blaze well enough to marry him. I could tell I was about to find out maybe the deepest, most profound thing about him now.

"I was only four years old, Emmeline," he started. "Having a child's mind does marvellous things to your perception."

"Explain."

"Well... At that age, you're so selfish. Money has no value, warmth is something you take for granted. You're not weighed down with harsh realities. You just want your basic needs satisfied.

"So I'm this little kid with a father who's never home and a mother who's always door-watching. One day, she tells me Dad won't ever be home again and she starts crying all the time. No matter how much I hug her and tell her he'll be back, she never stops crying. But this guy—Henry—turns up and she laughs with him. I fucking hated him for that."

He painted such a sad picture. It wasn't too hard to imagine an emerald eyed boy sat in one of Connie's battered arm chairs, scowling in the direction of the muffled conversations in the next room. It wasn't crazy to imagine how much that hurt.

"So what the hell happened?"

"I grew up." Blaze nodded to himself like he was reliving it all in his mind. "The jealousy didn't last long but I was still selfish—he gave me pocket money I didn't turn down. As he started building his own business, he brought me gifts and taught me stuff, like how to play poker and kick a football straight. He had me as a pageboy at his and Ivy's wedding, and when he was old enough, he promised to give me everything my dad had claimed he'd get me."

"I had no idea. About the wedding." And I could have kicked myself for not playing closer attention to my parents' wedding photographs.

"Yeah... I expected things to get weird after they married. I think part of me thought he'd hook up with my ma and be my new dad." Blaze's feet started to swing mindlessly, his inner child replaying it all. "But it didn't, not even when Tallulah was born. He always made time for me, noticed my gift for numbers and sent me to good schools. See, I wasn't old enough to get out of being around him. So I had no choice but to find out he was a good guy."

"Gotcha." It wasn't a matter of how _he_ had been able to forgive Henry. It was completely circumstantial. The real question was how Connie could do it; how she could stand to have him in her home and around her young child. It would have been different if she'd kicked him to the kerb. "So if you'd been older..."

"I've have probably tried to kick his head in." Blaze grinned, looking surprisingly cheerful. "Not that I've have succeeded. He's always been built like a brick shithouse. But I wouldn't have given him the time of day, that's for sure. Having an immature mind was the saving grace that led to the life I have now. If I'd hated him so badly, I wouldn't be with you. I'm very grateful."

"Me, too." As cruel as it could be, destiny had created our paths to lead each other. Did the ends justify the means? I was happy to make believe that they had.

Our past tribulations had given us the strength to get through those that had happened more recently. The rewards of that persistence and tenacity were finding the other halves of ourselves and financial security that would see us into old age. Which reminded me...

Our accumulative fortune was likely to grow. We had our wages, Natasha's inheritance and our allowances from Henry to boot. To think I'd ever worried about Blaze's financial situation. I had no freaking idea what we'd do with that kind of money. Did Blaze have ideas of his own?

"So, uh..." I draw lazy circles on his legs through the fabric of the lounge pants he'd changed into. "Now you have your pay out, what are you going to do with all that money?"

"Honestly?" He looked me over from head to toe; then dragged his gaze back up to my face. He looked peaceful when he smiled and reached up to brush my hair back. Peaceful and content. "Nothing."

"Are you kidding me?" After he'd so insisted that he had to have it. After letting it break us apart. After allowing me to make agonising decisions that would let him get it but also keep him with me... "Tell me you're kidding me."

Blaze leaned back to look into my eyes. "I have everything I need. Weren't you the one who told me I shouldn't need that money to be happy if I had you? You asked Chase why you weren't enough, but you are." I blushed, remembering my Madison Square Garden freak out at Halloween. "For now."

"Um..." _Oh, crap._ That sounded ominous. It took a moment of my head spinning to release Blaze was laughing at me. I shoved his shoulder. "You're teasing me."

"Mostly. Come do wedding stuff with me after Caroline leaves tomorrow." I nodded, pretending he hadn't completely derailed me with his joke. Who knew; maybe playing an active part in the planning would get me in the mood for the wedding. It wasn't going to just go away, I knew that. It made more sense to try and enjoy it. The cost of being able to say those vows had been massive for everyone. I almost had an obligation to be more into it.

Plus it was worth agreeing to just to see Blaze look so happy.

He excused himself to get a drink before we bedded down for the night, leaving me to stare after him with a wistful kind of yearning. When us being an item had been so all-together damning, I wanted to feel bad about loving him but I couldn't. It was the one aspect of my life the guilt couldn't seep into. I had no doubt that no matter how many lives were lost for us or how much we pissed off our friends and family, I'd never regret that I'd fallen in love with him.

My eyes were drawn to Natasha's letter where it had fallen on the bed, specifically to the last two words she'd left to Blaze. _Avenge me._ That she'd always planned to tell him the truth must had been the thing that stopped Blaze from hating her instead of her actions. It honestly seemed like she might have been a sweet girl and that her life had been wasted—not just because she'd died young, but because she'd led a linear, dispassionate life dedicated to meeting an ultimate goal of revenge.

That had to be shallow and unsatisfying. If she'd only had a compassionate mother and didn't feel the need to be Blaze's white knight, she might have experienced more. She might have travelled, rebelled and fallen for a man who actually loved her the way Blaze loved me; enough to give up everything.

_Avenge me._ What were Mona and Patrice doing now? Had they found out how much they'd traded the house for yet, or were they toasting to their riches in a wine bar somewhere? Maybe they were scouring the jobs pages or scratting through their financial paperwork trying to figure out how long they had before they became homeless. All because they'd treated their own flesh and blood like a cash cow.

I'd wanted to kill her in my dreams before we'd even met. That had to make me like them. As much as I wanted to believe that Natasha was no longer a part of our lives, she'd served justice to her mother and sister from beyond the grave. It was only too likely that mine was coming, too.

If Blaze had been able to swallow enough hatred to ruin Mona and Patrice's lives for Natasha, was I next on his list? Was the real start of what had always felt like a dream about to become my worst nightmare? How far would he go to vindicate her death?

Not knowing exactly what I'd be paying for would have driven me to madness if I wasn't already as batty as they came.

#

"I think silk and lace."

"Satin, Mother."

"Buttons."

"Zips."

"Halter neck?"

"Bodice. Jeez."

I could feel Ivy's eyes burning into the back of my head while I cycled again through the rail of sample bridal gowns Blaze's seamstress friend, Caroline, had brought to the hotel. They were all incredibly beautiful and there was a good variety, but they all lacked personality and a wow factor that made me want to jump head first into one and lace up the corset strings. If I had to pick a dress to make a statement people would admire, I wanted it to be that I was no normal bride. None of these did the job.

Not that my mind was even on the task. My thoughts were in the other room where Blaze and Chris were being measured up like me. Caroline's husband was a tailor and, unsurprisingly, the master behind all of Blaze's yummy suits. He'd tagged along with his wife with the usher's suits that had already been ordered, and to double check the in-seams of the groom and best man.

Daniel and Jonathan had looked dapper in their blood-red brocade waistcoats and tail coats with ivory cravattes. I had a good mind to complain about how good they looked. I was yet to see Blaze in his get up but I knew the colours were reversed, while the best man almost matched the ushers with the only difference of a black cravatte.

I'd been stunned to tears to find out Chris had been offered and accepted the best man position. It settled a gut feeling I'd had for a long time that he didn't actually like Blaze that much. He'd let him sleep on his mother's couch while I was in New York but I couldn't discount that he'd put up a polite front to get through it. He had a damn good poker face and it would send my world askew if my best friends and partner were at odds.

Stupidly, I'd started to let paranoia get the better of me. Knowing it was irrational didn't stop me wondering if Chris had teamed up with Blaze to plot my downfall, using all the times I'd knocked him back in favour of a prettier lay as ammunition and justification. The times of him and Esme flipping a coin to decide which of them won a place in my bed for the night when the pickings were slim for me were long gone. I couldn't be sure that the disappointment was, too.

"Emmy? What do you think?"

Shrugging off the distraction, I took a step back from the rail and scanned the length of it miserably. "I don't know. They're all lovely but... none seem very _me_."

Caroline rolled her eyes over the rim of her tea cup and stood in a fluid movement that made me uncomfortably aware of my poor posture. The remaining aches in my neck and back made it difficult to stand properly upright for any number of minutes. The lack of sleep from the night before exacerbated that, and added insult to literal injury by making me look pale and heavy eyed. I was painfully conscious of the fact I looked like shit while she and her assistant looked like urbane goddesses of fashion.

"Nobody expects you to pick one to go, Miss Tudor. But if there's one you like mostly, I can use it as a base and make alterations to it. Though if you had an idea of what you wanted, that would help."

Her air of condescension made me rattier. Most other woman had considerably longer to imagine their dream dress, while I was expected to pull orders out of my arse for her. Because she'd caught me on a bad day, I really wanted to prove that I _could_ come up with something on the spot, if only to wipe that contemptuous look off her face.

Her assistant granted me an extra few seconds of thinking time by helping me up onto a small, round platform and starting to intrusively measure my inner leg.

"Would it help to see Blaze's favourites?"

"Come again?" Why was I even surprised? Of course he'd been dress shopping for me. He probably had one set aside in reserve in case I flaked out on my side of the deal to pick one myself. "Yes, all right. Fine. Jesus..." I was so frustrated I could have wept and I didn't even fully understand why. Less than twenty-four hours ago, I'd _wanted_ him to take over. This just felt like it crossed a line.

Caroline extended the rail to separate three dresses from the rest. All of them I'd overlooked until they were a focal point, all with their own individual beautiful details that would have looked even better combined.

The first was a fishtail gown with an ugly scooped neckline and too many silk roses sewn on. The next was a meringue with a gorgeously ruched sweetheart cut bodice but nothing from the bust up to cover the chest. The final was floaty, but had long sleeves in lace—a lot like the dress I'd worn for the wake. But the lace was only in artful sections around the throat and wrists, and mounted on a sheer transparent fabric that made the wearer look mostly nude.

All were white. Completely white. That was wrong on so many levels and I was in the mood to throw my weight around.

I pointed out the parts of each dress I was keen on, spared some time to emphasise which bits were particularly ugly; then fussed about the colour.

"Oh, yes!" Ivy clasped her hands together like a delighted Hollywood pin-up, going so far as to bat her lashes. "Ivory would be perfect with your colouring. And sparkle—lots of sparkle!"

_Ew._ "No sparkle. I'm wearing pearls. I don't want to look like a kid's jewellery box threw up over me."

"Pearls? How lovely." God bless my mother and her ability to turn any snipe into a romantic notion. That trait of hers could be enviable at times—her faith in true love was so great it was grotesque—but it could also be insufferable.

"Ivory, fishtail skirt, sweetheart cut bodice with a corseted back, lace embellishments on the cuffs and throat—anything else?" I could see Caroline's hackles rising and couldn't resist pissing her off further.

"Actually, yes. The colour scheme is ivory and red. I can't be the only one not adhering to that."

"Red. On ivory?" I stared her down until she relented. "As you wish, Miss Tudor. I'm not the one who has to wear it."

_Fuck you._ Angry tears were burning my eyes, dangerously close to breaking free. I didn't want to be the over-sensitive little woman in front of my fiancé's friend, so held my breath to keep them at bay.

Why was I so emotional?

"Maybe you'd like to try them on before you make any firm decisions." The assistant dutifully passed Caroline a clipboard bearing my sheet of measurements. Caroline skimmed over it and straightened herself out in a way that got my back up, even before she said, "Pardon me, maybe not. We're going to need to order in extra fabric."

"Excuse me?"

Her answering smile was tight and disingenuous. "I'm afraid only the bodice dress will fit you today, simply because the corseting gives some extra leeway around the midsection. I brought these dresses according to your measurements in August. I didn't anticipate an extra six inches around your bust and a further four on your hips and waist."

I could have thrown up. I was happy to accept that I'd gained a little weight while I was overseas but putting the numbers of difference on it made my stomach flip. Once anorexic, my own dysmorphic perceptions made me see myself as far bigger than I really was. It was too soon after I'd finally begun to grow comfortable with how my body looked to be told that I _was_ as big as I felt.

"That's quite an impressive increase for the time frame. And you're still so trim." That compliment came a little too late. The damage was done. "What's your secret? Or is it _too_ secret, if you get my drift? Should I leave a little growing room around the stomach?"

Holy fuck, was she—"Are you asking me if I'm pregnant?!" Bloody hell, were the numbers not enough of a bitching point?

"Well, six inches on the baps, love." She turned her back on me so I couldn't see her holding back her laughter. Unfortunately, I saw her shoulders shaking slightly and caught a glimpse of the skin on the back of her neck starting to blotch red with exertion. "It's the natural assumption."

"Emmeline has always been bustily blessed." Blaze chose that exact moment to walk out of the connecting office with Chris feet behind him. It was impossible not to wonder how long they'd been listening and whether he'd cut in just to save me. He strolled right up to my side, gave the dresses he'd picked an appraising nod, and then slung an arm around my shoulders. "Ready to come cake tasting with me?"

"Seriously?" That was what he had planned for me? He couldn't have picked a worst time. "Do I have to?"

"Free cake? Yes, you have to."

I went along with it, just because I had to get out of there. If I spent another minute in the same room as those dresses, I was going to throw up over them and the fact that I could afford to replace them was a negligible point. I shouldn't have had to feel that way and have to suffer the bratty snipes of some brainless twit. Picking a bridal gown should have been one of the most exciting choices of my life. Instead, I felt like whatever I wore on my wedding day would be outshone by my muffin tops, double chin and mammary overhang.

I felt better as soon as I was in another room, like I could breathe freely again. All this nuptial nonsense was suffocating and making people forget that I had more hang-ups and insecurities than the average Jane. I didn't know that I'd be able to brush off this measurement business as a pathetic attempt to trample my self-esteem. The problem with my neuroses were that they were completely unmanageable with happy thoughts or compliments and totally irrational.

The delicate clattering of heels just behind me told me that Ivy had shadowed me to the bedroom. I fought the urge to tell her I wasn't so unstable that I needed an escort to get my handbag, and hung around, waiting for her to walk in with a pep talk. When she didn't, I figured out her real motive for following me. She wanted something.

"What is it, Mum?"

She stuck her head around the doorway and took a step into the room. The way she methodically placed each footstep meant she was working up to something big, something she knew I'd instantly say no to until she wore me down.

"It's such a shame that you have to keep the ceremony closed off from the press."

"It's for Esme. And a back row of journalists is only a commodity. Normal weddings don't have them."

"This isn't a normal wedding."

I shifted my weight onto one leg and put my hands on my hips. "Why not?" I challenged. Why the fuck couldn't my wedding be normal?

"Sweetheart..." Ivy took a step closer to me and I countered it with two backwards.

"Sweetheart what? We're different because he's famous and we're rich? You were happy to let me act like a commoner until he turned up. What's changed?" Lifting my hands to my face, I rubbed at the pounding starting behind my temples. I was all over the place. "Forget I said that. Just tell me what you want."

She moved toward me again and this time I didn't back off. The more I fought her, the longer it would take for her to cut to the chase. I just felt so damn argumentative that morning. "You're not feeling like yourself today, are you?"

"No. I'm not. So please, just tell me what you're thinking of."

Her brief hesitation made think that, just maybe, she wouldn't make any demands of me when she knew I was feeling off, but she dug in anyway and went on to say, "Wouldn't it be lovely to have an engagement party?"

_Ugh, God. No._ Not when what she really meant was 'press packed soiree to uphold a public image'. An engagement party had no other purpose than to make the media feel like they weren't missing out on something good. She was probably more worried that they'd feel deprived and dig around to find out our family wasn't as perfect as it looked on the outside. In actuality, I didn't have a problem with that. What was wrong with being recognised as human?

"The wedding is less than seven weeks away. Isn't a knees up for the engagement a little redundant this close to the day?"

"Absolutely not." So she was determined to make it happen, likely whether I wanted it or not. Ivy watched me dump my wallet, keys and phone into a small bag and gave a wounded little huff at the fact it wasn't designer. "You have to shove your happiness in their faces, Emmy. Especially when your unhappiness makes much better news. It's a matter of self-preservation."

"I'm not unhappy. Not with life, anyway. Just myself." And we all knew it was less about preserving me than it was about preserving the myth that the Tudor family were inherently in charge and in control of everything. The fact I'd tried to kill myself verged on being a scandal and the fact they'd done _so much_ to keep it a secret made me instinctively aware that they were ashamed of it.

On the other hand, I figured there was a juicier story to unveil. It would take some keen detective work, but it was entirely too possible that someone could find out about Natasha's suicide, too. That would open a none too pleasant Pandora's Box for not only me, but for Blaze as well. The fact he'd been married and I'd essentially been his mistress had been heavily guarded from public knowledge, and being outed as a philanderer wasn't good for anyone's career.

Besides, I was one of only two people who knew that there might be more to Natasha's death than everyone thought. _That_ couldn't get out. No way.

"I'll ask Blaze what he thinks, okay?" He'd agree with Ivy and I'd have to debate that, but I felt better about negotiating with him than with my mother. Frankly, I stood a better chance of getting my own way if I managed to get him on my side.

"Righto." Satisfied, Ivy swanned out without saying goodbye, leaving the exasperation she inflicted as her calling card. Sometimes I wondered how nice it would be to be as whimsical as her; then I often decided I preferred to having a brain. As much as I loved her, Ivy could be incredibly naive, something she accused me of on occasion. At least when I was following a futile path of fantasy, I was doing it after some conscious thought and consideration. She did it because she that's how she was programmed that way. Silliness and gullibility came naturally.

Man, I missed my old life and it's lack of complexities. I could have crawled into Double Booked _,_ slept in the bathroom, crawled to the pub, gotten drunk and gotten laid. No dress fittings, no engagement parties, no flower arrangements and fucking suits. I wouldn't have to be in a situation where I was about to be force-fed baked goods I felt too guilty about eating to enjoy. Everything was screwed up. I wanted to be Emmy White again.

"Ready for noms?"

I heard Blaze's voice before I lifted my head to look at him and it felt like my heart had started beating for the first time. He was so beautiful it made my eyes burn and he'd offered unequivocal acceptance from the day we met. Life had gotten messy not just because of him, but _for_ him.

"Kiss me."

He looked confused but came to me anyway. His hands cupped my cheeks and gently eased my head back to an angle perfect for a deep, slow kiss.

His warm, soft lips covered mine and lingered there too briefly before they were gone. When they came back, they'd magically taken away and dispelled some of my anxiety.

"Better, cupcake?"

Love-drunk, I nodded and rested my head against his shoulder until the endorphins stopped whizzing around in my brain. Underneath the cotton of his shirt, I felt how feverish his skin had become. The hot man with the hot name was burning for me, as though it was actually possible he worshipped me the way I worshipped him. If I could be such a fat whale and still set him alight that way...

Screw it. Let them eat cake. If we didn't have time to procure me an orgasm that would get me through the afternoon, I was going to need chocolate.

The hum of my Bentley lulled me to sleep about twenty minutes into our journey. It struck me as odd that Blaze had asked to drive it but he seemed to be avoiding the Aston Martin Cygnet I so hated. That made sense, I guessed, as the 'car' was technically Natasha's. She'd brought it for him and he'd driven it out of necessity, though I knew he secretly liked it no matter how much I bitched and insulted it.

Signs of Spring were everywhere. After the deep snow at Christmas had melted, the weather had become nicely mild and warmer than usual, which brought the new buds out a little earlier. Spots of yellow edged and highlighted lush stretches of greenery, the bared carcasses of trees beginning to fill out with tiny new leaves.

Ten minutes of staring at the fresh new landscape passed before I realised we weren't in London. Jolted to full wakefulness, I sat up and gaped at the fields of livestock we were driving past.

"Are we in Wales?!"

"Hello to you, too, sleepyhead." Blaze rested his left hand on my leg and hazarded a quick sideways glance at me. He was such a cautious and meticulous driver, so wary and watchful behind the wheel. "Nice nap?"

"It was fine, but seriously. Are we tasting cake in Wales?" That _did_ make more sense. Ordering a cake in London was almost foolhardy, carrying a risk of it getting ruined in transit. No doubt he'd thought of that and made most of his reservations with companies over the border. We'd probably spend the whole day touring the little country we hailed from, giving our approval to various insignificant yet accumulatively vital details of our wedding.

"Not exactly." I turned in my seat to face him and frowned. "I might have just come up with that to get you out of the hotel. Trust me, I'm taking you somewhere better than a bakery."

"We have a wedding cake, though?"

"Of course. Sort of. I put a bulk order in with Esme's cupcake guy—way too many so we didn't have to wait for RSVPs. We'll share whatever's left over with the wedding party afterwards."

"Oh." It was actually a pretty nice idea, one I'd never have thought of myself. Esme's cupcakes were delicious and had won me my pet name. It was a nice touch and extra personal to us. Of course I could count on Blaze to plan a day that wasn't generic and soulless. "So we're in Wales for something else. Are we visiting your mum?"

"Not today. I have a surprise." Squeezing my leg, Blaze shifted a little and tried to steer me away from the subject. "What did you think of Caroline?"

"I hate her." His brow lifted in surprise and I didn't care. People had been telling me for years that honesty was the best policy. "She was generally prissy, made me feel like an idiot and I don't think she likes me, either. She definitely doesn't like my dress idea. What's wrong with red and ivory? _You_ can rock it. So can Dan and Jonathan. Plus she couldn't help but point out I've gained weight. She made me feel really fat."

"Baby," Blaze crooned. "You got back. You're deliciously curvy and you've got tits that would have given Sir Peter Paul Rubens wet dreams. You're so sexy I've been known to weep, and I don't mean tears of joy from my willy. I've actually cried tears of gratitude and disbelief."

The daftness made me grin. It was truly amazing how he could make me feel good about a major insecurity, taking away all the ill thoughts I had about myself. That he'd ever been attracted to me was a miracle; I'd been a body-conscious and slutty waif with badly self-dyed black hair when we met and that seemed to do it for him. To still want me as badly now I was a direct opposite busty blonde was almost unrealistic. He was one special man.

"As for the dress, why don't you draw your idea? She'd work a lot better from a guide image than a vague concept and you stand a better chance of getting what you want."

"Have you drawn designs for her?"

"A couple. Both yours."

Wow... Handsome and multi-talented to excess; had I hit the jackpot or what? As an added sweetener, he was full of helpful suggestions and I was going to seriously consider drawing a dress, even if it was just for me to look at. The chances of getting the perfect bridal gown made and fitted in a little over six weeks was unlikely enough without having to work with a bitch of a seamstress.

"She asked if I'm pregnant," I griped. "Basically said my rack is too abnormally huge to not be and everyone will think the same."

"Oh, pfft. She's just bitter." Yeah... Yeah, she was! She was middle-aged with boobs like fried eggs nailed to a wall—a victim of age and gravity. I was young and voluptuous with the same bust measurement as Marilyn Monroe, which looked comparatively bigger on top of a relatively tiny waist. Most people had to pay for my figure. "You could be, though."

Wait... What?! "Come again?"

"I noticed on your notes that you're well overdue a Depo jab. They tested before your blood transfusion but it could have been too early to detect..."

_Oh my God._ There went all the good feelings I'd managed to scrape together. Just the very idea of bringing a child into the world made my scalp prickle. There was absolutely no way I could be a good mother—bring a child up to follow good morals I clearly couldn't adhere to myself. They'd grow up to learn that I was a hypocrite and lose all respect for me, if they'd grown up to respect their shambling mother at all.

And oblivious to my plight, Blaze just sat there and kept talking like he wasn't suggesting I might have a potentially life changing cluster of cells growing inside me—a little cancer with a face.

"... Not that I wouldn't be elated if you were."

"Kinda feels like we're about to have the family talk." And I wasn't up for it, not by a bloody long shot.

"Well... Why not, eh?" He shrugged, not once taking his eyes off the road. "I told you I wanted kids."

"Yeah, less than three months ago." And all I'd done is tell him I was capable of it. I'd never said that I shared that familial itch. "We're getting married in a matter of weeks."

"Yeah... and I know you'll want to drink at the reception—"

"And you start filming in June."

"I'm getting the feeling that you don't want kids..."

_Ya think?_ Talk about understatement. It wasn't like getting a sodding puppy; a baby was an enormous responsibility and at that time, I needed him to look after _me._ "I just don't understand the rush. We've been together for only half of the meagre eight months since we met and we've hardly been stable. I'm only twenty-two and just came out of hospital after a suicide attempt, and we're living out of a hotel. That isn't a good foundation to build a family; even my dad had more going for him before Tallulah congealed."

I'd spoken so quickly I had to stop to catch my breath. What was wrong with it just being me and him? I'd only fail as a mother and that would make him think less of me. I'd lose him and because I was so useless, I'd lose the kid, too. All I'd have left would be myself, whatever I had after a messy divorce and a bunch of disappointed family members who'd probably side with him. There was a good chance I'd end up like Natasha—lonely, hopeless and swallowing a bottle of pills, just to be found dead by a member of staff because everyone's concern laid elsewhere.

"Emmeline..." Blaze reached blindly to wipe away the tears that had started to trickle down my cheeks. "I've spent too long waiting for the things I want. I compromised on love and a future to look after Natasha just to spend seven years being treated like a fool. I deserve to get the things I dreamed of and, now that they're in reach, why wait?"

"Because I'm not ready."

"You weren't ready for anything when we met. Now you help to run one of the biggest international companies. If I can get you ready for that in a few months, imagine what I could do with another nine."

"Shit..." He wanted it so badly and I'd sworn to do anything that made him happy but this was too much. I was fine with ruining my own life for him but I couldn't bring a child into the world just to fulfil a self-imposed responsibility. "It's too much, Blaze."

"It's a big decision," he agreed. "But I believe in you more than you believe in yourself and you know it."

Lifting my chin, I pushed myself to turn away from him and glared out of the window. "Some might call that stupid. You're a building yourself up for a fall." Neither of us would ever know for certain, but I could have been a terrible person. Who in their right mind would want to procreate with a murder? But I couldn't present that as a valid excuse without destroying everything. "I'm not good enough to give you the things you want. If bigamy were legal, I'd actively encourage it because anyone has got to be a better parent than I could be."

"Your problem is that you don't know your own value. You think you're worth less than you truly are."

"I don't think I'm worth less. I think I'm worthless."

"I think the word you're looking for is 'priceless'."

He wasn't going to give up, so utterly blind to the reality that was staring him in the face. He wanted something he thought would keep us together. I thought—and seemed to be getting proven right—that it would really tear us apart. "How I rate myself really isn't what matters to me. I'm only bothered with it as long as I'm valuable to you."

"Don't you know, cupcake? You couldn't mean more. The problem is I have more love to give than you can handle so I need to share it with little pieces of you. If I tried to give you it all, it'd probably kill you."

"You say the sweetest things, but—"

"I wasn't being metaphorical, Emmeline. I'm actually scared by how much you mean to me. If you told me that I had to let you go, I wouldn't be able to. I'd destroy whatever you told me stood between us without a second thought and to hell with the consequences."

I tried to respond but was kept quiet by a lump in my throat. The way he was talking made me uneasy because, as worrying as the things he was saying were, it was what he didn't say—the hidden, undecipherable subtext—that spoke louder.

Something had happened. He'd been erring on the needy side since I came back from New York, but something had happened that had made him obsessive over me and I struggled to believe it was just that I'd nearly died. He had a secret and it couldn't be more obvious that he had no intention of telling me what it was. As I couldn't judge him for it, I prayed instead...

Prayed that it wasn't as dark as my own.

#

We drove on in silence until we reached a building that seemed to pop up out of nowhere. Close to Connie's cottage, the plinth-like structure stood four stories high and three rooms wide, more of an office block or apartment complex than anything.

Behind twenty foot high black wrought iron gates, a motion sensitive light mounted above the metal door of a garage lit up. In turn, it triggered two long lines of up-lighters that marked the boundaries of the path up to the house like an airport runway.

On either side of the driveway, perfectly trimmed green lawns ran right up to the solid brick walls running around the other three sides of the house. To the far left was a huge oak tree; to the right, a demountable unit and a sizeable swimming pool surrounded with wooden decking and a cabana.

It screamed luxury and expense, and we weren't even out of the car.

"This is my dream house." Blaze pulled up right by the garage and jumped out, quickly rushing to my side to help me. I understand why he'd lust after the place, even if it was ridiculous to call it a 'house'. It was too huge for such a small word.

"How did I not notice this when we were here for Christmas?" The eastern and western walls of the obelisk were fibreglass covered with an eye-catching cerulean reflective film. The other two walls were solid brick but mounted with wooden planks painted black, separated by a strip of solar panels. My eyesight sucked, but not that badly. "And what is this place—a government facility? Am I going to get shot if I try to enter without ID?"

"Yes. It's a government facility. A super-secret government facility protected by cloaking technology. You can only see it because I micro-chipped you."

"You're joking, right?" I looked up at Blaze dubiously, really not sure whether to believe him. "You didn't really micro-chip me?"

"Emmeline!" Laughing, Blaze wrapped his knuckles against my skull. "Yes, I was joking! It's a normal house, just really big. And you probably didn't notice it because we came at it from a mirrored side. It can seem almost invisible sometimes."

Part of me didn't believe him, purely because it was so ostentatious and ultra-modern. Cloaking really didn't seem all that crazy. "You're telling me someone lives here?"

"Maybe. Come inside and see what you think."

I thought I'd died and woken up on another planet. Despite the futuristic façade, the inside was warm and opulent. We entered at the foyer, which had gleaming hardwood floors and an elaborate industrial style staircase decorated with twinkling lights. The majority of the wall space was taken up by hung canvases, one of which I recognised as a piece I'd given to Henry a few years back because he'd practically begged for it.

"The fuck? Is this one of my dad's places?" It was so unlike him; so contemporary and alternative. While he preferred deep mahogany woods with the classic Tudor masonry, this place had Alpen lodge like pines and clean white walls with no distracting embellishments. The only similar point was the chandelier, but even that was a little too edgy with it's black crystal beads.

"Not for a long time. He gave it to me on my eighteenth birthday."

"The fuck," I repeated, spinning around to stare at Blaze. "This is yours?"

"Ours." He swiftly darted forward to grab my hand and led me through to the ground floor rooms. "If you want it."

I learned that the exterior of the house was deceptive and made the building appear much larger than it really was. The fixtures inside were so big and the rooms so huge that the four floors were entirely necessary.

Ground floor: entrance, kitchen and dining room, the latter two as long as the widest wall. Many of the surfaces were treated glass—the kitchen work surfaces a more rugged black marble, and the hardwood floors spread throughout.

The first floor was an entirely open-plan lounge area, the space broken by support pillars covered in lights like the staircase. I noticed that the house was completely kitted out with top-range appliances and furniture, plus the most obscenely massive television I'd ever seen wired up with a multitude of games consoles. Basically ready to move in. Funny that.

"And this place is yours," I clarified, checking out a cabinet already crammed with video games. Blaze never stood far from me, always close enough to see my face. He looked so comfortable just milling around, it was easy to believe he owned it.

"My name is on the deed, yeah, but I've only been here a few times. It's hard to believe that when Henry turned it over, it was the same size as my mother's cottage."

I nearly dropped the photograph I was holding; a mystifying shot of Blaze and I dancing at the masquerade mixer. I could have sworn that there were no cameras allowed inside the venue that night... "You're shitting me."

"Nope. Instead of gifts for birthdays and Christmases, Henry has been offering to make modifications to the place. I've been picking whatever I wanted for eleven years and so far..." He splayed out his hands. "It's come to this."

"That's insane. You're insane." It had to be worth millions yet it had been sitting unoccupied for twelve years? "But you've been here recently. See?" I waved the picture at him. There were too many personal effects around for it to be completely unused.

Wrapping himself around me from behind, Blaze bound his arms around my shoulders and rocked me. There was no hint of his erraticism from the drive over, just a neutrality that spread outwards from his body into mine. "I've been here to dream, Emmeline. Calling it my 'dream house' is somewhat ambiguous. I've had it built in my perceived image of the perfect home; I've come here to imagine the perfect life. But it was also a dream that I'd ever get to live here, an unrealised one at that. You could give me that." He tipped me back, forcing me to look up at him and see the longing in his eyes. "Nothing would make me happier than coming home to you and my children in this house."

"Jeez..." He was breaking my heart. Natasha hadn't just infringed on his career, she'd kept him from this house, too. I'd been given the unwarranted power to let him have the life he so dearly wanted, or I could say I hated the place and force him to live in a substandard house I approved of. "You make it hard for a girl to say no, Blaze."

"So maybe I can make her say yes." Suddenly bouncing with excitement, he dragged me back towards the staircase. "Come and see what I asked for this Christmas."

We bypassed the second floor of bedrooms and went straight up to the top floor of the house. It was open plan like the lounge, but the lounge hadn't made me gasp the way this did.

Easels and drawing desks sat around the perimeter but were just an afterthought compared to the huge square table in the middle of the room that doubled up as a light box. Wall mounted glass-doomed storage cabinets and wheeled trolleys were fully stocked with all the essentials an artist could need, particularly an artist with official business to do.

Boxed off from the rest of the space by frosted glass screens was a mini office with two computers and a loaded printer. Hung on the wall above the monitors was a picture of Blaze and I after our reunion at Esme's winter ball, both of us damp, limp, but effervescent with adoration for each other.

"You okay?"

I shook my head and rubbed over the ache in my heart. "I'm winded, Blaze, from you nailing me right in the feels. This is amazing."

"And it's yours."

Blowing out a shaky breath, I sagged back against Blaze and tried to figure out how I wasn't completely freaked out by all this. Conversely, I felt quite comfortable and at home. Blaze rested his chin on my head and held me close to him, humming with the same kind of satisfaction.

"When I saw you drawing in the bookshop that first time, I imagined watching you paint in here, wearing nothing but one of my shirts rolled up at the sleeves."

"Oh, really?"

"Mm-hmm. From the moment I knew I'd spend my life with you, I also knew that this studio would be my Christmas ask from Henry."

Talk about making a foregone conclusion... "So what's for your birthday?"

"Nothing. Yet. I was kind of hoping it would be a joint decision with you."

A little groan of helplessness left my throat. I really did love the house, but my life was in London. I'd left Cardiff to find myself and built up a little safety net of friends who understood my quirks and needs. Wasn't leaving that all behind and moving back into the heart of the motherland going to be a step backwards?

I decided I needed to sleep on it. My head wasn't in the best place to make huge decisions and I hadn't yet seen the whole house. Blaze seemed happy with that and showed me the bedrooms we'd skipped—one over-large master bedroom and three unfairly big guest rooms, all with their own bathrooms, soft cream carpets and chocolate brown satin sheets—before taking me back out into the real world for a little shopping.

I missed the house as soon as we'd left it but, as I'd expected, we had wedding stuff to do in the city. In a much better mood, I could smile genuinely to the planners and give real heartfelt opinions on things as trivial as seat covers and centrepieces.

We ate dinner out and shopped for some extra clothes for the next day. Back in the house, he took me down to the demountable unit that was actually his own soundproofed studio; then toasted marshmallows on the permanent brick barbecue near the pool.

When the world was just me and Blaze, it felt complete. It was other people that made it feel fractured and precarious. My outlook could be completely different depending on my company and I had to think that might be an omen. Maybe it _was_ time to leave the Old Smoke. It was only the people that kept me there...

When I fell asleep that night, it was to the sound of Blaze's husky voice singing in the shower. I wasn't especially tired, just in such a state of relaxation I pretty much melted into the mattress and passed out.

The only times I could think of that had compared in awesomeness were times we'd, once again, been alone or with strangers. I felt Emmeline Tudor passing away into non-existence and a different version of me breaking through. Emmeline Valentine.

The light that poured into the room the next morning was pale but warmed my skin. Feeling unusually well rested, I opened my eyes and was hit with the vista of rolling green hills for as far as the eye could see. Connie had to be our closest neighbour but it wasn't like she was only a stones throw away, not by a long shot.

It was almost maddeningly quiet and sensually lazy. In contrast to London's stark concrete and constant noise, this was... paradise. Henry and Blaze had stolen some bits of Heaven and reassembled them in the middle of a field. That was the only explanation for me lying in a bed in the middle of a fairytale castle.

Blaze was still fast asleep, sheets pooled around his waist and an arm up framing his head. His lips parted on slow, deep exhales and occasionally twitched into a little smile. Whatever it was he was dreaming of, it looked to be good.

I decided not to wake him yet, not until I'd figured out the percolator in the kitchen so I could bring him coffee. On the way down to the ground floor, I checked out the lounge again. Just to see how awesome it was after a good night's sleep.

Photographs of us were everywhere. Almost too many. Even pictures from childhood were tucked away in display units, like we'd known each other forever instead of just for a matter of months. More and more of my artwork kept surfacing, mostly smaller abstract pieces I'd left behind when I moved from Cardiff. Nobody walking in for the first time would realise it was an empty house. It already looked like a family home.

Family. Hmm... Still wasn't sure about that one. I didn't doubt for a minute that Blaze would be a great dad but I didn't want him to have to compensate for me being a crappy mother. When most of the past nine years had been spent loving a man with whom I had no future, stuff like that hadn't even crossed my mind. But with Blaze...

The percolator was idiot proof and I soon had two cups of sweet, creamy coffee in my hands. Getting back up to the bedroom without spilling was a challenge but I managed it, not finding it too much of a problem until I found a picture of Blaze and Regis. My step faltered, caught off guard by the image of a gorgeous emerald eyed four year old staring in veneration at his father. He looked to be the same sort of age as Blaze was now and jeez, did they ever look alike. And happy—so, so happy.

I got it. Blaze wanted to love the way he hadn't been loved after Regis' time had been cut short. He'd been so young, so maybe didn't consciously realise that was what he wanted, but I was pretty sure I had him figured out.

And weirdly, that didn't scare me.

I'd made up my mind. I quickened my pace to get back to the bedroom faster and set the coffee down on the stand on Blaze's side of the bed. Then, slowly lowering down onto the bed next to him, I brushed my warm fingers over his torso until he stirred.

God, he was gorgeous. Even sleep-mussed, he oozed sex appeal and the first glimpse of those stunning eyes always felt like a sucker punch. I couldn't believe he was really mine.

"Hey," he rasped, catching my hand and pulling it to his lips. "You look like you slept well."

"Let's do it," I said with no preamble. "Let's move in, start a family—whatever you want."

He blinked, looking adorably sleepy. "Am I still dreaming?"

"No. No more dreaming. Let's go get our shit and move in."

"And kids?" Blaze wriggled up to sit and grabbed his coffee, though it looked like my proclamation had livened him up better than any caffeine kick. "You want kids?"

"Kid. Singular. I'm only committing to one right now and I'm not going to promise I'll be any good at it..." God knew my upbringing had been weird enough to not know where to start. Daniel's dad had stepped in as mine, while Henry had been taking care of Blaze, it seemed. "And I don't think I'm up for the job at all but I'm trusting you to know better."

"Emmeline."

In one swift movement, Blaze had downed the whole mug of coffee, set it down and pulled me into his lap. Hands and lips all over me, he whispered words of thanks and praise so enthused they made my chest tight.

There was nothing I wouldn't have done for him in that moment. If it came down to it and Natasha hadn't killed herself first—or if she'd not even tried—I thought I might have gone to her room a thousand times if it meant being able to give Blaze the life he craved. They say the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Well, I'd happily play God for him. It was worth the threat of eternal damnation just to see him so overjoyed.

Stretched out on a sun-lounger, I admired my new home from the comfort of the poolside cabana while Blaze rattled around in his studio. It wasn't an overly bright or sunny day, but it was nice enough to sprawl out and make believe.

We could have been at a luxury Caribbean resort. The gleaming house had more than enough style for that to be a feasible fantasy. A few palm trees and steel drums, and the illusion would have been complete.

"What do you think of a rooftop garden?" Heading toward me with a guitar in his hand, Blaze cocked his head curiously. "It would be nice, don't you think? We wouldn't be able to take full advantage of one this year, but next year would be great. Me, you and Junior staring out across the countryside from the highest point of our ivory tower."

"Cupcake..." Kneeling next to me, Blaze took my hand and rubbed his thumb over my knuckles. "You think maybe we're rushing this?"

_You're kidding me._ After I'd battled with myself to give him what he wanted... "You've changed your tune."

"I haven't, honestly. I'd love to just go and get all our boxes from the hotel and devote the next couple of months to trying to impregnate you."

"Smooth talker."

He smirked and shrugged shamelessly. "Joking aside, you made some valid points yesterday. Things aren't all that stable at the moment and we'll be away for a few months. It's the wrong time to start a family."

"Um..." I arched my back so my hips lifted up off the lounger. "I'm not a scientist like you, but I'm pretty sure it might be a bit late to take it back. Unless you were planning to recover your genetic material..."

"No, gross. Once it's out of my cock, I don't want it back. It's yours; you can keep it. You earned it." I laughed and shoved at his shoulders. "But it's easy for me to say I want kids, Emmeline. You have to do the hard work and you shouldn't have to if it's not what you really want."

"I want what you want."

"That's the point. You're not a yes man; I don't want you to lose yourself for fear of losing me. I'm not going anywhere, no matter what you will or won't do for me."

I had no idea where this was all coming from but the fact that it was being said made me feel a lot better about the decisions I'd already made. He'd removed the pressure I was feeling, which meant I knew whatever my gut told me was going to be all me and not coming from a sense of duty. It was exactly what I'd needed to become resolute.

"So maybe we don't force it," I suggested. "We don't go out of our way to make it happen but we don't do anything to stop it, either. I admit, I'm in no rush to be a mother but I'm happy to just go with the flow. _Que sera, sera._ "

"Really?" Something in my face or tone must have settled him, because he leaned forward cheekily and pressed a loud smacking kiss to my mouth. "Told you I could get you ready for it."

That probably wasn't true. Chances were that I hadn't magically become ready for parenthood and I'd fooled myself into thinking it was okay so I didn't have to face his disappointment. The delusion would only last until the dream became a reality and I was sat there with swollen ankles and morning sickness, which would spark a whole new array of problems for us.

_Fuck it._ So many times, Blaze had offered those two words in times of crisis. So what if that all happened? It wasn't happening yet. We'd deal with it when the time came.

Besides, who doesn't love an excuse to get laid?

If it had been up to me, we never would have left the dream house, but with our belongings still in the hotel and business for us both to take care of in London, we had no choice to go back.

Eventually.

I wanted to stay there for as long as possible until it was absolutely necessary to leave, totally caught up in the sense of being completely isolated with only Blaze for company. He was my world and I needed nobody else. I could have even stood to dump all my old belongings and buy them anew.

Unfortunately, his endless stacks of comics and graphic novels were as much a part of him as his teeth, and he had meetings booked with notoriously hard to reach people that were probably too close to rearrange in not only a different town, but a different country. For the amount of concessions I'd made in the past, what was one more?

We went back into the city to fetch in enough groceries to last the four days we'd have before his meeting with his director. While out, we were photographed. That didn't phase me; cameras had been shoved in my face since youth and it was an occupational hazard of being with Blaze. But this time would lead to a confusing gossip story speculating over the reason why we'd be in Wales when we had a wedding to plan.

Some thought we were eloping. Mostly, with my adolescent struggles a matter of public record, they assumed that I was back under psychiatric care.

All I could think about was how my mother would freak out. Blaze didn't want her to get excited over the prospect of us moving closer to the Tudor family home again before I'd found out about the place—he'd admitted as much—and he knew that she wouldn't be able to resist dropping blunt hints I'd twig onto and decide I wasn't going to move before I'd even seen it. I was just that kind of person. Ivy would latch onto the eloping theory before she really considered that there was a better explanation and I'd end up with a hysterical mother on the phone.

"She thinks we should have an engagement party," I told Blaze between bites of breakfast the next morning. "She seems to think it'll stop the press pitching a fit over not getting access to the ceremony."

"She's got a point, I guess. They need their romance fix and if they're being deprived, they're going to look for news in other places we don't want them seeing—some of them not so romantic."

Precisely. I knew I wasn't just over-thinking it. Somehow hearing him say it settled a niggle of uncertainty I hadn't realised was there.

"How is it that when you suggest it, it sounds completely reasonable and responsible, but my mum comes up with the idea and it just sounds like a publicity stunt?"

"It's a talent." He grinned and took my plate to the sink. We'd eaten omelettes sat up on the breakfast bar—a very disrespectful way to eat in a disrespectfully fantastic house. "One of many hidden talents I plan to reveal slowly over the coming years."

Detecting the undertone of promise, I rocked forward and bit my lip. "Have you been holding out on me, stud?"

"Of course. Have to save some skills for the honeymoon."

"I need a demo." I dropped down to the chequered tile floor and tugged at the waistband of his low hanging torn jeans. Dishes would wait. I couldn't. "You wouldn't want me to be disappointed with the consummation, would you?"

"I dunno. Am I destined for a life of having my inner clean-freak quashed by your demands for sexy time?"

"If you're good."

He could be so easily deterred. With no more coercion, he threw me over his shoulder and raced up to the second floor. If I'd known he'd take me to Connie's for a surprise visit—one so unexpected she cried—an hour later, I might not have insisted he worked me over quite as enthusiastically as he did. There again, there's a good chance that I still wouldn't have cared.

Everything in my life at that point was completely fucking perfect. I should have known then that it wouldn't last.

#  eleven

#

"Emmeline! Jesus, shit, Emmeline; wake up!"

My eyes didn't open, even when I felt cold ceramic at my knees. Reaching out for stability, I opened my mouth and threw up noisily, knowing Blaze had set me down in front of the toilet.

We'd been back in London for just over two weeks and since the first night back in the hotel suite, my nightmares had returned. It was almost the same dream I'd had about killing Natasha, but I'd lift the pillow to see I'd suffocated Blaze.

It came every night. My fear of it snowballed. Knowing it would come when I fell asleep made it difficult to drift off and when I could, it got harder to see it. Replaying the initial parts of creeping into her room brought back the memories of doing it and I was becoming more and more convinced that it hadn't been the overdose that had killed her. Getting away with murder didn't mean I wasn't going to pay the price.

My subconscious was screaming at me that I'd killed a piece of Blaze and inflicted the punishments it saw fit. The clusters of bruises—ugly bright red bruises where the vessels had ruptured—caused by pinching, scratching or biting myself while I slept was starting to get embarrassing. With the wedding inching ever closer—only four weeks away—I was genuinely concerned that they wouldn't fade in time. The dress I'd designed while Blaze napped away a lazy afternoon in Cardiff exposed my arms and the majority of the damage was on my biceps. I was ruining everything.

It didn't help that I'd developed a nasty bout of stomach flu. For ten days, I'd barely been able to keep down water and had been running a fever so high, I spent much of the day incoherent and the rest of it passed out and delirious. Blaze told me of the silly things I'd said while half-conscious and most of them made me laugh. Sadly, laughing made me throw up. I was a real mess.

"I'm worried about you." He rubbed his hand rhythmically up and down my back. Blaze was naturally a hot-blooded man and that showed in his human-radiator-like qualities, but his touch was so chilling it made me ache. "These nightmares are getting out of hand and you're losing so much weight. I've a right mind to have you hospitalised but I don't want to be away from you. I don't know what to do."

Drained and feeling disgusting, I flushed the toilet and leaned my head on my knees. "I thought you doctors knew everything."

"I'm a doctor of the skies, cupcake. And like many cosmetologists, I may want to see a dying star up close, but I'd prefer that star to not be you."

"I'm not a star."

"Science would disagree. You're made of a lot of the same stuff. Billions of atoms of—"

"Hot air, yeah. Carry on."

"Jeez. You're as unique and you shine as brightly—"

"And I'll shine at my brightest when I'm about to burn out completely. Keep going."

"Emmeline. Honestly. How's a guy supposed to deliver a compliment around here when you keep burning down the courier depot?"

He was right. I looked like shit and he didn't have to be nice to me, so it wasn't fair to make it overly difficult for him. It wasn't his fault that I was ill and crazy. He was the best thing I had in the world so it was ridiculous to be pushing him away.

"I want to go home," I complained. "Back to Cardiff. I don't feel like I can relax here anymore."

"I know but we've had this conversation." My head jolted up, sending pain shooting through my temples and neck. As much as I scoured my mind, I couldn't recall having spoken about leaving London. Blaze at least had the patience to explain it again. "Once we're married, you're not going to be seeing much of anyone for a long time. There'll be the honeymoon and then we'll be preparing for Chicago. When we come back, neither of us are likely to want to keep travelling back and forth. You should use the next few weeks to bid your friends a deserving farewell."

I wanted to argue that my friends would come to visit but realistically, only Daniel and Jonathan would. Esme hadn't spoken to me since my verbal throw down in the hospital and Chris had been around but not particularly verbose. Heartbreaking as it was, I was forced to admit that my friends would likely abandon me when it became too much effort to keep the lines of communication open.

"Plus there's no way we'd get you back when you're like this. The drive would make you too sick."

"You're right." Shivering, I battled to my feet to limp back to bed. Fevers were the symptom I hated most of illness, rivalled only by a runny nose. I felt like all the heat had left my body and I wanted it back. I was so fucking cold.

Blaze helped me into bed and crawled in behind me, wrapping his arms and legs around me until the tremors started to subside. The kisses he peppered across my neck were by no means a cure, but they seduced me into drowsiness.

"I'm calling Dr. Downes in the morning. See if she can't make some sense of why you've been sick for so long."

"She's a shrink," I mumbled, not that I cared. He could call an exorcist if it stopped me throwing up.

"Psychiatric specialist," he qualified. "She still has the know-how and you're still her patient right now. She gave me permission to call any time."

"Seems like a good reason to go back to Cardiff."

"Nice try." Blaze arched over me to kiss my nose and rested his cheek against mine. Every cell of me strained towards him wanting to kiss him but, limp and weak, my body wouldn't move. From one extreme to the other, I felt my skin getting uncomfortably hot and clammy everywhere he touched me. Rebelling. Repelling. "Sleep, beautiful. The world will wait and your dreams can't hurt you. I'm here to make sure of it."

Strangely soothed by his words, I gave in to the drowsiness until I felt feather-light. If Blaze kept me anchored I'd be okay, because he could ward off the phantoms that formed from what I'd done.

I _had_ done it. I'd killed her. I was so sure of it—maybe ninety-nine percent. I only needed a little nudge for the full one hundred...

Murderer.

With a gasp so sudden and sharp it made my teeth ache, I sat up bolt upright in bed and searched the room for whoever had spoken. It had sounded so close and so familiar; who knew about Natasha? Where were they hiding?

Why are you still alive, murderer?

"No..." Heartbroken, I paced to the bathroom to wash my face in the hope that it would clear away the remnants of a bad dream. I really wanted to believe that voice was a dream.

The fact I felt considerably better bypassed me completely, as did the dressing on the back of my hand. I was desperate not to be that mental chick who heard voices again, particularly when it was my worst critic.

Too bad. You look really fat in those pyjamas.

I'd give her that. They were ages old, faded and tight around the waist. A skeleton would have looked chubby in them.

A skeleton wouldn't have that ungodly overhang you're sporting. Been trying to disgust Blaze to death, have you?

I just didn't understand. There was no need for her to be back. Why now, so close to my wedding day was this happening to me? It made no sense and it wasn't fair—it wasn't like I was pathologically adverse to being finally happy. Being ill had sucked but my head was straight enough. I knew what I wanted, knew what mistakes I'd made and what I'd have to live with. There were no uncertainties or anxieties. I was okay with it, I thought.

Okay? With being a filthy murderer? That's more abhorrent than the fact you did it.

Why are you back?

I never left.

But you stopped talking.

No. You stopped hearing. You're already a fat, ugly murderer. Don't be an imbecile, too.

Stopped hearing? God, if only it was that simple. I'd spent endless days wishing I could drown her out, hating that she knew how to get to me. She was a stronger force within me I couldn't fend off and I'd always buckle to her pressures. Her will was more passionate, thriving on the massively self-depreciating side of me. She made vacuous little snipes I took to heart but at the same time, she could be my only real friend.

Fat Emmy was poison in my veins and no amount of my sister's blood would flush her out. The only thing that ever had was—

"Oh my God."

Figured it out, have you?

He'd been drugging me. In charge of my care and medication, Blaze must have been slipping me anti-psychotics without me knowing it. After all my body had been through, I neither knew or really cared what was in the cocktail of drugs he gave me after breakfast every morning and ultimately I didn't mind that he'd been giving me dopamine-inhibiting tablets. It was the fact I didn't know and I thought I'd gotten past that stage of my life...

Pissed off, I stormed through to the lounge and found him sitting there, irritatingly gorgeous, and looking like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. Wearing only _Batman_ lounge pants, he had newspapers spread out across the coffee table, which wasn't like my technophile at all. It was hard to stay angry when I realised he was cutting out articles about us for a scrapbook.

"Hey!" He dragged his eyes up from one of our wedding announcements and rested his chin on his palm. "Don't you look better? Just in time, too. Busy day today."

Something about the way he said that made me check the time and date on my phone. My last conscious memory had been from the early hours of Wednesday morning. Now, it was almost Friday lunchtime. "Have I been unconscious for two days?"

"You've been conscious for some of it." Pushing up from the floor, Blaze made a slow pace to the kitchenette and started rattling cupboards and crockery. He'd done a good job of keeping all my pills hidden 'just in case' but I swore I heard the telltale clattering of pharmacy bottles. So my stash was in there...

Do it. Find them. Do the job properly this time.

"But you've not really been sentient. How are you feeling now?"

_Lied to. Betrayed._ "Better, I guess. Has Dr. Downes been here?"

Blaze came back in with a mug of steaming soup and reached for a hand I wasn't completely happy to surrender. His thumb skimmed over the tender skin underneath the dressing, making me acknowledge it for the first time. "She sent a nurse. You've been on intravenous antibiotics, just to get them into you. You'll take the rest of the course as tablets. They wanted to sedate you but I wouldn't let them."

"Wh—" I cut myself off quickly. I knew why he didn't want me sedated. It was like tempting fate to put me in the same state Natasha had been when she died—or at least how he thought she'd died. The memory was too close to home for him. Fair enough, there really wasn't any way to argue with it. It was just a shame he couldn't have been a little more considerate of my feelings when he decided which drugs I was or wasn't allowed to take.

"What's wrong?" Ever-sensitive to my mood, Blaze dipped to catch my eye. I didn't want to look at him. Couldn't. I'd forgive him. "Emmeline?"

"Nothing's wrong."

"I don't believe you."

"No? Why don't you just drug the truth out of me? That seems to be your forte at the moment."

He sighed softly and dropped down into the seat behind him, pulling me down with him to sit in his lap. Despite his best attempts, I didn't give in to the desire to curl up against him, just sat there stiff and resilient and defensive. He wasn't going to understand. I knew that much. He'd defend his actions and there'd be no convincing him that he'd been wrong. He was as stubborn as a mule.

"You figured it out. More than a week of not being able to keep anything down, I suppose it was going to happen. Are you okay?"

"She's back."

There was a moment of silence, then the last five words I ever imagined I'd be hearing.

"You can deal with her."

I had to turn to stare at him to be convinced I hadn't heard wrong—that she hadn't become a ventriloquist as well as a hypocrite. Why the fuck was it okay with him to control my life this way?

"You can sneak me drugs to get rid of her but now she's back you're going to hold out on me?"

Blaze cocked his head. "Are you not mad because I gave you the pills without telling you?"

"Yes."

"But now you're mad because I won't give you them to you even though you'd probably refuse to take them anyway?"

"I—..." _Shit._ Would I really have refused them?

You know you would have. Don't you remember the last time? You need me.

She was sort of right again. The last time I'd shut her out, I'd ended up in a relationship with Calloway Ryan, one of America's most notorious narcissists. Without her warnings, I'd put myself in a potentially dangerous situation, who was to say that it wouldn't happen again?

There again, she'd made me a murderer.

Blame me all you want. You wanted to kill her.

No, I didn't.

You did. You craved it—lusted for it. You're so selfish, nothing would ever come between you and happiness. You'd do it again. You've thought as much yourself. No regrets.

I do. I regret it.

Really? But isn't life better now? You have Blaze, you can marry him and you got away with it. You made life better.

Did I?

Seriously? No. You fucked it up for everyone and you knew it would happen like that. But that still didn't stop you. I reign your mind, not your body. You killed her with your own two hands.

"Emmeline?" Blaze shook me gently until my attention snagged away from her. I felt slightly dizzy when I came to my senses; the dizziness became a headache when it passed. "You can beat her. You can talk her out of your mind."

"Are you for real? You think it's that simple? She is _dangerous,_ Blaze. You can't just let her come back."

"Cupcake..." There it was again—that cajoling tone he used when he was trying to pacify me enough to force his hand. "You have to know she's not a separate entity from you. She's part of you—she _is_ you. She's a part that needs controlling."

I jumped up to my face like he'd pinched me. "I am _not_ her."

Yes, you are.

"No, I'm not!"

Yes, you are. Murderer.

"You should have told me about the medication, Blaze." I crouched to jab him with accusatory finger. "If I'd been aware of this, I'd have been better prepared for it when she woke me up. We could have done something— _anything_ —to stop this from happening, even if it did mean knocking me out while I was sick. She can not exist."

"Right. She can't." Too calmly, Blaze stood and held me still by the tops of the arms. My heart pounded so violently in my chest I thought it might be the part of me most likely to jump out and punch him in the face. "You weren't in a good place to rival imaginary friends in hospital, Emmeline. We made a decision based on how much of a risk you were to yourself. Now you're okay and once you stop fighting me, you'll realise it's all in your head."

"Of course it's in my head!" Summoning strength I didn't know I had, I stamped down on his bare foot and twisted out of his grip. While he was bent over cursing, I took the opportunity to grab a coat and dart out of the door into the hotel corridor.

Still in my pyjamas. With no phone and only the change in my coat pockets. No shoes and not even a bra.

Been here before, haven't you?

Yeah... I'd been alone and felt like the world had fucked me over. But this time was different. This time _was_ completely self-inflicted. What the hell was I supposed to do?

Moving from A to B was kind of a blur immersed in a fog that stunted my awareness and perception of time. It seemed to take both forever and no time at all to somehow find my way further into London and find myself crawling into the bed that was always kept open for me.

Even though I was rarely there, that bed held a certain amount of comfort for me. It had been there in times I'd needed unconditional support and love I didn't think I deserved. It had seen a lot of tears and some blood. I'd feel bad that I'd fled there but always ended up being glad that I had.

"Thought I might find you here."

The voice that spoke was soothing, though not the one I might have hoped for. Dressed all out in a suit with an electric blue shirt a lesser man would have struggled to pull off, Jonathan sat down on the bed next to me and set a mug down on the nightstand by my head.

I loved him for totally selfish reasons. Despite the age and status difference, he'd loved Daniel from the beginning, almost as much as I did. No sacrifice—not even his teaching job—was too much to keep them apart. Neither family approved of the couple and there had been times when Daniel thought about giving up. Jonathan held on. He was strong in ways his partner wasn't and weak in the ways he was strong. I sort of admired him.

"Dan is stuck at work but called me as soon as he got message from Blaze. You okay?"

"My feet hurt."

His eyes flitted down the bed to my muddy feet. He nodded sagely. "You walked barefoot through London to get here. I'm not surprised. Any cuts? Do you need a tetanus shot? Check up for hepatitis or AIDS?"

"I'm good." I squeezed the pillow I was hugging closer to me. "You didn't need to come."

"Why? 'Cause you have company?" Oh great, Blaze had told Daniel I was insane again. "I know I didn't have to, Emmy. I just didn't want you to be alone."

Jonathan stood up quickly, moved into the small bathroom across the hallway and returned to me. Sitting behind me, he dragged a soft brush through the tangled lengths of my hair, wordlessly tidying up the outside of the messy world I'd created.

I cried. It should have been Blaze treating me tenderly, not my best friend's husband. I felt like an impostor forcing my way into a happy place I didn't belong in.

What right did I have to keep running there? Why should my friends have to carry the burden of my mistakes and remorse? I was a hindrance and a problem, one they really didn't need.

"He doesn't get it, does he?" Jonathan paused mid-stroke and rubbed my back with his hand. "Blaze doesn't understand Fat Emmy."

"He says she's a part of me—all in my head. I know that's technically true but he thinks I can just get rid of her on my own."

"Right..." He sighed softly and laid down to spoon me. It should have been weird but it wasn't, not after some of the things we'd done together. I'd been the willing helper to two curious gay men on more than one occasion. Over-familiarity didn't even come into it. "He doesn't get that you're two separate people and you don't want to be associated with that side of yourself."

"Right. And he thought it was okay to take her away for a while but now he's decided I have to fight her? I can't. She has too much power over me, you have no idea."

"You've never wanted to delete her before, Emmy. What's changed?"

What _hadn't_ changed? Everything had changed because of her. Every single thing she'd made me do before had only ever hurt me. Now I knew she could hurt other people, too.

"I have—I've changed. My life is different and there's no space for her in it."

"In your life, or your relationship?" I lay completely still, conscious of the fact Jonathan's frank question had struck a sore nerve. "I get it. Fat Emmy is like the hanger-on friend or embarrassing relative you don't want to introduce to the man in your life. You don't want to them together because she'll make you act stupid and he might be put off by her."

"Is that insane?" I rolled over to face Jonathan and frowned. "Is it totally weird that I think of her as a completely independent person?"

"You have schizophrenia and you're asking me that?" Fair point. There were enough people out there who would say that yes, that was automatically insane just for the condition.

"Schizophrenoform disorder," I qualified. "But can it make sense to someone normal?"

"Emmy, honestly." Scoffing, Jonathan sat up and pulled me upright. "Don't use 'normal' like it really exists. It's subjective and you know it. But can you make Blaze understand it? Of course. He just needs a firm talking to. He really shouldn't have kept it a secret that you were on medication and even if he was going to make that choice on your behalf anyway, he should have been checking where your head was at. He'll understand if it kills him."

And Daniel would be the one who administered that verbal butt kicking, I knew that much. My money was on him calling Blaze back as soon as Jonathan found me and launching right into a lecture. Blaze would probably feel belittled and patronised, likely annoyed that I hadn't spoken to him about it myself, but I knew my friends would handle it better than I ever could. I could only give him muddled explanations of how I felt, while they had lived on the outside watching what I was battling within, so they knew how to live with it. They might have understood even better than I did. Maybe I relied on them too heavily...

"I know what might make you feel better. You need a dress for tonight, don't you?"

"Tonight?"

"Your engagement party, silly."

"Oh..." Of course, I'd slept too much and my inner calendar was a little off. Ivy had been so excited to be given the job of planning it that she'd almost launched like a rocket to the moon.

That night, the renovated theatre Henry ran but I technically owned, The Roses, would be over-run with journalists and B-list celebrities who'd gather to celebrate mine and Blaze's so-called unwavering love. Not turning up really wasn't an option. It'd have to be the full arsenal of forced smiles and banal small talk if I stood a chance of getting through it.

And Jonathan was right. I needed a _really_ nice dress.

"Blaze already has one picked out for me, doesn't he?"

Jonathan pursed his lips and sighed harshly. He wore the expression of the knowing femme—even though Daniel was the woman in their relationship—who felt a whole world of compassion for a 'fellow' girlfriend'. "It's at Caroline's. We could go pick it up. Or we could rebel."

"Rebellion, please." I had visions of one of Blaze's classically demure yet foxy slinky numbers hanging on a rail waiting for me. Driven by annoyance, I wanted something indecently short and black; something that would get the cameras flashing.

Which, ironically, was exactly what was waiting for me when we went to Caroline's boutique out of curiosity. I couldn't help but be annoyed that Blaze knew me so well in some ways but not in others. It was one thing to pick the right clothes every time but another completely to make the wrong decisions over my mental health. It was almost an insult and a suggestion that we were one of those couples who only looked good on paper. Where was the depth?

Jonathan held the dress up against me and shook his head critically. "You're sure he's not gay? Not even bisexual?"

"The way he goes for it, it's really safer for men everywhere that he's not." Somewhere behind us, I heard Caroline's assistant suppress a giggle, which made me smile. "Think I should just wear it?"

"Don't ask me, I'm not the one who's going to have my crotch on display. Reckon that's why he chose it?"

"Hmm..." That would have made sense, dressing me for easy access at an event I didn't want to be at. Our first sexual encounter in a department store dressing room told me that Blaze definitely had the stones for public sex, but was that really why he'd picked it?

Curious, I fidgeted on the spot until I caught Caroline's attention. "When was this ordered?"

She looked at me blankly for only a second, then picked up a scrap of fabric and started picking aimlessly at the stitches in it. "A few hours ago, Miss Tudor. Is it not to your liking?"

A few hours. For fuck's sake... "No. I don't."

"Something else, then." She carried on picking away. "There may be something in our plus size section for you."

I felt my spine go rigid and my shoulders slope down square. How fucking dare she?

Go for it. Black her lights out.

No. I wasn't going to rise to it. She was a cow but I didn't need the bad publicity and had no idea how to swing a decent punch anyway.

No. Suffocation is really more your forte, isn't it?

I'm not going to hurt anyone else because of you.

Oh, wah-wah.

"Emmy?" Jonathan shook me gently from my inner deadlock. "Let's go, okay? Let's keep moving."

I appreciated his attempt to keep me distracted, I really did. But it was an old habit my friends fell into that I always hated. How was I supposed to focus on fixing what was going on inside when they gave me no chance to confront it?

"I'm fine," I insisted, biting back the wateriness in my voice caused by the constantly impending tears. Caroline had a problem with me and I was no enabler. She was going to have to tackle her grievances head on.

My eyes scanned the mannequins on display and fell on a daringly low cut Grecian affair that skimmed the floor but was slit from hip to hem. It was a gorgeous deep purple that would accentuate the hue of my olive green eyes and the adjustable halter neck would easily accommodate my fuller bust.

It was also fitted for a waif. The ruched, glitter speckled midriff looked elasticised to a point, but not early enough to cater for a woman with junk in the trunk.

You'll never fit in that, fatso. Look again.

"Screw you."

"Pardon me?"

I sucked in a humiliated breath, realising I'd spoken aloud in error and Caroline had heard it. "I said... Do you already have a buyer for the purple dress?"

Nice save.

Her head inclined just slightly in its direction. She had to have known the minute details of every dress in her shop without looking, but she caught it in her peripheral vision anyway, as if in disbelief. "No, but... It's very fitted around the waist. I doubt it would—"

"I want it." Feeling a surge of confidence, my hands went to my hips. I wanted to make her feel as awkward on her own turf as she'd made me feel on mine. If she was as passionate about her work as she made out, every creation was like a child to her and she'd want them rehomed properly.

"I... Umm..."

"Let her try it on."

My fingers dug into my sides at the sound of a voice I really shouldn't have been surprised—or happy—to hear. That it had taken him so long to reach me was the real miracle; that I hadn't been expecting it, even more so.

Acting like everything was completely fucking fine, Blaze slithered up behind me and wrapped an arm around my waist. Furious, I looked up at him only because I could feel his eyes burning into me, along with all the guilt behind them.

His gaze slid over me in a raking glance, forcing me to take an inward look at myself and the outfit I'd changed into. My loaned chequered shirt was Daniel's, as were the skinny jeans I'd folded over at the waistband in an attempt to make them tighter. Embarrassed, I thought down further to my feet and the battered pumps I'd picked up from a charity shop on my way through London.

I was a mess and he knew it was his fault. He'd fucked up to the point of pushing me away the way he'd promised he wouldn't, which had to hurt. To see me looking like shit but still holding my own without him must have really poured the extra pinch of salt on the wound and I was happy about it. Really fucking happy.

"You're stalking me," I groused, taking the rucksack he was carrying over his shoulder. No doubt it contained a change of clothes and shoes so I didn't leave at his side looking like a tramp. God forbid.

"I was tipped off." _Duh._ Jonathan shrugged at me helplessly and shook his head, glancing over quickly to the archway that led through to Caroline's workshop. Her assistant scurried away the moment my eyes met hers.

"Your dress order came with a stalking order?"

"Stop calling it stalking. You ran out on me wearing your jimmy-jams on the back of a nervous breakdown induced by an argument about our trust issues. What the fuck were you expecting?"

"Fuck me, Blaze." Appalled, I gaped up at him. "Any more of our dirty laundry you want to air in public?"

"I'm not— ... I didn't—" Stuck for words, Blaze turned a glare on Caroline and exhaled sharply. "The dress, Caroline. Let her try it on."

"With all due respect," she sighed impatiently, but was quickly cut off by thirty years of irate male prowling across the shop floor and impermissibly removing the gown from it's mannequin. No doubt the words she was intending to follow up with were anything but gracious.

I didn't know what Blaze thought he was doing—antagonising the woman responsible for creating the dress I'd wear on maybe the most important day of my life—and whatever it was, it didn't impress me. If he wanted to call it nobility, it was misguided. If it was his version of an apology, it was bullshit.

And if dragging me into the dressing room, stripping me naked and making to kiss me was nostalgia, I wasn't interested.

"You fucked up," I hissed, jamming a hand between our faces before his lips made contact with mine. One kiss and I knew I'd get sucked in, and I hated that it was so easy for him to win me over. This wasn't a disputed dinner bill or secret wife. This was my sanity at stake. "Again. You fucked up again."

And you'll forgive him because you don't have a righteous leg to stand on.

"It's going to take more than a fumble to earn my trust back this time."

"Bullshit, Emmeline." Blaze took a step back before I could shove him away and stooped down with the dress in his hands. Automatically and against my better judgement, I let him guide my legs through the elasticised ruching and pull the fabric up around my waist. "I'm sorry, okay? Not telling you was a dick move but I stand by putting you on the medication. You weren't in a fit state to make any decisions regarding your own health and I figured the less extraneous factors in your recovery the better. I called it."

"It wasn't even your call to make," I argued, loath to admit that he probably had made the best move for my welfare. Every choice that had been taken from my hands had been passed to him and he always handled it with utmost care and attention. It would have been so much easier just to lump me back in the Cardiff unit. He didn't have to keep me with him. He just knew that he should, for reasons he couldn't possibly comprehend. "It should have been Ivy's choice. She never would have pumped me full of drugs."

Blaze rose from the floor and looked right past me as he tied an effortless knot in the two halter neck pieces at my nape. "If you recall, she was happy to let you die."

"Now I'm calling bullshit, Blaze. I'm her daughter. She's my mother. And to that end, my next of fucking kin. Who made you reigning king of Emmy-Coo-Coo-Land?"

I really didn't think much of the following moments of silence until I heard Jonathan's tell beyond the curtained vestibule. For years, I'd won every hand in every card game against him for no reason other than he gave himself away with a little sniff that tailed off with an upper inflection, which almost turned it into a hiccup. Hearing it that instance threw me for a beat, and it wasn't until I centred my focus again that I thought back to the last thing I'd said.

You're just one rich girl in the line of many. All he had to do was let you die and he'd have gotten everything you own—all that money you refused to acknowledge for years...

"Are you... Is there something you need to tell me?"

"Not now." Pinching at various spots in the fabric, Blaze avoided eye contact at all costs. Reeling, I could only find the concentration to be mildly surprised by how loose the dress was in all the places I should have been bulging out. Stomach flu looked to have been the weight loss solution every bride prayed for. "We'll talk about this later, when we're alone."

"We're never alone." A crowd of nosey bystanders beyond the drapes was the least of my concerns. Our truly problematic company was always ever in my mind. What looked like an empty room to him was a personality packed microcosm of clashing opinions to me. "You swore to be honest."

"I was nominated," he bit out so quickly I barely registered he'd spoken. "When we arrived at the hospital, your parents and Tallulah's phones were off. It was too early in the morning even for Oscar. As the closest person to you, I was nominated as your next of kin and when your parents arrived they didn't dispute it. I agreed to give them the power back over your care provided they passed that right on to me, permanently and legally, when you recovered."

"You allowed the DNR." The sickening realisation that my so-called beloved partner had given the hospital his blessing to let me die fell out of my mouth before the conscious thought even ran through my head. It didn't sink in until I'd said the words, and the truth hit me like a physical blow to the stomach, knocking all the air and light out of me.

"You weren't there, Emmeline. Not really."

A tugging at my hands made me aware of the fact I'd crumpled into a heap on the floor of the dressing room without even noticing.

How could he? After making out he'd opposed the order all along, how could it really be that he was the one who'd given the DNR the green light? How could he say my parents owed him when he'd been on their side? He'd outright lied to me for the first time.

"Your prospects were a life full of the consequences of multiple organ failure, paralysis and maybe even brain damage. You could have ended up a vegetable, unable to move or speak. As much as I love you, I didn't want that life for you. I'm not so selfish that I'd make you miserable just to keep myself happy, cupcake."

But that's just what he's doing, isn't it? Calling the shots to 'look out' for you makes him feel better for letting you die but makes you hate yourself.

"It's so easy to screw up around you, Emmeline. It's impossible to keep a clear head when every brain cell is dedicated to loving you."

That was a nice save but it didn't detract from the fact we were verging on seriously dysfunctional. I'd killed for him and he controlled me in return, yet he wasn't master of his own vessel, either. In some ways we were completely unmanageable but in others we were so constrained it was suffocating. When so little made sense about our lives, how could we actually justify our strange coexistence?

"Please." He crouched down in front of me. "Talk to me."

With something as simple and small as his thumb brushing across my cheek, all the fight left me.

Because his touch made me feel wanted.

Because I didn't know what I was even fighting anymore.

Because, as he'd rightly pointed out in the hospital, I owed him. I hadn't earned the right to make his life difficult.

"Take me home." I stood, using the last ounce of pride I had left to push Blaze away when he tried to help me, and unfastened the knot keeping the dress in place. It fluttered down into a pool at my feet, leaving me naked for all but the underwear I had no idea how long I'd been wearing. All I had left was what he'd given me: one emerald ring and what little dignity he might have provided during my period of convalescence. I had nothing else. My survival had, and would undoubtedly continue, to depend on him. "Take me back to our suite and pretend with me that our lives aren't complete circus acts."

He didn't argue. Even the most delusional man on Earth would have been hard-pushed to deny that our day to day dramas were like something dreamed up by a Generation Y housewife with too much imagination to vent between spin cycles, so arguing would have been feeble. He simply swept me off like the white knight he strived to be, away from the gaping mouths of a stunned audience.

Blaze was good at that—sweeping me away. But not nearly good enough.

#  twelve

#

Blaze stretched his legs out in the vast space of our Tudor fleet limo. He had the smug, flushed face of a satisfied man, and boy, was he. We'd gone straight back to the hotel from Caroline's and he'd attempted to 'pacify' me from the minute we were alone. I'd tried to fight any inclination I might have had to break from my depression until I realised that a good fucking was exactly what I needed.

And he knew it. My ever watchful and conscientious fiancé remembered from the early days of our relationship that when it came to getting me on his wavelength, it was a task best achieved by drilling some sense into me on the nearest flat surface—which apparently didn't need to necessarily be either horizontal or soft. Or flat.

Dressed up in my new purple frock and what he assured me was photo-friendly sex hair, I watched him relax like the world was completely in order and problem free. To an outsider, it might have looked that was almost true.

The dress had been delivered to us unexpectedly, an hour after we'd left the boutique, along with a matching hair pin laced with tiny amethysts. The lack of genuine surprise in his reaction when it arrived made me believe he'd somehow planned the whole thing; that the ordeal surrounding wanting to try that damn dress on had been staged; that he was so far into my mind and under my skin that he knew I'd see it and want it. The entire afternoon might have been completely orchestrated, from my storming out to his coming clean about being my new next of kin before vows had even been exchanged.

There again, that could have been my paranoia thinking for me. When that blasted voice started piping up at every turn, I started to second guess everything. Friends would be able to tell whether my head was hosting two minds from the barely discernible but too obvious pause before I'd respond to a question because I'd be scanning their words for a hidden motive, or trying to figure out if they were attempting to trip me up to stumble head-first into humiliation.

That whole part of our disagreement wasn't really touched until we were showered and waiting for the limo. I'd tried to broach the subject of medication again, certain that it was the better option for _me_ , just to be met with another round of ' _you can beat it alone'._

"You still don't get it," I griped, rubbing frustrated circles on my temples. If he seriously thought Fat Emmy would be remedied with sex and positive thinking, he was delusional.

I dunno, I'm not complaining.

"I don't," Blaze admitted, maintaining his lazy lounge rather than straightening for the topic like he would if he was going to take a single word I said seriously. "But you don't understand, either. I've seen what you're capable of. I've seen you silence her before, and if you can do it once, you can do it again."

"Says who?"

"Emmeline." There it was. The speaking of my name preceding intense condescension. "I get that having her back probably feels like a massive failure, but all you lack is self-belief. I gave you a crutch after the incident at Natasha's. I didn't tell you because I wanted it to feel like your own triumph. After flushing those meds from New York, it would have looked like l lacked conviction in my own beliefs to start dishing out a new prescription, and I thought I could wean you off without you ever knowing." He raised his before I could protest to his gross abuse of my independence and right to dictate my own well being. "I should have discussed it with you when you were discharged, and I'm sorry that I didn't. Your mental health is a part of your life you have no say in and I took away what little control you had. I understand your distress and I get that if you're on an even keel, issues like medication need to be put in your hands to regulate. I handled this badly."

It was too easy. It felt spiteful to question him when it looked suspiciously like I was going to get my own way, but there's no way he could have had such a drastic change of heart from one discussion with my best friend. Blaze was stubborn and too intelligent to fall for emotional blackmail. Once he made a choice, he stuck with it to the bloody end.

"You still think it's all in my head. You're in the same camp as my mother, just thinking that I'll grow out of it."

"Give me a break. Please." Weary, Blaze turned his head towards me and let me see just how badly the day had hurt him. His own choices had almost lost me again and he bore a burden that showed in the redness around his eyes. "I've never dealt with anything like this before, Emmeline. I'm picking it up as I go along and I'm going to screw up from time to time. Break an ankle and I've got that shit handled. But I don't know what I'm doing right now and I'm taking the lead from everyone else. Do you have any idea how strange that is for me?"

Sullenly, I reached for his hand and pulled it into my lap. Of course I knew how surreal that was for him, having mostly seen him in complete control of his universe and in bits when it didn't all go to plan. And of course I knew how horrible it was to have to look to those around you for the right cues on how to function like a human being. I'd been making out for a long time that I was independently living a righteous path, secretly knowing that I just looked for a way to slot in and adapt. Like an outsider.

"We'll both screw up," I muttered, watching The Roses slip into view between the shells of cars that didn't seem to be moving.

Traffic was a thick block of a creeping engines revving angrily at the gridlock around the old converted theatre. Taxis and hire cars battled to merge into the one lane left open on a two way street, the other chocked full of other queuing limousines waiting to unload their celebrity cargo into _our_ engagement party. "What matters is that we—... What the hell?"

Like the Red Sea, the congestion parted the moment wardens realised who was in our limo. Waved through, we shot to the front of the line and parked up right at the doors to the venue.

I'd known that Ivy would go all out and would have a few tricks up her sleeves to make the night memorable. What I wasn't expecting was to be so stunned by her latest stunt that the next morning's newspapers would be plastered with my mortified face.

It wasn't until Blaze had stepped out onto the pavement and turned to help me from the limo's plush leather interior that I clocked the banner over his shoulder and quickly wish I could climb back inside, crawl into the foetal position and die. He flashed his fake smiles for a minute, going through the motions of distracting the attention from my confusion. It seemed like hours passed before he turned to look at what had me so rigid, and turned as puce as the ink that spelled out, _'Tudor Initiative Blood Drive.'_

"She's kidding, right?" Livid, Blaze grabbed my hand and pulled me away from the disorienting flashes of the press gauntlet. "She's got to be kidding."

Apparently, she wasn't. Rather than lavish tables laden with extravagant centrepieces and name tags written in delicate calligraphy, my theatre was full of nurses, beds and half-dead semi-famous faces. It looked as though a row of party food had been set up along the edge of the room, on par with the spread for a child's birthday party. An afterthought to an otherwise incredibly morbid scene.

My sister was talking into a large microphone for a local radio station when we arrived and applause broke out. Daniel and Jonathan were huddled over cups of hot sugary tea having donated blood minutes before. Chris hovered around the nurses, trying to make them laugh with his fake vampire fangs, while my hemophobic father sat in a corner looking sick as a dog.

There were no words for how heartbroken and betrayed I felt in that moment. What should have been an event to celebrate a relationship that could apparently withstand anything thrown at it had been turned into a vampiric horror movie designed to make my family look like saints.

Oblivious to the pain she was causing me, Ivy rushed over and pressed a large red kiss to my forehead. Once she'd let the photographers adequately snap her wiping the lipstick stain away like a doting mother, she held my face in her hands and searched my expression.

Disappointment washed over her features. "You don't like it."

"It wasn't exactly what I had in mind, no."

"You didn't want to be in the limelight. You didn't want a fuss."

"If I'd wanted a fuss, would you have been asking for corneas instead?" Repulsed by her touch, I took a defensive step backwards and found myself pressed up against six foot three inches of hot, angry male. Damp hands found their way to my shoulders, the faint smell of sweat and testosterone filling my head space.

"What have you done, Ivy?" Blaze growled softly, so lowly it was almost impossible to hear. "This was supposed to be a celebration."

"It is."

I couldn't even comprehend how my mother could look so baffled by our wounded disappointment. Had she honestly thought that we'd see this ghastly scene as a party and be in the mood to laugh and rejoice?

Lifting her chin, Ivy smoothed the ripples in the skirt of her sassy crimson dress and arranged herself with all the practised elegance of a rich woman who could do no wrong and would defend herself to the death if she did. "This is a celebration of my daughter's survival against her own worst enemy: herself. A survival aided by you. All the blood gathered here will save lives and any monetary donations will go to MIND."

"You're cashing in on your daughter's instability."

Her hands went to her hips. "How dare you. I'm celebrating her life, one she sought to end. I'm raising awareness of—"

"You were supposed to be raising awareness of our engagement! Nothing more."

Ivy indignantly spluttered into silence, restlessly moving her hands to her neck, sides, then settled into a stroppy arm-folded slump. Despite the gradually quietening room around us slowly filling with tension, Blaze kept his hands on my shoulders, firmly rooted to the spot and charged for battle. For once in my life, I didn't want to end the attack against my mother. I was pissed off, too. Pissed off enough to bite back.

"All you've raised awareness of tonight is Tallulah, patron saint of haemoglobin. This was _our_ night to make an announcement and you've turned it into a fiasco to milk money _and_ blood from the upper classes. Our names aren't even on that God awful banner outside.

"This isn't for us. This is for you, so you can feel better about the fact our family is broken."

"Emmy, love..." Ivy went to make an advance towards me, which I warded off with will alone. "You wanted the attention taken off you."

"I wanted the attention taken off the wedding, Mum! And that won't happen now. You think I'm less interesting to the public because you're literally trying to suck the life out them? People are going to want to know what awful fate befell me to justify a blood transplant in the first place. It's only a matter of weeks before the wedding and your charity choice is outing me as a nutter. You've dragged them in."

"That's enough."

Another hand touched my shoulder next to Blaze's, one that was bigger, rougher and fairly unfamiliar. Still looking seriously unwell, Henry eased me back from my pain of a mother and gave her some kind of esoteric signal to vanish.

"I can make this disappear," he murmured softly. "I can keep the press away or I can feed them a fake story. She didn't tell me she was doing this—there was no time for damage control. I promise I'd have put a stop to it."

"I believe you." Honestly, I did. Confessing to his involvement in Regis Lundy's death had made me see a new side to my father, though who knew if I was reading it right. If I wanted to be sentimental about how he'd opened up to me, I'd say he felt a greater sense of duty to protect my dignity because it had drawn us closer. If I wanted to be cynical, I'd say it was regret, and he sought to preserve my public image because I held the biggest of bargaining chips against him.

Either way, his motivation to 'fix' the ridiculous situation was the least of my concerns. The solution was the only thing that mattered.

"Maybe I should just come clean," I suggested, pushing down the hiss of Fat Emmy practically daring me to get up on the stage I'd drank with rockstars on, and declare myself clinically insane to the public. "Ivy wants to turn this into a crusade; what better way to 'raise awareness' than to get up there and tell everyone exactly why they're giving blood today?"

"Emmeline, are you sure?"

Reaching up, I gave Blaze's hand a quick squeeze and broke away from him before I had chance to change my mind. Naturally, I understood why he might have some reservations, just like I would have understood if Henry was a little twitchy about me fending for myself, too.

But I wasn't stupid. I knew what was and wasn't suitable to be publicly announced. I wouldn't mention Natasha in any way and there would be no need for anyone to dig around if I explained myself just so.

Don't be a fool. You can't pull that off. You can't do this.

Yes, I can.

No, you can't. You're going to fuck it all up right before your wedding and someone will figure out what you did to Natasha.

Nobody can prove what I did. Not even I can prove it.

There are people who can prove it, you dumb ho. Go up there and confess to a murder, and Henry is going to have an obligation to throw his money around to cover you. There'll be an investigation. You had motive. Come the big day, you'll be eating slop off a plastic tray in a prison for the mentally unstable.

Nobody will know about Natasha. I won't even mention it.

Yes, you will. You'll stumble over your words and give them something to latch on to. You can't do it. You complain that your life is a circus act? Welcome to the big top, baby.

"Good evening." I was up on the stage talking into the microphone before I even knew it. The whole building dipped into a sudden silence at my voice, hanging on my every word.

It was too late to turn back now. My bed was made and the covers thrown back ready for me to lay in it. My future depended on how well I gave this spur of the moment speech.

And I'd never given a speech in my life. _Shit._

"On behalf of my family," I started, voice cracking with nerves. "I'd like to thank everyone in attendance for being here tonight. I'm sure that when you all opened your invitations for the next Ivy Tudor event, you were expecting something a little more razzle dazzle. Honestly, so was I. This blood drive really goes above and beyond all expectations I had when I asked my mother to arrange an engagement party for myself and Blaze."

There was a ripple of confusion and disturbance through the room, a shocking and shameful revelation of just how much of the spotlight my mother had stolen. Nobody in that room knew that we were going to be getting married in a matter of weeks. Not a single one.

Heads turned in Ivy Tudor's direction for a reason other than awe for the first time in her life, and I let it happen. I stood there and stayed quiet for a moment to let her feel just some of the humiliation I'd felt walking through those doors.

And when I spoke again, I explained what she'd done to me. I explained what had happened to justify their disdain.

"What you see around you is a plea. This somewhat cryptic event is a testament to the lengths you will go to, to gauze your family when it falls apart. With no explanation whatsoever, some of you have donated blood that will save lives—other's have donated money to what may seem like a random choice of charity. It's not. My personal struggles as a teenager have hit the headlines in the past months, but it's my battles today that have brought you here."

"A few weeks ago, I tried to kill myself." I raised my wrists to show my scars. "It wasn't the first time and I can't promise that it will be the last. I suffer from a short term form of schizophrenia called Schizophrenoform disorder and sometimes these things just seem like a good idea—the _only_ idea. At the time, it was what I deemed best for the people I love. In reality, it's caused nothing but pain for them and myself. By some miracle, my support network has remained mostly intact but the damage done to it may leave bruises further down under the skin than scars."

"It's a little known fact that all of my family share the same extremely rare blood group, and had my sister, Tallulah, not shown a lot of backbone and an impressive display of family unity, I might not be here to celebrate my fast approaching wedding to a wonderful man. I am incredibly grateful to her for giving blood on the spot to keep me on the road, no matter how bumpy that road may be."

"And while I am disappointed to not be dancing under a glitter ball to eighties pop songs and bhangra remixes, I commend my mother for having the moxie to try pulling together an arrangement like this. Hold an open blood drive and you're not likely to have many takers. She's used the popularity of our family's name to bring a crowd together for the greater good."

Nice snipe, bitch.

Thanks, I thought so.

"But she's also highlighted the fact that status doesn't make you immune to misfortune. The Tudor's work hard, play hard, but we also fall hard in love, in life and in tragedy. If you've arrived tonight and done your part, I commend you for contributing to the deeper, hidden significance. For those of you against, afraid or undecided, I look to you to reconsider. You never know if your family may be the next to fall on harder times."

Brazen and unashamed, I took a step from the microphone and waited to be received.

Silence. Nothing but the deathly echo of a distraughtly duped audience.

Closing my eyes helped to block out the reality of the fact I'd just made a fool of myself, but didn't prepare me in the slightest for the rush of chaotic din that charged at me like an army several moments later. Dazed, I opened my eyes to better understand what had caused such a sudden onslaught of what sounded remarkably like panic, but instead of looking around to see a room packed with pallid, dismayed faces, I saw the ceiling.

What happened?

We're just two minds in the same body, dipshit. Your guess is as good as mine.

Voices around me hummed with muted concern, others seemed to be ringing out above all others to impose their way closer to the stage. In my desperation to figure out what was going on around me, I almost forgot that I was flat on my back.

"Call an ambulance, for fuck's sake!"

"Blaze?"

"I'm here, cupcake. I'm here." A warm hand brushed across my forehead. "Jesus, you're burning up."

"I don't—"

"You collapsed. You started talking, went rigid and just hit the floor without warning. Thank God everyone was too mortified to get their cameras on you; there's not enough money in the world to buy off this many people."

"Hold up." What he was saying—and so quickly he was barely coherent—made no sense at all. Confused and a little embarrassed, I fought to sit upright and surveyed the scene around me.

My mother was in tears while Henry fought to fend off the over-zealous nurses who wanted to tend to me rather than watch over their donor patients. Tallulah screeched angrily at journalistic vultures who'd made their way in from the street during a moment of lapsed security. Famous faces I knew—and some I didn't—stared on at me like they were awkwardly viewing a corpse on display at an open-casket funeral. Dread festered in my stomach and furled outward into the rest of my body like an icy chill that froze my blood as it travelled.

Whatever had happened that night, it was clear that it was going to haunt me for many days to come.

#  thirteen

#

That blood drive facade was the start of hell for me and everyone in my inner circle. It had taken some hardcore persuasion to extract the truth of what had happened to me on that stage from anyone who'd been there; I'd started talking, trailed off into silence and simply folded over into a heap on the floor, by all accounts.

With my recent neck injury, nobody had moved me from the stage, too scared to cause further damage. I was out cold for twenty minutes before I came to, and with the congestion so bad on the roads outside, no paramedics had made it to me while I was down.

Drama queen Ivy thought her actions had caused me to drop dead, Blaze thought I'd had another heart attack, and I suspected a few people thought I was faking it for attention.

What nobody ever found out, even after I was checked over by several nurses and two doctors, was why I'd collapsed in the first place, and I never knew how much of my speech had been heard or understood. I just knew it was enough to cause some real problems.

The golden rule of life is to never shit where you eat, and as far as the media were concerned, my family had taken a giant crap on me. The coverage I'd expected to label me as a nutcase was relatively tame in comparison to the teeth-grindingly bad press being thrown in their direction.

Trophy bride Ivy Tudor found her way onto a lot of shit lists for hijacking our engagement party and people started digging up dirt on her. Pathetic non-issues of tiny family squabbles while I was a teenager were escalated into news stories implying that my instability arose from a history of serious emotional neglect. Bullshit gossip magazines wrote unsubstantiated articles of how I was a victim and I'd been wronged by my parents. My leaving home was portrayed as an exile; they made it seem like I'd been forced out because I was the lesser loved younger daughter. Some even went as far as to compare Henry to the real Henry VIII, implying that I was a disappointment for my gender—that he'd wanted a son to inherit his fortune.

Worse than anything, my family started to take the bad publicity to heart and creep around me, though I couldn't tell if the apologies were genuine or not. Was my mother sending me bouquets and the comic book collectables she'd refused to buy me before on the basis of them being too 'boyish' because she really felt like she'd damaged me, or to make herself look better? Did Henry keep the hotel under heavy guard to protect me, or to protect his reputation?

That was the paranoia talking again, and it was something I couldn't solve. With the hotel surrounded by reporters around the clock, we were virtually confined to the suite unless leaving was essential. Not even absconding to Wales was an option thanks to Blaze's constant meetings with his newest director—ironically, the situation had done wonders for his career. He was a saint for taking me on in sickness and lack-lustre mental health. That's what they thought. And who could have blamed them?

Nobody could get through the hysteria to us and we couldn't get out. That meant Dr. Downes couldn't make it through the havoc to administer the anti-psychotics I so desperately wanted, and neither could any of her underdogs. The only occasion we tried to make it out to her, the stress of trying to force through a tight crowd and the hellish flashes of short-lens cameras made me throw up rather unceremoniously down the side of Henry's Mercedes. Like things weren't bad enough, the bastards saw vomit and heard the pitter-patter of tiny feet. Such an unhealthy heiress, such a rush to get married...

I was officially on baby-bump watch.

All I had for company was Blaze, who was distracted and well on his way to becoming a world class ninja, the occasional email from Daniel, and the voice inside my head which told me that it was safer to be locked away inside anyway. None of this equated to a good time.

Two weeks and one day before the wedding, the burden of leaving the supposed sanctity of my super-king sized bed was thrust at me along with the most gruesome of tasks: my penultimate dress fitting. Obviously unable to take Blaze with me, I allowed myself to be begrudgingly led to Caroline's little fashion-shop of horrors in nightmare company.

While she'd been leaking to the press that she was designing my bridal gown, the charming seamstress had announced to the world that she was also responsible for the dresses of my bridesmaid and maid of honour. I hadn't even known that I was having a bridesmaid and maid of honour, let alone what they'd be wearing, so to be bundled into one of Henry's limousines next to my mother, Tallulah and Esme was as much as a surprise for me as it was for them to see the state of me.

My cheeks were sunken, eyes dull and hair lank. Segregation, isolation and the total violation of my privacy had paid it's toll. My only view of the outside world came from trashy e-zines that were hard to read both on intellectual and spiritual levels, and the grim picture they painted hardly did wonders for my appetite or willingness to move.

I couldn't remember the last time I'd eaten and kept it down, and I couldn't tell if that was a psychological or physical rebellion acting out from within. I didn't feel like I even knew my own mind anymore. Being locked up made me stir-crazy but I was so anxious about being out in public, I was verging on agoraphobic. Black-out blind covered windows blocked out any reporters crazy enough to try scaling the hotel guttering, but gave no clues as to the time of day. Endless minutes slipped together into one single, prolonged second of artificial light and darkness when I felt like it. Most of the time, I was so disoriented that I wasn't really sure whether I was awake or dreaming some kind of monotonous reverie.

"My God, Emmy," Ivy declared as soon as the limo door shut behind me and we'd merged into a thick vein of brunch-time traffic. "Is Blaze not looking after you?"

"He's... Blaze is..." Unable to form a coherent sentence, I simply nodded his defence and scrambled gracelessly across the soft leather bench towards a mini fridge in search of water. My mouth was so arid, so thickly coated with the film left from a diet of intense coffee abuse.

"You look awful. Are you anorexic again, love? You haven't hurt yourself, have you? I wouldn't know what to do if you had, I couldn't take it."

"Maybe it's not about you." I glared out across the packed roads, feeling motion sick and half-drunk. "Maybe it's never been about you. How about that? How about my mental state has never had a damn thing to do with you or what you think and how you feel. Maybe I'm just selfish. Maybe you borne a bitch—a fundamentally narcissistic, all encompassing, grade A cunt-stick little bitch of a daughter."

"I know you're still angry with me but I never brought you up to use such vulgar language."

"That's because you brought me up without a backbone. You brought me up to believe that my life would only mean something if I had the social acceptance of a bunch of stuck up Z-listers who incessantly called me 'Emily', and became one of their league of asinine Stepford wives."

There was no normal water in the fridge, just snooty glass bottles of sparkling fizzy crap that had the refreshment value of drinking tar.

"Are we so uptight that we've demoted _Evian_ to the lower classes now?"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Emmeline. Give it a rest." I turned in surprise to see my mother with her arms folded and brow knit into a scowl so deep and severe nobody could have possibly expected her collagen fillers to allow it. "You had a good solid upbringing and however cruel you feel life is, you should be used to this. This is the hand you were dealt at birth—you're no stranger to finer food and public scandal. Anyone who lives this 'simpler life' you so crave will very quickly tell you that there's nothing simple about it. There is no immunity to strife but for God's sake, there are people out there who look at _Perrier_ and wish they could afford it. Show a little gratitude."

"I... uh... Huh." Taken aback by the long overdue rebuff from a mother who could discipline as well as she could tap dance, I sank down into the bench and tried to make myself look as small as I felt.

Why could she have not been a little firmer with me when I was young? Surely trying to instil some humility into me then instead of letting me find it myself would have stopped me from feeling like I was only as valued and successful as the man I married. I wanted for nothing but the boy I couldn't have, but money would have bought a replacement or close alternative. I didn't have to be happy as long as I was rich—that was the society I was brought up in.

I learned the cost of living a modest life on my own, by refusing handouts that would have made me 'privileged'. Bills, rent, food; I learned to manage expense on my own.

But at heart, was I really just a brat because it was how I'd been raised? Looking back at my life, I'd never truly been satisfied with what I had on offer. I always wanted more or less than I had. Why even now, with popularity, money and a perfect partner—the lifestyle revered and exalted by most—did I still pick fault and look for areas to improve?

"You don't look well, Emmy." Speaking to me for the first time since my lecture in the hospital, Esme pulled a bottle of water from her handbag and haplessly tossed it onto the bench next to me. Despite the vast space available, she sat so closely to my mother she may as well have been sitting on her lap.

"I'm fine," I lied, training my gaze over her shoulder to look out of the window opposite. The stretch of road leading up to Caroline's boutique was surprisingly clear, almost eerily so. Large sections of tarmac were bordered off by plastic barricades and edged by temporary traffic lights, though not a workman in sight. A clever ruse, and one that stank of Henry Tudor. "Let's just get this nip and tuck over with, and then go about our days as normal."

Whatever the hell 'normal' was.

Even with the measures in place to keep the street as quiet as possible, we were taken straight to a back room in Caroline's shop to stay out of sight; a studio or workshop of some sort which was clearly her operation central.

Tall wraps of fabric hung from what looked like giant toilet roll holders, taking most of the wall space on two sides of the room. Others stood upright, supported by floor-fastened spikes close to a massive well-lit workbench that looked much like the light box table in my own studio. A needlessly extensive collection of sewing machines were lined up idly on a shelf underneath a large arched window overlooking nothing worth noting, while one single _Singer_ machine clattered loudly through what was surprisingly a generally cluttered and disorganised work area.

"Oh, you're here." Caroline didn't stand to greet us. Those three words were all the acknowledgement we received before her assistant came swooping in. Whatever she said to us didn't hit home, my mind too caught up in watching the mistress stitch up fabric at a furious rate. She was skilled, there was no denying that.

Shame she's a massive bitch.

Did... did you just initiate a conversation with me?

... No.

Yeah, you did! Watch out people, she's about to crack!

Shut up.

"Miss Tudor?" The assistant squeezed my shoulder and coaxed me away from fashion HQ. "This way, please."

She directed me around to the dressing room I'd used before, and from the way she was humming with excitement, my dress had to be waiting inside. I knew I'd drawn a nightmare design full of fiddly and intricate details, so the reveal was going to be a big moment for everyone. It was going to be a true testament to Caroline's skills—or lack thereof—and the single most important item of clothing I'd ever wear. I was one drawn curtain away from finding out if I'd look like a princess or a pauper on my wedding day.

Having only seen pictures of fabric swatches and various bits of shiny haberdashery wanting my approval, I was obviously nervous. If I'd only been given a wider time frame, I wouldn't have been stood there feeling the damp patches of stress sweat growing larger under my arms and praying I was about to witness a miracle. It had to be spot on straight away. There was no time for a redesign. If it wasn't right, my wedding was ruined.

"Come on!" Jeers goaded me from a waiting room just out of my view. I could just picture them, my mother, sister and so-called best friend, soaking up the hospitality and complimentary strawberries and champagne. It was going to be so easy for them to judge and pick out flaws. The pressure was on, and I wasn't at all ready to face it when the assistant forced my hand.

The curtain fluttered back and—

"Oh my God."

It was perfect. It was, by far, the most impressive wedding dress I'd ever seen with my own eyes.

And I didn't deserve it. For me to stroll around in that dress pretending I belonged in it would have been a fallacy and insult. I'd played a huge part in creating something that was beyond my own worth.

I stood there, dumbstruck and dry-mouthed. Mounted in front of me was a direct replica of the dress I'd drawn from my mind, identical down to the silver embroidery across the bust. If Caroline hadn't somehow crawled into my brain to see what I had in mind, there was no other feasible explanation for how well she'd recreated a scribble on paper. Had I gone into excruciating detail in my sketches? Yes. But this was unreal.

"Is there a problem, Emmeline?" She sneaked up behind me like Satan's serpent, daring me to criticise her work.

I couldn't. The cow had me by the balls.

"Emmeline?"

"No... No problem." Nothing other than the fact that I couldn't possibly imagine wearing it. There should have been a contingency plan for an event like this, but who ever ordered bridal wear just to feel like it was too good for them?

Caroline and her lackey took the initiative and the advantage while my ability to act was temporarily out of commission. The headmistress ushered me closer to the mannequin holding the confusing collaboration of my deepest and darkest dreams and nightmares infused, while the student closed the curtain behind us and stood guard.

I was undressed from the waist down and staring at a bare fabric torso before I was jolted from my daze. _Oh, God._ Nobody had seen me undressed for weeks—nobody new since that pompous American prick, Calloway Ryan, who'd been as emotionally disturbed as I was. The second Caroline moved even fractionally to remove my tattered and so-totally-not fresh on that morning t-shirt, my hands went to the hem to hold it down.

"Okay," she said slowly, oozing impatience. "I'm sure I don't need to tell you that you can't wear that underneath the dress on the day."

"I know," I muttered, and because I knew I was being stupid and paranoid, repeated it several times to myself. Fat Emmy was raging inside me, screaming at me, screaming at her. My safest bet was to say nothing so I couldn't echo or answer anything she said.

"So are you going to do this with my help, or are you going to dress yourself?"

I've got her back, whore.

"I don't... Couldn't you just... turn away?"

"Is this about those scars?"

My jaw hit the ground faster than a two tonne deadweight. How the hell did she know about the scars?

Having the decency to look awkward, Caroline shuffled back an inch and carefully smoothed a crease in her pristine silk shirt. "I've seen a lot in this line of work, Emmeline. I've dressed amputees, burn victims; I've seen it all. You can't possibly shock me."

I'd put money on you eating those words in about two and a half minutes.

"Honestly, I'm not here to judge."

"Yeah right," I snorted, surprised that she'd even try to pull off a comment like that. "You've been judging me since the moment you saw me."

"I'm used to dealing with self-righteous upper class snobs," she retorted quickly, folding her arms. "I expected you to be the same. You learn to give as good as you get when you're constantly treated like a second class citizen."

"You thought I was one of _them_?" I was almost insulted. The only thing that stopped me calling her a hypocrite was the glimpse of human I caught when she let her tough exterior crack a little. It took a serious minute of consideration to appreciate how she must have been looked down on by so many of those contemptuous kept housewives I so prayed to never become like. A superiority complex was essential to surviving on the same social level as them, fuck knows how much you had to big yourself up to earn their respect on a lower tier.

There was no reason to cause a fuss. She had to remain professional or it would cost her dearly. As shitty as it made me feel, I shed the t-shirt and squeezed my eyes shut while she pulled the dress up over my knees, thighs, hips, past the scars that still shone silvery on my left side, coming to rest over my bust.

The silence that followed was so tense I'd only felt the same kind of anxiety on the psychiatric unit right before a fellow patient was told they were still too sick to be discharged. Caroline called her assistant through. I felt her pause, assess and scrutinise before finally saying, "Are you positive these measurements were taken correctly?"

"Yes, ma'am. I double-checked them against those taken for Mr. Blaze's order and gave you the smaller sizes."

"Blaze is not 'Mr. Blaze'," Caroline snapped harshly. "But he's going to be Mr. Pissed if he sees this coming at him in fifteen days."

"It'll be fine once it's done up properly, ma'—"

"This is as tight as it goes."

They continued to squabble behind me. It was just like all those times my family spoke about me like I wasn't there, except this time those involved knew no better and I was clueless as to the problem.

I needed to know. Cautiously, I opened one eye and peeked downwards. There was a large gap between my skin and the reinforced bodice of the dress. Even with the corseted back at maximum tensity, it felt like it would drop down to my waist if I so much as breathed too deeply.

Fat Emmy always made sure I was conscious of my weight, so I knew I'd lost a little during my bout of stomach flu and the stress that had followed. But what the state of the dress told me was that I hadn't just lost a few pounds. I had to have lost nearly a stone.

My lungs filled on a harsh, aching inhale, then on another when I'd barely breathed back out. My ears started to ring and my scalp prickled uncomfortably.

Yeah, you're thinking along the right path. You've fucked it all up. Again. He'll never marry you now. May as well just tell him what you did to his wife. I bet she never had this problem.

"I can fix this." A hand settled on each of my shoulders, both from a different owner, I thought. "We'll work tirelessly to have this sorted in a matter of days."

"You can't let them see like this," I whispered, thinking of the three woman simply gagging to see what they were going to be following down the makeshift aisle in Connie Valentine's garden. "Please, don't let my mother see me like this." She'd see it as so much worse than it really was.

Maybe it is as bad as she'll see it.

Is it?

You tell me, genius. Your wedding dress is hanging off you. You think dear old Caz got her stitches so wrong?

"Of course not. I have a daughter of my own. I understand."

Still and shaken, I let the two women undress me again and pass me back my own clothes that had to be several sizes too large again. It was almost like I'd never met Blaze at all; never learned that my perception of my own body was completely off base. I was seeing myself as much larger again, slipping back into characteristic anorexic habits.

And I had nobody to blame but myself.

Esme, Ivy and Tallulah were the ideal demonstration of elation turned confusion turned spiteful disappointment when I walked out of the dressing room in my own clothes instead of in my ill-fitting bridal gown. As much as Caroline insisted that she'd figure out _some way_ to make it fit like a glove, I felt less and less like it was meant for me.

A career in fashion design might have been an option for me one day, but wearing my own product was definitely out of the question. Secretly, I was weighing up the viability of ordering my damned eBay dress and flying out to collect it myself, and a very small part of me hoped Blaze would postpone or just all together cancel the wedding.

Ivy immediately questioned why I wasn't showing them the dress. Caroline jumped out of the dressing room on my heels and announced that it was so wonderful that I wanted to keep it a surprise even from them until the big day arrived. Quick thinking, I thought. Obviously a situation she'd been in before, which begged the question of whether her calculations were habitually off the mark or if she generally tended to instil the fear of God, insignificance and obesity into her customers.

She quickly had us move on to the bridesmaid and maid of honour dresses in her usual unruffled, snarky way. Oddly, I enjoyed watching her look down her nose at people when it wasn't directed at me.

Maybe you're a massive bitch, too. Hell, scrap the maybe.

Esme shot off first, apparently more than eager to show me exactly what it was she'd be wearing.

It obviously wasn't her first fitting. She and the assistant were more than a little friendly, giggling and snorting behind the curtain in the same way Tallulah would fifteen minutes later. If Blaze had indeed been the one to choose the dresses, I knew they'd at least be stylish and completely coordinated with our red and ivory scheme. After all, karma is a bitch and the girls knew where he slept.

I wasn't wrong. Esme stepped out in a form fitting ruby gown with a low, scooping back. The hem of the skirt just grazed her ankles, showing off matching red pumps studded with off-white crystals. Nothing clashed with my stunning friend's crest of red hair, not even the crimson netted veil she'd need for the ceremony. The ensemble was classic Esme.

Tallulah's outfit was equally as impressive. Slightly more modest was her two-piece outfit; a wide collared red tunic that showed a little shoulder but skimmed over her fuller figure and a beautifully embellished floor-skimming skirt to match. Stood side by side, they looked like they'd walked right off a red carpet. If I imagined myself standing between them, I felt like I'd ruin the picture.

"Sublime. Simply sublime." My mother gushed, hands clasped at her chest. If I could count on her for anything, it would always be that she'd ham up the theatrics and over-act. "You've done a wonderful job, Caroline."

Caroline grinned smugly in response. "Of course. I never go into anything half-cocked, Mrs. Tudor." Her chin lifted towards the silver tray of champagne flutes sitting on an ornate glass coffee table at Ivy's toes. "How's the Bollinger?"

"Oh, you know. Working too hard as ever. Oh!"

A shrill, sharp giggle later, Caroline was fussing over the frills and straps of the dresses, pinching in seams and snipping off stray threads she'd missed in production. She worked industriously, folding and nipping at an almost dangerous speed. Esme and Tallulah winced on occasion, narrowly missing unlucky encounters with a nasty looking pair of tiny silver scissors.

"Oh, yes," Caroline breathed after a solid twenty minutes. "A few minor adjustments and the three of you will be aisle-ready. I must say, Blaze was much kinder to you than he was to that awful Patrice."

That name, just the mere sound, of it got my hackles up. It had no place in my dress fitting, in my wedding, not even remotely near my life.

"Come again?"

"Oh, he had me set her up with a disgraceful beige prom dress I had to order in from _a department store._ Then he stuck that Natasha—God bless her soul—in an all-over lace dress with a high collar that showed no skin. You're really very lucky that he let you pick your—"

I zoned out. My mind was pushed back to the first time I'd met Caroline, and those dresses she'd told me Blaze preferred above all. If I hadn't designed my own during that trip away to Wales, would he have seriously picked one for me and expected me to wear it?

And how—for the love of all that's unholy—could he send me to the same seamstress who'd made his ex-wife's dress? It was in such poor taste, it was unreal.

"Goodness, are you all right?"

A warmness spread across my lip, one I'd started to recognise as the touch of blood from a nose bleed. Rejecting the five wadded up tissues thrown at me, I stanched the flow with the bottom of my t-shirt and warned them all away with a look.

"You made Natasha's dress?"

"Yes..." Caroline edged back from me carefully, totally bewildered by the sight of me. "Blaze would have it no other way."

"And he picked it." She nodded once. "He picked... her fucking wedding dress."

"He didn't love her the way he loves you." I was sure that was supposed to comfort me but it didn't. "It was all planned very quickly and meticulously—over in a flash. The moment he found out about her illness, he gave her eight weeks to—"

In a laboured heartbeat, I was on my feet and making an unsteady sprint for the door. The parallels between Blaze's two weddings were too glaringly obvious to ignore and I needed to get away from it. I needed to escape from the crushing feeling that I was just part of a trend, from the nagging doubt that I might just be another rich bride with an inheritance to snatched up and a best-before date stamped on me.

Who knows; maybe one day you'll be the one topping yourself after a dinner date with his new bit of fluff.

"Emmeline! Stop!"

The blare of a London bus' horn brought me back to my senses barely fast enough to take a breath before an impact from behind knocked me straight to the concrete. I recognised the weight of the body pinning me down to the road from days of recklessness past. If I hadn't, the smell of black cherry tobacco and the voice screaming like a banshee down my ear would have done the trick.

"Are you out of your fucking mind?"

Yes.

Esme scrambled to her feet, grabbed my hand and hauled me up. No sooner had my back straightened, she drew a red-taloned hand back and struck me with a resounding back-handed slap. I'd feel the impact for hours afterwards and walk away with a red mark that glowed from eyebrow to jaw. "You can't just run out in public like you're—"

"Like what, Esme? Like a normal person with normal problems and normal peeves?"

"Sure. If you like."

Rolling my eyes, I turned away from her and made to set off down the street. My face stung something mean, I could taste blood, and my leg felt like it was on fire. A quick glance down found my jeans torn open and scuffed, but it was the look back up that was truly horrifying.

The press had come out of hiding. In what seemed like their hundreds, the swarm was closing in, cameras and notepads at dawn. In a series of events that happened too fast to process, I somehow fought a path through them to the nearest main road, lifted my hand and produced the most unlikely, shrill, note perfect and once in a lifetime whistle to summon a cab. The how's and why's were lost to the painful accusing glare of my once best friend having her identity revealed to the public for the first time. Chances were, that bridge was as blazed as my life in general.

#  fourteen

#

I didn't screw around with going to Daniel's like I might have done during any other crisis. I'd been done a major injustice and I wanted blood for it—mostly Blaze's, but I'd have ripped out the throat of anyone who tried to obstruct my path to him.

Where the hell did he get off treating me like the ex-wife he never loved? It was downright disrespectful and I was going to tell him so, right before I threw his engagement ring back at him and told him to shove his wedding up his rectal cavity.

That was the plan, anyway. During the taxi journey back to the hotel, I thought of every possible scenario that could sabotage it. On my list, the most likely option was that I'd arrive back to him sprawled out naked across the couch or freshly showered. Even finding him sat casually playing his guitar and singing quietly would make him totally irresistible and douse that angry flicker of ire burning inside me. In that instant, I'd be useless unless I was completely mentally prepared with annoyance and ambivalence.

Which I was, and it was all for nothing. I crept back into the suite feeling, for some reason, very uncomfortable in my own temporary home, and saw him standing in the doorway to the kitchenette talking quietly on his phone.

He either heard or simply sensed me. The door had barely closed behind me when he hung up and turned to face me. I took a breath to steel myself for battle, ready to debate his reprimand.

Blaze tucked the phone into his pocket and leaned back against the breakfast bar. "Your mother called. I spoke to Dr. Downes; she thinks the nosebleeds are due to stress related high hypertension. Are you okay?"

No rebuke, oddly, but it was the distance that really took me aback. Blaze was a hands on fusser, preferring to rush in and coddle with kisses and cuddles, even if I was being scolded like a child. It dulled the sting of being called out on my foolish behaviour. That he wasn't doing so now was almost alien and entirely suspicious. A little voice of cynicism in the back of my mind wondered if it was because he knew he was in deep shit.

"Been better," I admitted, suddenly feeling very tired and weary. All the drama of the day seemed to have coated me with a film of filth I wanted to wash away. "Nothing a shower won't fix."

"Are you sure?" He took a quick step towards me, waiting for me to move towards the bedroom before giving a barely audible sigh and rubbing at the two day old stubble on his chin.

To my own detriment, I did look even shittier than I had when I'd left a few hours earlier. My trousers were scuffed and dirty, and my t-shirt was slightly torn at the front and covered in smears of blood. In my hurry to leave Caroline's shop, I'd left my jacket inside and my arm had taken most of the damage from my collision with the concrete.

"Let me clean that up for you."

The fact he didn't question me over how I'd gotten the injury was telling. He'd had enough of an opportunity to calm down after hearing what had happened, which meant my mother hadn't wasted any time before calling him to complain about me.

That or he's playing innocent. She must have told him what set you off.

"I don't want your help, thank you."

Don't want you at all.

"I just want to have a shower and be left alone."

Completely alone. Get out of our life.

"So if you could just, you know—"

Get fucked?

"Just let me clean it. Your immune system is compromised; if it gets infected it could—"

"Kill me? As if, Blaze. Like shuffling loose of this mortal coil would be that fucking easy for me."

I bolted for the bedroom before he could question what was, admittedly, something of a morose and suicide-suggestive statement. I didn't want to kill myself, at least I didn't think so. For once, I'd done nothing wrong. Punishing myself would have been reckless and needless.

Though I did feel familiarly hopeless.

Recognise it, don't you? Feeling like the world is about to end and there's nothing you can do to stop it.

But that made no sense. As pissed off as I was, I knew exactly how the impending argument would turn out: we'd fight, Blaze would admit he was wrong, I'd admit I'd been a tad irrational, he'd cook something yummy and then we'd go about business as usual. Knowing that, there was absolutely no reason why I couldn't have just hidden away until my temper died down and avoided the confrontation completely.

But you need to air the grievance. It'll eat at you if you don't.

There's better ways to put my thoughts across than in a blazing row.

Oh, really? When has a sensible conversation ever gotten you anywhere with him? He just subdues you with sex until your mind is pliable enough for him to make you agree to anything.

He doesn't... Does he?

You know he does. You get riled up and start wanting him to throw you down because you know it'll make you tolerable. The only thing that's ever worked better with you to make you behave is your own damned guilty conscience.

Fat Emmy was right, which I really hated. If I tried to approach Blaze reasonably with my issue he'd just brush it off and make out that it wasn't a problem.

But it was. It was a huge problem for _me_ and that should have mattered to him, but he wouldn't understand how much it would upset me unless I made a scene. For a man expertly trained in how to portray all the subtle nuances of a particular emotion on camera, he could be surprisingly dense when it came to real life.

I had to assume that his aloofness was why we'd even fallen into this situation. When I agreed to be with him after I'd come back from New York, I'd started out under the assumption that Natasha and I would always be kept in separate camps. Putting us together had truly proven to be catastrophic. I wanted my own set standards and to make my own impression as a wife. Being dressed by the same woman and being given the same marital timeframe felt like I was stepping into the position she'd left open.

Or rather being shoved into it. You're letting him call all the shots.

I've already decided that's the best thing for me.

Bullshit. You need independence and control. If you didn't, this wouldn't bother you. You can't cope without control.

But... You're confusing me.

I wanted it but I didn't. I had a thirst for autonomy but didn't want to be held accountable for my actions because I made bad decisions.

That's because you're an imbecile. If you were smarter you wouldn't need him to take the wheel and steer you in the right direction.

You just said I don't need him to—

"Jesus fucking Christ." I was quarrelling with my own mind and she loved that. She loved talking me around in circles until I'd thought she'd won but how could she have? _She_ was _me._ The only person I was losing to was myself.

Head pounding, I set the shower to scalding hot and stepped in before I could change my mind about burning my skin off, because that was what I _really_ wanted to do. Feeling betrayed, I knew I was in a bad place where, despite everything I had in my life, it felt like I had nothing and nobody. The last time I'd felt like that had seen me try to stab open an artery with a bathroom tile at college and I could either try that again or get the hell over it.

Both options were easier said than done. I wasn't seventeen years old being bullied in a vandalised college anymore, yet my state of mind was just the same. No sharp objects in reach made growing up the more accessible path but I didn't want to, damn it. I just wanted to shut down, hide and let the world pass me by.

You're at breaking point.

Shut up.

Don't be hostile. You know it's true. You don't have the strength to stand up for yourself because you feel like you don't have the right to.

... Because I killed Natasha.

Right. How can you vindicate yourself if there's no heart behind it? Leave it to me; I'm glad you killed the whore. I won't take any shit from that jumped up pretty boy outside.

... Okay.

I gave in to her incessant chatter and let my weary conscience rest for a while. In doing so I sacrificed a hefty chunk of my memory, having no recollection of leaving the bathroom, dressing in only underwear, sitting down on the floor in the lounge area or what happened in the run up to Blaze trying to force-feed me. My mind clicked back into drive about the time I was lying on the carpet, trying to push him away from me by the waist with my feet.

It really wasn't the nicest time for Fat Emmy to give me back the reins.

"What the fuck are you doing?" I scooted back across the floor, feeling the fibres scrape across my skin. When I reached an obstruction, I sat up and grabbed a cushion from the nearest couch to cover myself. Even with a history of anorexia, I could appreciate that I looked like an exhumed corpse and yes, I was ashamed, of that. I didn't see a fat girl staring back at me in the mirror on the rare occasion I tortured myself with a glance. I considered myself cured.

"I... You just... Emmeline?" Sighing, Blaze threw the crumbled remains of whatever he'd tried to feed me down on the coffee table and collapsed into an armchair. "We're going back to Wales."

"Oh, sure. I want to do something and it's a terrible idea. _You_ want it and suddenly it's the most amazing suggestion ever and I don't get a choice."

Blaze lifted his arm slightly and looked at me wryly. "You'd rather stay here? Are you Fat Emmy again or what? Who am I talking to?"

"Fuck you."

"That answers that question. You were somewhat more verbose five minutes ago." He rolled down on to his side and propped his head up on the arm of the chair, legs dangling over the other. "If I was really the evil dictator you think I am, I'd have just walked out when you started throwing paperweights at me."

_What the fuck..._ "Don't do me any favours, Blaze. God knows I'd hate to be a burden on you."

"You _are_ a burden. My burden. One I want and deserve."

I scowled and clambered up to my feet, cushion clasped over my stomach. "What the hell is that supposed to mean? You 'deserve' my bullshit?"

"No, I—" Blaze cursed and sat straight, fiddling with the ring I'd brought him in New York. "No, you're not perfect and you have your problems. But I've earned a life with someone who makes me feel complete, even when times are tough."

Not good enough. Not even close. "Don't you dare. Don't you dare try and placate me with romanticism in the middle of a fight."

"Who's fighting?" Springing to his feet, Blaze strode towards me and pulled the cushion from my hands. I felt him shaking but couldn't tell if his rage was directed inwardly or aimed at me. Neither were justified in any case. "I've taken nothing but abuse from you for the past two hours and I still don't know what's the matter with you."

_Two hours?_ "You're the matter, Blaze. _You_ are what is wrong with me. You and your inability to identify that manufacturing any kind of similarities between me and your ex-wife might cause me some anguish."

His head cocked. He was clearly baffled. Which meant I was right; he was so aloof, naive and self-centred that he'd never considered my feelings. Not once. Did that make it better or worse than if he was a sick control freak?

"What are you talking about, Emmeline?"

"You're kidding me. Do I need to spell it out?"

Blaze coughed out a trite laugh. "At this point, I'd fucking appreciate it in Scrabble tiles with a double letter score."

"You gave us both an eight week deadline then sent me to her bloody seamstress!"

"The dress." Visibly relaxing, Blaze staggered back to his armchair and shook his head. "You tried to give me blunt head trauma over a damn dress."

I spluttered indignantly, appalled that I'd made a scene but it was still so insignificant to him. It wasn't just about the dress... "It's the fact that there are so many matches between the two relationships. I'm an individual and I deserve to be treated as such." It was the principle, and a matter of pride and respect.

"Emmeline." Blaze pinched his temples and stood again, agitated like I'd never seen before. "I couldn't treat you like more of an individual if I tried. You think I'd take this shit from anyone else? You think I'd stay with you for the sake of it?"

"What's wrong? Is my payout on death not big enough for you?"

_Crap._ I regretted that the moment I said it and there was no coming back from it. Implying that I was only worth my monetary value to him had hit him right where it had hurt and I wasn't sure that it would ever stop throbbing.

The damage was irreparable as that done by him when he kicked the coffee table over onto it's top and threw a remote control at me full force. His aim was off but the corner of it caught my forehead, hard enough to knock me back a step and stun me.

He'd never lashed out at me before. Except for Esme's slap, nobody ever had. And that hurt more than anything. That I was pushing people past sensibility to violence without even trying was like a rusty blade to the soul.

"Why can't you just be normal, Emmeline?" Through the searing white light of pain—internal and external—I didn't see Blaze walk to me. I only felt him hold my face in his hands and brush his lips over the mark left by the projectile remote control. His grip was crushing and cruelly possessive, not at all tender or apologetic. "Why can't I have one wonderful thing in my that isn't tainted?"

"I'm not tainted. I _want_ to be normal."

"Unfortunately, Emmeline, functioning like a normal person does involve having a certain degree of awareness about what's going on in the world outside your selfish bubble of self-pity."

I lunged back and swung for him. Hard. It was less of a reaction to the insult which was, I begrudgingly admit, somewhat true. It was the shock that spurned me, the absolute mortification that he was talking to me like I was anything less than perfect to him. More than that, he'd outright slagged me off to my face after doing more physical damage than necessary. Even his rebuffs usually came with a complimentary undercurrent. This didn't.  
"How dare you speak to me like that? I'm Henry Tudor's daughter."  
"You can't be a normal person _and_ name drop during confrontation. And when exactly did that become a point of pride to you? Because I seem to remember you going out of your way to keep it from me when we met."  
"It was... When..."

After you found out about his wife? After you killed her? Or was it after you found out that the murderer gene runs in the family?

"You don't even know, do you? You've gone completely off the rails. Maybe we should look at getting you committed after all because I don't think I have the fucking mental capacity to look after you anymore."

He glared at me coldly and turned on his heels, headed for the guest bedroom. I stood there and stared after him, feeling blood trickle down my head but determined not to disturb it so he'd have to see what he'd done to me when he came to his senses.

What was I thinking? I was lucky he'd only moved to another room and not left completely.

Unless he's packing his bags.

My pulse leapt with panic, making my head spin when I almost sprinted through the room to beg him to stay.

When I heard him in the shower, I didn't calm. A thousand thoughts of hiding all his belongings collided with the admittance that he would probably be better off without me. Stuck between a rock and a hard place, I retreated back to the lounge and waited there until I heard the guest bathroom door open and close.

The following moments of waiting for him to dress and appear were agonisingly prolonged and far too silent. I almost didn't believe that he hadn't climbed out of a window.

You set me up for this.

It's about time you saw what he's really like. He's a thug, like his father was.

No, he's not. Taking pot-shots and throwing things isn't him.

Isn't it? How long have you known him, really? Less than a year. They say you never know someone's true nature until you live together.

I hate you.

You hate yourself, then.

"Emmeline?" Still smelling shower gel fresh and almost sadistically good, Blaze crouched down next to me with a mug of coffee and wrapped my hands around it. The heat was searing, making my shaking hands ache and tingle. "You're like ice."

"Don't think that of me."

"You _feel_ like ice, cupcake. Your hands are freezing cold. I didn't mean that you're a cold person. You're not."

"I'm sorry."

He sighed gently and brushed a thumb across my cheek, coming away with a dark red smudge of drying blood. "I know." He understood that I wasn't just apologising for the misunderstanding. I was sorry for being me. "Was Caroline the trigger of this, or did it just tip you over?"

"Both." I was frankly long overdue a breakdown and the dress fitting was the straw that broke the camel's back. However, would I have spiralled out of control over something else? Maybe not. Who knew? "Why Caroline, Blaze? Why send me to her, of all the seamstresses in London and Wales?"

"Seriously?" He quickly set the coffee table straight and sat on the lip. "Because she's good at her job."

"She was good at her job for Natasha."

"She made a good dress by chance. I looked up the first place I could find and landed on Caroline. It was a lucky shot for Tasha."

"You designed her dress."

Blaze's brow lifted. "Talkative, is Caroline. Isn't she?"

"Take or leave the question, Valentine. Did Natasha get a pre-approved pile like I did?"

"No. I simply ordered something cheap, simple and conservative. The less skin on show the better. Caroline did the rest."

"Why?"

"Why did I order the dress?" He had the decency to look awkward but hell, I could handle some home truths. It wasn't like I had any further to drop in the sanity stakes. "Women usually get crazy over weddings, Emmeline. You're the exception to the rule. They want horse-drawn carriages, a flock of doves and a princess dress. Those take two things I didn't have: time and patience.

"I'm not proud of what I did, but she could have dragged out the planning for years and if she'd dropped dead, I wouldn't have gotten a penny of what I was due. By taking over and not giving her any input, I minimalised that risk as much as humanly possible. I knew what Natasha's real motive was.

"At least, I thought I did at the time. That letter... Maybe she didn't mind it being a rush at all."

It all made perfect, bitter sense, really—as simple as I knew it had to be. I understood, as much as I sort of wish I didn't because it was serious dick behaviour on his part. And rationally, I couldn't be upset about any of it.

Yet I found a reason to torture myself further and ask more stupid questions that would only hurt if I got the answer I didn't want.

"Did she get tailor made dresses for parties?"

"We never went out. Nobody knew we were married, remember?"

"Caroline knew."

"I bribed her."

_Wow._ "Did your mum come and wear a big hat?"  
"How is that relevant?"

"Did she?"

"No. She never knew we were married, either."

"Did you... Wait. What?" Connie never knew that her son had gotten married? How the hell do you keep a secret like that under wraps for a matter of years at a time, from such a major figure in your life? "She knows we're getting married in her garden, right? We're not breaking in while she's on holiday or something?"

Blaze laughed for the first time in days and the simple sound of it warmed me up inside. Laughing was something we'd done so little of for nearly six weeks, along with smiling, singing or even kissing 'just because'. I'd been sucking the joy out of our relationship during a period of what should have been immense excitement.

"I'm so sorry for ruining this. I'm ruining everything."

"There's no permanent damage done."

"There is. Journalists poached the dress fitting and I just rushed outside without thinking. Esme's face is everywhere. She hates me. She treasures her anonymity more than life, love and liberty. Now that's gone because of me throwing my weight around." And God, did I feel stupid for it now. No matter how pissed off I'd been, I'd been brought up in a circle where, by no means, was that type of behaviour acceptable. Worse, she'd been unmasked while laying the smackdown on me. She'd be outed as ginger and violent.

"Oh, come on. She doesn't seriously blame you for that. She should have known better than to run out into the street, too." I refrained from pointing out that she saved me from being a hit by a bus, as he still seemed mostly clueless. "The press will do whatever they need to for a story; kidnap, bugging, car chases—you remember that part of _Gossip Girl_?"

"My life is not an American television drama."

"It could be. Have you looked it recently? You're all the effortless beauty of _Serena Van Der Woodsen_ , the sexy tragedy of _Samantha Jones_ and the cruel command of _Baby Jane Hudson_."

"What does that make you?"

Blaze grinned wryly. "Anything you want me to be, cupcake."

"It makes you a fool, that's what." I didn't have it in me to crack a smile. He was trying to act like nothing was wrong, which I appreciated to a certain point, but it didn't solve the fact that _everything_ was wrong. Everything with me, at least. "I don't see how you can love me, being what I am."

"Emmeline, if I loved you for everything you _could_ be—everything I could turn you into with a little vetting and fine tuning—I would be the epitome of everything that's wrong with the world today."

"Are you honestly sitting there and saying that you haven't vetted me—not even a little bit?"

Met with another dead stare, I realised that I was dangerously close to becoming argumentative again and neither of us had the will to contend with another round of Fat Emmy. I reluctantly stood, wobbled a bit, and ventured off to the kitchenette with my mug of untouched coffee to look for food.

It was time to move on from the fiasco. We needed to let it slide, admit our faults and get on with life because there was far too much riding on the next preparatory fourteen days.

Naturally, Blazed wasted no time in following me, whipping out a chopping board and setting to work creating one of his notorious easy to digest meat broths. I hovered around while he cooked, trying to steal tastes from the pot when he wasn't looking, getting my hands playfully slapped away when I was caught.

It already felt like we were past the strife. Relief stoked hunger, and my bowl saw second, third and fourth helpings before I excused myself to curl into a little ball on the couch. I wasn't sure I needed to sleep, but I was happy enough to watch Blaze go about his business while I dozed with a full belly.

Man, that guy did a lot of paperwork. I thought I was the administrative one of us, spending long, laborious hours scouring The Tudor Enterprise's budgets. I couldn't have been more wrong, and I didn't even know what half of his paperwork was. When he got to the stuff that looked too much like physics homework, I closed my eyes and focused on the mixed genre playlist he'd left playing on his tablet in the background.

It was silent when I faced the world again. Silent and dark. The only light around came from the half-open doorway into the suite's small office area, and the only sound a low murmur broken by quiet. I knew the baritone growl to be Blaze's and he obviously didn't want to wake me.

Or maybe he just doesn't want you to hear.

I was creeping closer to the office before I could rationalise with my snarky other self. So near to the conversation, I couldn't _not_ hear what was being said, even if I'd backtracked and denied my curiosity. Sneaking around was juvenile and I hated doing it on an uncontrollable whim.

But if I hadn't, I never would have found out just how wrong I was to think our dispute had been passable like all the others. This one was so much worse.

"I don't know, Dan." I peered through the gap between the door and it's frame, not wanting to be noticed. Why would my fiancé be talking to _my_ best friend? "It looked like she was trying too hard, trying to make a point. I would have cut her off at the fifth serving, you know what I mean? It's one extreme to the other."

Mouthing a curse, I stepped back from the door and glared through the wood, hoping he felt it.

He didn't.

"What do you think? If she's not going to be able to keep it together in Chicago, I need to let my people know and get her a place in the unit. Nobody needs that tension. ... I know, Jonathan. But I just can't work long hours _and_ be on twenty-four hour watch to make sure she doesn't do something reckless. This is the big break I've been waiting for and right now, Emmeline is a liability."

"You bastard." Ever the ninja, Blaze turned and ducked just in time to dodge the hefty 2012 volume of _Encyclopaedia Britannica_ whizzing over his head. "You absolute fucking bastard."

"Emmeline, I—"

"Save me the excuses. I heard enough to hate you."

Blaze chewed his bottom lip and snapped a quick dismissal down the phone. "You don't know what you heard."

"So you weren't conferring over my mental state to decide whether you're going to dump me in a mental unit while you go to Chicago for three months?"

"I..." His face turned puce and his eyes met the floor. "Okay, yes. But it's for your benefit, not mine. Filming schedules are erratic; I could be leaving you at five in the morning, not coming back until three the next morning, sleeping for a few hours then leaving right away. You need me to keep you level-headed and I'm just not sure you'd cope."

"Don't flatter yourself." My arms crossed defensively. "I survived twenty-two years without you, I'm sure I could last three months without being sent to a nut house. I'd do better in a barn. You've never been in one of those places."

He'd never heard the screams of distress from the private rooms, holding fragile patients who were banging their heads off the walls in a bid to be free of their demons. He'd never been held down by four nurses and had drugs or tubes forced down his throat. He'd never watched empty vessels leave the therapy rooms, sucked dry of joy, pallid skin bleached out by florescent strip lighting.

His view of the Cardiff unit was that of a person who'd clearly only looked at the leaflets and never stepped foot inside. The reality was very different.

"I don't know that you _would_ last, Emmeline." Blazed ushered me back across the lounge area and attempted to coax me into the master bedroom. "And I don't know that I'm the best person to care for you. In fact, when my attention can't be entirely focused on you, I might be the worst. Plus, you know. You need time to yourself sometimes."

"You're unbelievable." After all the times he'd insisted that he was the only person to look after me. All the times he told me he couldn't bear the idea of being apart... "Being with you is like playing hide and seek with a ventriloquist, Blaze. Just when I think I understand where you're at and what you're saying, it turns out you're somewhere else entirely throwing your voice onto one of your doting entourage of screw ups."

_"My_ entourage?" Blaze gaped at me dumbly. "Emmeline; Daniel and Jonathan are _your_ friends. This is all for _you._ I have no confidantes or back up."

"And boy, are you ever going to spend a lifetime reminding me how you've been deprived of that for years." One suffocating wife following another, all of us holding back his life and freedom... "Tell the next little tart in a bookshop about all the ways I impose a restriction on your life and have her shit on all her principles out of desperation to keep you, too."

Blaze rolled his eyes at me and carried on through into the bedroom. Catlike, I prowled in behind him, hot on his heels. He knew sending me back to the cuckoo's nest would annoy me. He'd obviously wanted to piss me off. Well, he succeeded. And I sure as hell wasn't going to let him get away from me easily.

He made several stops around the room, coming to rest at the bed for a moment before moving on to the next place. Every time he centred at that mattress, he came back with armfuls of clothes and shoes.

"Packing me off already?" I started to follow him, close enough to stall him every time he turned. "You don't seriously think I'd go without a fight?"

"I'm not packing you off, Emmeline."

"Not yet. How long do I have? Are you going to commit to me and then commit me? I'm sure you could flash the right smile at someone to have you made my legal guardian. You'd probably get access to my bank accounts."

"Don't even go there."

"Touching a sore nerve, am I? Hitting a little too close to the truth, am I?"

"You're acting like a punk kid."

"That'd probably help in the case against me. Why keep me with the crazies, though? It'd be a lot easier if you slipped me a load of pills and made it look like I'd killed myself because that's my style."

"Fuck!" Growling, Blaze turned around and faced me head on. Noses only inches apart, I could see the emotion swarming in his eyes. He was angry—yes. He also looked offended, sickened and betrayed.

You're forgetting 'guilty'. You must be able to see the guilt in there, too.

"I'm not kidding, Emmeline." Swiftly sidestepping around me, Blaze power-walked to the wardrobe and stuck a walnut door between us. I could see myself staring back at me in the mirrored front—all the red-faced, sweating zombie of me. The sight of the woman I'd become only stirred my temper more. "Cut this shit out. Now."

"Oh, you'd like that, wouldn't you? You'd like for me to be the quiet, obedient type."

"Frankly, yes I would. You're not exactly pleading your case of sanity very well, are you?"

I stammered, affronted and shamed. After a beat, I slammed the wardrobe door on his fingers and cocked an eyebrow. "I hope that fucking hurt."

"Who are you?!" Triumphant, I watched Blaze shake the pain from his hand and glare at me with watering eyes. "Where the hell did my Emmeline disappear to?"

"I dunno, maybe she's sat in Hell sipping tea with your ex-wife swapping notes on wedding dresses."

"Jesus, this again?" He shoved his hands into his hair and tugged at the roots quickly before releasing the tendrils and shaking them back into order. I hated that he looked so hot when he was frustrated.

Hated that I'd pissed him off.

Hated it more that he was pissed off rather than grovelling.

Hated it most that I wanted him to pick me up and pacify me with a good screwing like he normally would.

"It's just a fucking dress, Emmeline."

"Yes, it is. It's just a fucking dress I wanted to get from a nifty Chinese tailor online but you were adamant that I had to go to Caroline. Should I have just walked in and asked for the usual? The Valentine special? Were the dresses you picked out for me the same as hers? Maybe the same dresses? Just kept aside for the next doomed bride."

"I told you; there _were_ no other dresses for Natasha. You're talking crazy."

"I _am_ crazy!" Without forethought, I threw my arm out and smashed my fist into the mirrored door. It didn't so much as crack. Ever dissatisfied, I launched an assault, punching and kicking the glass until one last remaining fragment clung onto the framed wooden panel.

I have no idea what happened next. Looking down at the fractured shards at my feet and feeling an almost sickening sense of glee was the last thing I remembered. One splinter had wedged into my toe and crimson spilled out across the cream carpet, spreading out like a cancer. Whenever blood was involved, I rarely came away with any real recollection of what had come of it. This time was definitely no exception.

"So I said, 'Mate, you've got it wrong. It's spelt the same but said with an accent.' He gives me the weirdest look, clears his throat and says, 'Don't be so blaze.' But he just says 'blaze' in a full blown French accent. Antonio laughed so hard he pee'd."

Awareness poured back into my body like cold water, awakening me from a black out to end all black outs with a harsh kick up the backside.

"What happened?" I'd lost conscious control barely dressed, standing and bleeding. Now I was swaddled in a terry-towel robe, my head in Blaze's lap, very comfortable and feeling a little fuzzy around the edges. Had he bathed me? I felt... clean.

"Well, we had to get an interpreter in and the poor woman had to spend half an hour explaining that we wanted him to say 'blasé'. Got there eventually, like. Thank fuck it was only a read-through."

"No, I mean—" I rolled to my back and looked up at him. The blooming bruise on his left cheekbone crushed me inside. Part of me prayed I hadn't caused it. The other part knew I probably had. I was such a monster. "What happened?"

"You're back with me?" Sighing, Blaze lifted me up to sit upright and rested his head against my shoulder. "Nothing of any consequence. I knew it wasn't you acting out. My Emmeline isn't volatile."

"You shouldn't have to take this from me." Nobody in their right mind should ever have to put up with coming to blows with their partner because they have a 'condition'. My behaviour had, I assume, been despicable and beyond the pale. It was a wonder he didn't hate me. "I don't want you to spend the rest of... Well, however long we have... I don't want you to have another life where you're held back and always waiting for me to crack."

"I'm entering into a legally binding contract that ensures I'll accept you for better _and_ for worse. This is as bad as it gets. Isn't it? I can handle this."

Blaze stared at me, a note of pleading ringing out through his words. I really wanted to say that yes, it was the worst. But I'd never been so bad before, so I couldn't have possibly foreseen it. I'd never be able to warn him in advance, I'd never know what I'd do, and worse, I might not remember any of it, just like I couldn't now.

"What if it's not? What if I have no idea just how crazy I could get? I can't promise you that I'll never do this again or that it won't escalate further."

Neither of us had any words of reassurance. Blaze couldn't convince me that he'd be happy but wouldn't tell me that he had to leave, and I had no argument to make him stay. We were at a dead end in our relationship and we could either take several steps backwards, out of each other's lives, or we could stay there and die with it.

I worried that it would be the latter. We'd both cling on until it killed us—or we killed each other. We were both too stubborn and proud to give up. Our obtrusive determination was as much a curse as a blessing, and it was almost too late to turn back.

"I think I should go away for a few days."

Blaze lifted his head and forced a plaintive smile. "Lucky we've got a honeymoon in a couple of weeks, then."

"I meant on my own."

His arm wound tightly around me, pulling me close. He was cold again, like he had been the last time we'd pretended we weren't saying goodbye. "I know. But please don't."

"I want to walk into this marriage with a clear head and no regrets. For completely self-contained reasons, I can't do that and I never will with gaping holes in my memory wherein I'm hurting you, as well as my friends disowning me, my mother acting crazy and the press hounding me. I need space. Distance. A few miles in the backseat."

"What if you don't come back? You promised not to leave."

"Blaze." I rolled to face him understanding the fear and apprehension of letting me go. And I loved him for that. I loved him for still being so desperate to keep me even after I'd completely lost my bloody marbles. While other men would have walked straight out of the door, he held on with an iron grip.

I valued what others may have called his neediness. I respected and treasured it. And I didn't want to abuse it, intentionally or not. If he was going to need me, I wanted him to need the best of me, and for the purposes of enticing that, I had to leave.

"I'm coming back. I promise that, no matter what, I'll be back in time to marry you. Don't you have any idea how much I love you?"

"I do." Blaze nodded and pulled me down to lay beside me. His arms and legs caged me, keeping me prisoner inside his grasp. "That's why I know you'll keep that promise. But please, reconsider it. Don't do anything until tomorrow."

"Sure."

Blaze fell asleep at ten to midnight that night. When he woke up in a cold sweat two hours later, jolted by a nightmare that I'd left, I was already gone.

#  fifteen

#

The Tudor family's stretch of private beach in who-knows-what part of Europe was paradise. The sprawling sands spread out for miles and were edged by crystal blue waters reflecting a pure azure sky. Without a cloud in sight, it was the perfect place for rest, recuperation and resolution.

Not that I was particularly concerned with hitting those targets. When I crept out of our suite that night, a holiday was the last thing I was considering. I hadn't packed a thing, just gotten dressed and left. The only objective I had was to get out of the door without Blaze waking up and stopping me.

Which I accomplished. I didn't realise how much I'd _wanted_ him to try until I'd walked out with no difficulties. Standing there, staring at the door, a war between want and need raged inside me. I wanted to stay. But I _needed_ to leave. If I didn't, staying would have only driven us further apart.

I needed help, and I wasn't afraid to admit it anymore. I needed help from someone I could be honest with—someone who wouldn't be phased by any of my admissions. Someone impartial and trustworthy...

Henry must have been waiting for my call. He answered on the first ring. Twelve months earlier, I never in a million years would have ever imagined confiding in him but there I was, trying to have a private telephone conversation over a front desk with the manager hovering around me. My second plea in the space of just months.

I'd barely said a word before my father told me that there would be a car waiting outside for me. He asked me where the driver should take me and I said I didn't care. As long as I was alone, I'd be satisfied.

Arrangements were made. Whispers passed behind hands. Four minutes later, the manager escorted me through the lobby and wished me a brisk, "Good luck." I didn't even enquire as to what I needed luck for. The possibilities were endless.

The hotel had been hosting a lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender cabaret event that night, and a kindly drag queen loaned me a black wig and sequinned dress to get out unnoticed. Between all the sparkle and hair spray, I thought I might have stood a chance until I saw the row of new photographers pushing through the journalists already camping out on the street to wait for us, stopping the more outrageous looking guests for pictures and quotes. Amazingly, the same man-woman who'd dressed me up pulled me into his or her group of exiting brood and swept me past all the dramatics into one of the Tudor fleet with no interruption.

Whether or not it worked so well because I made a passable man in women's clothing or an unconvincing woman who looked like a dude in drag is beyond me. No part of me wants to know. He or she had helped me out and I owed him or her a lot for it.

It turned out that he or she knew Daniel and Jonathan rather well and remembered my face from a Gay Pride festival I'd gone to out of curiosity two years earlier. I never realised how useful it would be to have a gay best friend, though I don't suppose sneaking past paparazzi is something you really consider when you're striving to live a 'normal' life. For the purposes of this particular predicament, though, it was a life saver—maybe literally.

The usual driver, Oscar, wasn't behind the wheel of my dear old dad's favourite Mercedes. Instead, I was ushered into the sanctity of the luxury vehicle by an uptight looking Eastern European female. She didn't speak, not once. That was usually how I liked it, but when she started heading out of London and towards Wales, I really would have preferred a response to the expletives I was shooting at her. Henry wouldn't seriously have me picked up and flown straight to the cuckoo's nest. Would he?

Being in my kind of family, I knew all the tricks of the trade for driving out of a tricky scenario, though I'd never seen them executed in person. Not until that night, when every manoeuvre and technique was used in the name of getting me out of the public eye.

I was ushered into three other cars within London, taken into private garages on the outskirts and forced to wait for several minutes with two more mute chauffeurs. By the time I was shoved into the same Merc I'd first gotten into and heading back into the heart of the city, but with Oscar in the driver's seat, I was disorientated and exhausted.

"Why all the hassle, Oscar?" I leaned closer to him, sure that he didn't share the same vow of silence as the others. "Why all the walnut shells and decoys?"

"Your father and I have both been in your size five's, Miss," he murmured back quickly, making a contrived effort to avoid eye contact in the rear-view mirror. "We've both wondered if it'd be better if we vanished forever to save everyone else. But we had anonymity on our side. You don't."

"You're sneaking me out of the country?"

"Being publicly seen leaving so close to your wedding day without Blaze would make people ask questions and you know it. We're simply providing you a quiet retreat at such a testing time."

I wasn't entirely sure from that conversation whether or not Oscar knew I'd murdered Natasha and he was trying to relate having killed himself, or whether he meant he'd had a breakdown and was drawing comparisons from a period of depression. His remarks had been cryptic enough to raise doubt, but simple enough for me to trust him with whatever secrets he knew about me.

It was quiet again until we reached Heathrow, neither of us breathing loud enough to interrupt the silence. A troop of security guards in Tudor Initiative uniforms surrounded the car's door before Oscar walked around to open it for me, obscuring the view of families and friends catching late night flights to lands afar or greeting cohorts who'd been away too long.

"God speed, Miss Tudor." Oscar offered a hand to pull me from the leather benched seat and, oddly, gave me a stiff hug. "May you make peace with yourself."

I didn't really get chance to work out what the hell that cuddle had been about before the security detail marched me through to the first class departure lounge like legionnaires, passed a plane ticket to a hostess and directed me through to the boarding tunnel ahead of any other passengers. One complimentary glass of champagne later, the exhaustion kicked in and I became victim to my third memory blur of the night.

All that seemed completely irrelevant when I was waking up under a light of a scorching sun with the smell of breakfast wafting through the private villa. I'd arrived to find the place fully staffed and kitted out with new clothes for me, WiFi raring to go and a message from Henry that I'd be seeing the olive-skinned equivalent of Dr. Downes the next morning. Instead of obsessing over the question of just how long he'd had all this set up for me, I went straight to bed and prepared myself to face the new day on a fresh page.

I woke up that way eight times before anything proactive actually happened.

My new medication—a nice dose of anti-psychotics injected directly into me so there could be no more instances involving the toilet and tablets—had no debilitating side-effects to speak of, so I couldn't use them as an excuse to lack motivation. Regardless, I was in a slump and found myself sleeping most of the day, sunbathing in the cooler heat until the sun went down, drinking all night, rinse and repeat.

I didn't consider over-eating to be a problem as I could stand to gain a few pounds, and was perfectly content with spending my afternoons dipping my toes in the sea, demolishing burger after cake after ice cream. I tanned easily, so a few days of that routine had me goddess bronzed and feeling brave enough to take my alcoholism into the closest town, full of local tradesmen who recognised me from family holiday's past.

That eighth time I woke up though, that was different. It was dawn and I couldn't get back to sleep, the fresh sea air hitting me before the villa staff had even started work. No amount of internet memes and music video parodies seemed to occupy me for more than a few minutes at a time. My mind just kept straying to nowhere in particular to think about nothing at all.

I'd purposely left the lines of communication between Blaze and I open, so I gave him a call. This trip wasn't like New York; I hadn't left to escape him. At my own request, Henry would tell him exactly where I was if he asked. I just had to trust that he'd give me the space I needed and know that I'd be back in time to walk down the aisle. Fetching me would only be necessary in an extreme circumstance; the few radical situations I could imagine were too fairytale to be valid.

Still, I knew that the distance was painful for Blaze and a part of him really hated me for leaving. Phone calls were daily but monosyllabic, lasting no longer than ten minutes at a time. We had nothing to say to each other, yet we had _everything_ to say. What had once felt so solid had become strained and fractious. I felt myself lose a little faith after every chat.

When I called him that morning, his phone was turned off. Deeply unfulfilled, I dressed and restlessly padded off to the town to find something to do.

Walking through almost totally abandoned streets when I'd only ever traversed them shoulder to shoulder with strangers was a revelation. There were no landmarks or monuments nearby so tourism relied on charm alone, something which came in bucketfuls when the bars were heaving and the neon lights filling the darkness. Being a habitual creature of the night, I'd missed out on the small things that made that lazy little corner of Heaven so beautiful.

I'd missed the little old lady who fed left over food scraps to the neighbourhood stray cats; the early-rising bakers and butchers already hard at work. Mine had been the vantage point of a simpleton, all the character of my surroundings drowned out by the spirits and sparkle. The attraction had been the glamour, but the modesty had so much more to offer. I'd been a fool.

There was an endearing change of atmosphere while shop-fronts lay dormant and the bars were closed. The streets felt wider and more open, looked more antiquated and bespoke. All of the retro slate signage had been hand-painted and the walls were littered with commemorative plaques honouring the families that had been born, lived their entire lives and then died in that town.

It made me feel really lonely. All these people had done nothing but exist and had been deemed worthy of a tribute. I'd done nothing in my life worth praise, and a hell of a lot to be ashamed of. My greatest achievement had been that damned graphic novel, Syncretic Sciences, and my fiancé owned the only two copies. I'd spent twenty-two years simply existing, yet there would never be a plaque to remember me when I was gone. Just an urn full of ashes and a bad taste in the mouths of anyone who spoke my name.

Maybe it's time to change that.

I stalled at the sound of a voice in my head, not because auditory hallucinations should have been a thing of the past, but because it wasn't Fat Emmy. For the first time in years, I could hear my conscience speaking, and my own sense of rationality crawling out of it's long-term hiding place.

Yes, I _could_ change it if I really wanted to. I could become as notorious as the rest of my family. Long after my death, I could be remembered for the wonderful things I'd done for the world if I only made them so instead of focusing on my more questionable choices.

But where to start?

Somewhere in the midst of all my contemplation, I'd noticed that my favourite brasserie had already opened it's doors, and had sat myself down in my usual spot at the bar. A small crowd of Brits—what looked like a hungover hen party—had wandered in for breakfast, and the smell of profit and bacon had begun to pour outwards from the kitchen.

I should have had a hen party. Not for one second had I stopped to appreciate and celebrate the fact that I was about to get married. Those girls—they should have been me, Esme and as many gay men as I'd networked with over my time in London. I'd been so... ungrateful.

"Food for thought or thoughts of food?" The owner caught me staring at the women and passed me a breakfast menu. "When was the last time you saw two seven o'clocks in one day?"

"Jeez..." I couldn't even name a date. Office hours had become an afterthought since the whole embezzlement ordeal had been resolved, my mind so stuck on guilt and regret. "What can I say that won't make me sound like a spoiled rich girl?"

"Say you'll take the full fry up with a coffee and pay with your own Euros?"

The owner walked away grinning, yelled my order through the service window and made off to dazzle the party of hens. He was handsome for an older man, and hadn't changed a bit since the first time I'd met him when I was nine. He was the sort who'd greet new faces with a booming welcome, and banter with regulars in a way that wasn't remotely insulting. His daily routine must have been the same for decades, yet he always had a smile for his customers. I really envied his die-hard positivity and optimism.

I also envied him for bagging such an awesome cook for a wife. The mousy five foot Hungarian was incredibly timid, yet extraordinarily beautiful and full of culinary talent. She was the type who wouldn't say boo to a goose and went out of her way to avoid lengthy conversations, but she had so much pride in her cooking that she'd go out to every table when the plates were cleared to make sure they'd enjoyed their meals.

I took great pride in the fact that I was one of the very few people she'd really talk to. Like most others, she knew of Blaze for his fame and had already heard the news of our engagement. I had to eat one-handed while she cooed over the ring and asked me a bunch of questions about the decorative details of my wedding day I couldn't answer because I'd paid little to no interested.

_Women usually get crazy over weddings, Emmeline. You're the exception to the rule._ That was a phrase that rolled around and around in my brain like a penny in a pipe as more and more questions left me stuttering in ignorance. Was being different always necessarily a good thing? What was to say my apathy wasn't making Blaze doubt whether he really wanted to marry a woman so reticent towards the biggest day of her life? Maybe the concern shouldn't have been that _I_ wouldn't arrive at the altar, but that _he_ wouldn't.

"You think too much," the owner told me cheerfully as he reached around his wife for my empty plate. "You should live in the moment once in a while, because today is the day that could change your life. Your generation is so miserably obsessed with the past and the future. Just look at that guy." His head jerked in the direction of a man sat, head lowered, at the other end of the bar. "He lost everything and now all he does is sit in the same seat every day, drinking the same drinks, eating the same food, and asking himself the same questions. He needs to take a stand against his own life, preferably before I run out of spirits."

From the description alone, it seemed like I had an awful lot in common with that man. Out of curiosity, I stole a glance in his direction to see if he looked as downtrodden as I felt.

One look was all I needed to know absolutely everything. His hands were woven into his over-long sun-bleached hair, eyes cast down at an idle phone as if he was just waiting for it to ring and had been for days.

He had the distinct look of a heartbroken man and as uncomfortable as it was, I couldn't avoid talking to him. It had been too long, in more ways than one.

"Hunter Rosen, as I live and breathe."

His head shot up at the sound of his name and he looked past me several times before he realised I was the one who'd spoken. He looked like hell, despite being sun-kissed like myself, and several pounds heavier than he had been on his wedding day.

"Emmeline?" He stood, trying to straighten himself out. "Is that... Have you come to kick me out of the beach house?"

"What? No. Why would I—" I paused, stringing together a theory. I knew he'd been left up shit creek and forced to return to Cardiff, where he wouldn't have gotten a moments peace. He'd made a lot of enemies by making an admission of love for me when he should have been saying 'I do'. It was realistic to expect him to want a fresh start. "Do you live here?"

"Sort of," he grunted, shuffling across to take the seat next to mine. "Naturally, my mother made it about her and said I'd humiliated her immensely, and that allowing me back into the family home would make it look as though she was endorsing my behaviour."

"She's just a bitch, let's be honest. I'm surprised she didn't leave teeth-marks on you when you were born."

Hunter cracked one of his contagious smiles, though it lacked the same punch it had before. "I got the first phone call in three years from my father, disowning me and informing me that Siobhan would be keeping the house, leaving me homeless. At which point, your dear old dad stepped forward and offered me the beach house outside the villa, totally gratis, on the condition that I didn't look for you, contact you, or so much as breathe in your general direction." Yet he'd set me up with a refuge in the same place. Was it just a clumsy oversight? "It was kind of a kick to the balls, as the worst part of it all was that you just wouldn't talk to me. But who in their right mind would pick a park bench and a round of fucks over rolling beaches and sunshine?"

"Indeed." I was, after all, trying to escape my own tattered life. "So I've been in that villa for more than a week and you've been living in bloody eye-shot? How have our paths not crossed?"

"You have opposite sleeping patterns," the bar's owner interjected. "You're nocturnal. He's old before his time."

"Yeah, thanks for that, Baal." Hunter shook his head piteously, provoking a wicked little smile to turn up the corners of the owner's lips.

He really did look awful. However badly I thought I was feeling, he seemed to have it in triplicate. There were bags around his eyes that had never been there before despite all the night shifts he'd worked just to make phone calls to me.

How had I never figured out from all those phone calls that he was in love with me?

"Never mind all that, anyway. It's fucking good to see you. How long are you sticking around?"

I did a quick mental check and winced. "I have to be back in six days at the absolute most. I have a wedding to attend."

"No kidding." His brow rose. "Whose?"

"Ah..." _Awkward..._ "That would be mine."

Hunter gave me the all knowing look he'd been able to use to see right through me for years. He knew the implications of me hiding away in another country less than a week before my wedding, and knew exactly what he thought I was thinking. But to be sure, he asked me—

"When did it all go wrong?"

"About seven weeks ago when his wife died and I tried to kill myself on the same night."

"Righto," he muttered brightly. "I'd best open a tab."

We spent several hours catching up on what Hunter had been doing since his late January marriage disaster. It turned out that he'd done as little as me, preferring to wallow rather than use the opportunity for self-improvement and making amends. He'd been living in the villa's beach house for nine-nearly ten weeks, so must have come overseas almost as soon as he'd set foot on British soil.

He'd tried to talk to Siobhan but she'd been ignoring his calls since the wedding day. Hunter had been basically alone apart from the townspeople and, consequentially, had been forcibly given a lot of time to think.

Even though he didn't say it, I could tell that he was secretly wishing I'd say we could just run off into the sunset together. And it would have been such a simple thing to do. He was still gorgeous even when he was a little rough around the edges, still infectiously cheerful once I coaxed it out of him. We could abscond to somewhere far away and nobody would ever find us. Natasha, Fat Emmy—they could have become negligible memories.

"So, let's address the big pink elephant, shall we? How's Blaze?" Trust Hunter Rosen to bring up the one thing that ever had and always would be the only obstacle between us.

"He's... We're..." I sighed, wishing I didn't have to talk about it. "I really don't know. I admit, I've been obsessed with my own feelings and I've tried so hard to put him first in everything I do, but I... I don't even know what's on his mind. Attempted suicide, public palavers with Esme, passing out in The Roses after making a scene—I threw a paperweight at him, for fuck's sake. I don't know if he even wants me to go back."

"Tried talking to him?" I shot Hunter a look that said everything. Of course I hadn't, because sensible, logical ideas like that just weren't my thing. He rolled his eyes at me, opened his mouth to speak, and then quickly shut it. "... This is none of my business. I have no right to offer my thoughts."

"Oh no, Hunter. By all means, use your total lack of expertise and knowledge in the area to assess my relationship."

"I hear your sarcasm and raise you an honest opinion, Emmeline." He gripped my fingers and squeezed them. "You're too hard on yourself. You're not a bad person, so you don't deserve a bad life. Stop thinking you do."

Oh, God, if only he'd known... "What if I _am_ a bad person?" Hunter shook his head, laughing softly. "What if I'd, like, killed someone?"

"Be serious, Emmeline."

"I am!"

"Okay..." He leaned back from me and stroked his chin in contemplation. "You know what? I don't think I'd care. Hell, I'd probably help you hide the body."

"Don't patronise me." He couldn't offer acceptance on a hypothetical whim if it wasn't what he'd really do. It was cruel.

"Who's patronising you? I'm not. I know you'd never maliciously harm someone, but if you did, I'd back your corner."

I studied him, trying to remember the last time he'd said something as nice to me. In retrospect, he'd only ever been there for me, trying to keep me level. I'd just always misconstrued his words and actions as demeaning and disrespectful.

Now there he was, saying all the same things but in a way that didn't seem hostile. The conversations I'd spent many years wanting to have with him were happening. He was the Hunter I'd met at my mother's dinner party, the same thirteen year old boy she swore my soul should mate with.

And he loved me.

"I'm starting to remember why I fell for you."

Hunter stared at me for a second, blatantly deep in the throes of an emotional dilemma. "You think you should maybe stop thinking about the descent and instead remember what cushioned the landing?"

Blaze... "I haven't forgotten about him. Of course I haven't." How could I? He'd been a bigger influence on me than my own parents. He'd changed a lot about my life for the better and I truly, deeply loved him. "I just... We're supposed to be on the same page. I know how this story goes; I wrote the fucking book. It shouldn't be this hard."

"It's as hard as you make it, kid. And right now, it seems like you've got it iron clad and encased in a steel cage. Let go."

Said by a complete martyr, naturally. He hadn't 'let go' enough to fix one of his own fuck ups. I couldn't blame him; he'd always been golden boy and any mistake could be turned around if his mother, Helen, threw enough money at it. There was no quick fix this time and he hadn't put in any of the legwork.

"You make that sound really easy for a guy who lost everything he held dear."

"Oh, Emmeline, Emmeline, Emmeline..." Raising a finger, Hunter paused to take a sip of luke warm coffee. He loved drama and suspense before he said something relevant and profound. "The ironic thing about having to let go of something like that is, quite often, it was never yours to hold in the first place."

_Oh, well done._ That was arguably the smartest thing he'd ever said to me. Odd, since I'd always rated him on his intelligence. "You got wise, Hunter."

"Yeah. That tends to happen when you lose everything you hold dear."

"But you just... Right. That was a joke. A joke I didn't get because I have no sense of humour."

More hours of idle chit-chat passed between us. As soon as it hit dinner time, we hit the spirits and the quality of conversation started to get stupid.

Somewhere along the way, a tourist recognised me as the iconic miracle woman who'd gotten the fabulous Blaze to settle down, and there was a town-wide toast in my honour, it felt like. It was the best night out I'd had since he'd taken me to The Roses—a renovated theatre he'd had no idea I owned—and introduced me to his former band mates of the British rock group, Monday's Miracle.

And I was sharing it with a man who should have been permanently removed from my life; a man who'd caused me endless heartbreak for nine years; a man who'd ruined his life over a confession he'd left too late to make.

A man I'd wished I could have these spectacular nights with, and a man who looked like he was having the time of his life.

The life I'd wanted more than love itself was being handed to me, finally, but in the worse possible way. Worse yet, I actually started to think it would be better off this way. I could stay and have live out my teenage romantic fantasy in the sun or go back and be with someone who was really good for me, bogged down by a massive secret. What was massive guilt and doubt compared to constant fear and over-compensating, really?

As the night faded into a fuzzy drunken blur, I found myself thinking less about the people I'd left behind, and more about the strangers who seemed like lifelong friends. Friendships and relationships were fleeting; I need only look at all the break-ups and arguments that happened around me that night to be sure of that. And if it was all just sand in the wind, there one minute and gone the next, maybe it was my time to leave London for good and put down more solid roots elsewhere. I had everything I needed...

The next morning, the sun felt hotter and harsher than the days before. The heat was so extreme it made my head ache, skin burning under the intense light.

A moment too long of that made me shoot up from bed and rub away the sunspots, before looking around at my surroundings.

Not the villa. I was acutely aware of being in a place much smaller in size, far more cramped. Sure enough, I saw the stacked up boxes and organised chaos of someone who'd been living out of suitcases for a while. Parts of the room looked lived in, the rest of it sterile and spotless. Clusters of life were everywhere, not all of them entirely healthy.

"Morning sleepy-head."

The familiar voice from behind me was a shock, propelling my shoulders up to my ears. It took a few seconds to piece together the very few jagged fragments of memory from the night before; we'd done tequila slammers, danced on the beach, gone late night swimming...

_Oh._ I vaguely remembered things getting kind of deep and meaningful, and shortly afterwards, we were drinking in the beach house. It didn't take an idiot to figure out we'd slept in the same bed. But...

"We didn't... Did we?" Cringing, I turned to look at Hunter and saw the topless bastard grinning.

"Didn't what, Emmeline?"

"You know what, Rosen. That thing you've only done with one woman, and didn't do until you were seventeen."

He paused thoughtfully. "... Acid?"

"No, not— ... Wait, what? No, I mean..." Acid? Really? "At any point, did you put your penis in any part of my body?"

"Bloody hell." Still grinning, Hunter sat up against the headboard and hugged his knees. "You and Blaze must have some freaky pillow talk going on. Who said romance was dead?"

"Hunter! I'm supposed to be getting married in five days!"

"Nothing happened, Emmeline. And that look of relief on your face right now—that's why."

I hadn't even been aware of the tremendous sigh leaving my lungs or my shoulders falling lax. God, if ever we'd, you know. Gotten intimate. How would I ever go back to Blaze and look him in the eye knowing I'd been unfaithful, let alone with Hunter?

"Seriously, you could look a little less happy about not having sex with me."

"It's a complication I don't need given current circumstances." I quickly turned around and stuck my bottom lip out. "No offence."

"None taken," Hunter laughed. "Even if you'd been in a fit state, you cock-blocked yourself by telling everyone you're getting married in a few days and talking about your fiancé non-stop."

"Wow." Was I always so insensitive when I was drunk? Jesus, if I was, that made me an even worse human being. "I'm really sorry for being so inconsiderate."

"It's cool. It was nice to see you like your old self, before the anorexia and schizophrenia."

"Schizophrenoform disorder."

He cocked his head. "Seriously?"

"What?"

Rolling his eyes, Hunter unfolded his legs and shuffled across the bed closer to me. It was then I noticed his weight loss rather than gain, and his sad, reddened eyes. He was in a bad way, and no amount of alcohol would help that. "Never mind. Anyway, your drunken ramblings made me realise something."

"That I'm a retard?"

"Yeah, but not just that. It made me realise that I actually really love Siobhan." He gave a helpless little shrug. "Not the same way I love you, but you don't spend that much time with someone and sleep next to them every night without developing some kind of emotional bond. It feels like part of me is missing."

"Yeah, your vagina." I joked but I felt for the guy. He'd spent years with Siobhan, giving up a whole life and jumping countries, always hoping to stop loving me and never realising how much love had grown between them. Given the tiresome time I'd spent mooning over him, I could relate entirely.

"Emmeline." Taking me completely by surprise, Hunter grabbed me by the waist and hauled me over into his lap. Immediately, it struck me how different it felt from the times Blaze had done the same thing—how foreign and unwelcome it was. Being that close felt wrong, too intimate and frankly awkward. "I don't understand why you seem to repel happiness. I never have. But I know that you love Blaze and that you should be with him. You've never seen the way light up every time you hear his name. Considering all you've already been through, don't you think you can survive anything together?"

"Sometimes 'anything' can be ugly, Hunter. There are things even I couldn't forgive."

"You don't give him enough credit. He stood there while another man announced his feelings for _his_ girlfriend, who'd loved him back in secret for the longest time. It takes a special kind of guy to jump in and defend a woman's honour in that situation without seeing her reaction first."

Now he mentioned it; no, Blaze hadn't checked to see my reaction before he jumped up, all alpha male like. "I don't think he even thought about it."

"No, probably not. Because he was that secure and had that much faith in you and your relationship, whether he was aware of it or not. It would have been so much easier for him to just step back, watch his world fall apart, and let you run off into the Japanese hills with me. But he knew that your happiness laid with him, and he wasn't wrong."

I smiled crookedly. "A piece of you died admitting that, didn't it?"

Hunter squeezed me like a cobra and planted a firm kiss on my forehead. "Like you wouldn't believe. But I had my chance and I blew it. Retrospect is a bitch."

It was a good job his phone rang because I didn't think I had anything else to say. We both loved other people, and we'd both contributed to the rift that pushed us apart. And that was that.

I didn't like to eavesdrop, so I wandered through the messy beach house to find the kitchen. It looked as though most of the one storey hut was untouched, as though Hunter had been staying in one room. I knew that I'd not unpacked anything in the suit because I knew it was only a temporary home. Maybe Hunter had been sitting on a little more hope than he realised—I hoped there were no scars to match.

The skies outside were a bright blue, as always, the spread broken only by the small, moving dots of aeroplanes. Looking up at it through the windows of an overheated shack, it wasn't half as inspiring or soothing. In fact, the stuffiness and stifling heat sucked all the joy out of such a merry vista. Henry Tudor had a cruel side, it seemed. No big revelation there, then.

"That was Siobhan." Hunter walked in close behind me and headed straight for the fridge. The first thing he pulled out was a can of lager, followed by a suspiciously crusty looking sandwich. I wasn't exactly filled with optimism for that phone call.

"Oh?"

"Three damn months I've been waiting for that call."

"And...?"

Hunter spun on the spot, stared at me, and fluidly threw the lager and sandwich in a nearby bin. "She's pregnant."

"Oh." Ye gods, a mini version of _her..._ "It _is_ yours?"

He promptly swept up a damp cloth and threw it at me. "Fuck you. Yes, it's mine!"

"Then, congratulations! I think. Is it?"

"She wants me to go there to talk. Today." Nodding, I made my way to the coffee machine and set it to work. Nobody wanted to fly on a hangover and he was going to need all his wits about him.

Hunter Rosen. A father. Jesus Christ, the mind really boggled but man, it was huge news for him.

"I hate that you look so scared to be happy about it." The Hunter I thought I knew would have been jumping around, calling everyone he knew. I'd have slammed the phone down on him and sulked for days over it.

"I just need to know I'll be a part of it first." Hunter collapsed into a chair and held his head in his hands. He looked utterly heartbroken when he should have been elated, yet I felt completely detached from all his anguish. What was wrong with me? "What if she wants to talk court cases, custody and restraining orders?"

"Then you fight. Don't be the man your father was and let your child's life pass you by. You do whatever you have to, to fight for what you want, even if you have to play dirty."

"Will you?" As fast as he'd sat, Hunter jumped to his feet and gripped my arms above the elbows. Unshed tears glittered in his eyes, the overwhelming frustration of an uncertain future manifesting in the vein protruding from his temper. The only time I'd seen desperation like it was when Blaze had nightmares. "Will you fight for what you believe in, even if it kills you?"

Yes, I'd fight. And as for killing me, it would undoubtedly try.

#  sixteen

#

"Hi."

"Hey, cupcake."

"Everything okay? I called yesterday and your phone was off. I left a message."

"Oh, yeah. Sorry. It slipped my mind. Plus you called at like, four in the morning here."

"I did? Man, I suck with time zones. But everything's okay?"

"I'd be lying if I said your mother isn't an irritating wreck but... I was moving everything out of the hotel yesterday and setting up rooms in the house for everyone. Chris, Esme, Daniel and Jonathan are camping in with me—extra hands for finalising everything, you know."

"... I'm glad you're still doing wedding stuff."

_"You said you'd be back in time and I trust you. It's hard work, is all... Hard work made so much worse by uncertainty. You_ are _coming back, aren't you?"_

"Blaze..."

"I have to believe that you're coming back. Do you understand that? I have to believe that at this time in five days, we're both going to be wearing wedding bands."

"I made you a promise and I'll stick to it. You'll see me before you even know it. You'll just walk into a room and be like, 'Shit! Emmeline?!'"

"Please don't joke around about this."

"Who's joking around? Look... Where are you right now?"

"Home. Just about to have a quick shower before we all go out to dinner."

"Okay, good. I asked Daniel to put something in the studio for you—"

"Daniel spoke to you and didn't tell me?"

"—Focusing on the wrong part of that, Blaze. He put you something in there. A wedding present. I thought about keeping it for the big day but I think you'd feel a lot better if you had it now."

"... Okay, you know what? I'm going to humour you. I'm walking up there right now, but I swear to God, if this is a box with a cat and gun powder inside, it'll be the perfect metaphor for our relationship."

"Less of the dramatics, nerd. Just get in the studio. By the way, I didn't bother wrapping it. Figured that would just slow you down."

"... Is it big?"

"Are you looking for hints? It's in the same house as you—you're about to get it. Why do you need hints to fill the whole half a minute of suspense?"

"... But is it? I'm, like, right outside the studio. Animal, vegetable or mineral?"

"At some point, it's been all three. I think. Not sure about mineral; I'm not a science geek like some."

"So it's been an animal and a vegetable..."

"If you're right outside, hurry up. It's getting cold."

"Why would it be—Shit! Emmeline?!"

When Blaze opened that door and saw me sitting on the lighting box table, he sure as hell didn't waste any more time asking questions. He looked starved of me, desperately gripping on to what little hope he had left.

I'd expected him to jump on me, using sex as a means of reconnection. I should have known better—should have recalled the night at The Roses when I returned from New York and he'd just wanted to lay with me. Maybe I just _wanted_ him to start nailing me because it was better than the alternative.

He walked right up to me, stopping a step away, just out of reach. Before I could come up with any witty repartee, he collapsed at my feet and wept, clinging to my ankles to anchor us both.

It was the most heartbreaking thing I'd ever seen, but it was okay. I knew that there would never be a distance between us again, and I knew that I wouldn't let us fall apart. I'd lived with my hidden secrets and lies for a long time. I could live with one more if it kept Blaze's eyes dry.

I couldn't let our relationship fail. The balance couldn't be tipped. The ends had to justify the means.

"That tan, though." An envious hand brushed against my arm. Jonathan had been admiring my golden sheen since the minute he'd seen me walk through the doors of the super-modern sushi joint Blaze and I had found during our last stay in Cardiff. Daniel had been given the choice of cuisine—a privilege won through the fast-thinking that got Blaze caught in traffic long enough for me to make a hurried way from Cardiff airport to the house—and he always chose Japanese food.

They'd arranged to meet us a couple of hours after our reunion, conveniently giving us enough time to, um... reconcile some unfinished business. Halfway through a post-coital coffee, Chris had arrived at the house to join us.

There was no sign of Esme.

"She'll be here," Blaze promised me, squeezing my leg underneath the table. He spoke with vehemence but his accompanying smile lacked conviction. I'd really screwed up and I still didn't know what impact it made on her life. With the wedding and honeymoon just days away, and our very close departure to Chicago creeping in it's wake, if I didn't make amends with her now, would I ever get the chance?

"Jonathan is right, though." Daniel's hand took the same path as his partner's, stroking elbow to wrist. "That tan. You're probably at high risk of skin cancer now, but damn; you'll be a pretty corpse."

"That's all I've ever wanted."

Chris brought a tray of drinks from the bar at the same moment a pretty waitress kitted out in a royal purple kimono came with the meals. Daniel and I traded glances, expecting him to make some kind of crude gesture or inappropriate observation as soon as she left. To our utter disbelief, he didn't so much as look at her.

"Um, hello?" I joked, knocking on his skull with my knuckles. "Don't you want to take her on a moustache ride?"

"What?" He stared at me dumbly, not making any kind of mental note of all the hot girls serving tables. "None of the chicks in here deserve one."

"Are you kidding me?" The dining room was crammed full of high hem lines, panty shots and pseudo-Japanese make-up. This was his idea of Heaven and he didn't even know he was there. "Something's wrong with you, and I'm going to find out what it is."

" 'Kay, whatever."

His odd behaviour made my head hurt. This wasn't a case of us just losing touch over the last few months, this was full-blown crazy by Chris standards. Something was seriously bugging him, and I _had_ to know what it was. I couldn't leave with loose ends in good conscience; I seemed to be on some kind of crusade.

"You've got that look about you. Haven't seen it for a long time."

Eyes still on Chris, I turned my ear toward Daniel. "What are you talking about?"

"When you were a kid, you used to see someone stressing out and assemble a plan to fix their problems. It's your 'everyone's shit but my own' look, which suddenly became 'nobody's shit but my own look'."

"Uh..." Blood flooded in my cheeks, embarrassment forcing me down in my seat by a few inches.

"Don't worry, it's a good thing. You look like your old self again."

"Hunter said something similar at the airport." What he'd actually said is that I was acting like my old stupid, antagonistic self following a taunt about his super queer gladiator sandals, but who was going to call me out?

Jonathan and Blaze spat mouthfuls of food into their hands, Daniel dropped his smartphone into a glass of water, and Chris burst out laughing. Okay, he wasn't completely broken. I honestly didn't understand the shock until I reassessed what I'd said. I could have kicked myself.

"Oh, boy."

"Hunter? Hunter Rosen?" Blaze's raised voice brought the entire restaurant to silence. "You've been soaking up the rays with your ex?"

"Strictly speaking, Hunter and I have never been in a relationship, so he's not my ex." At that point, steam should have been piping out of Blaze's ears. It seemed like a bad time to split hairs so I revised my approach. "Henry has been putting him up while things sort themselves out. I literally only found out he was living in the beach house yesterday morning."

"He's in one of Henry's places? And he let you go out there?"

"I don't think it was intentional. He just needed to—"

"Emmeline!" Room still deathly quiet except for the sounds of heavy breathing and suppressed giggles, I closed my mouth and bit my lip, fighting the urge to plea the case further. "Either that pompous prick has been living rent free in Henry's property or he hasn't. Has he?"

My eyes met my untouched plate. "He has."

"Right."

"He's not there." Blaze paused mid-turn, allowing me to continue. "He went back to Japan earlier. Siobhan's pregnant."

"Oh." Blaze promptly sat down but still looked shaken by the new information until well after the rest of the diners had resumed their conversations like his outburst had never happened. If I'd been smarter, I would have told him I'd seen Hunter sooner. It was foolish to think he could have never found out, though part of me did hope.

"So what have you been doing without me?" Desperately, I tried to move the conversation on. We'd butt heads over Hunter later in our usual special way, but now wasn't the time or place to dispute. "What needs finalising—who's ass do I need to kick?"

"Ivy's," Daniel groaned. "You know what she's like. We've barely been able to keep your little holiday under wraps. Trying to keep her calm is like trying to catch a fart in a colander."

Yikes. How had I not taken my mother into consideration before I left? "Has it been awful?"

"You wouldn't believe. We managed to keep her in the dark until three days ago when she called your phone and one of the villa staff answered it, so she is doubly pissed."

"Crap." Blaze should have been the hard part, not the calm before the storm. "I guess I'm paying for dinner."

The food was outrageously good, the wine even more so. It was dusk when we all staggered out and into taxis driven by men who gaped in awe was they drove up the illuminated driveway of our house. One pot of coffee, a bag of snacks and a DVD box set later, I was the only one left who hadn't fallen asleep on a couch or beanbag.

The only light was a dim blue glow from the television. My mind drifted to thoughts of how the afternoon had been so fun, how good it was to be back with my loved ones...

And how hollow the victory felt. Life should have been perfect, yet I felt empty. What had going away really resolved?

Nothing. I'd just gained a few pounds and had some drugs pumped into me. Not a single thing was any different to when I'd left, only my outlook. The same results could have been achieved at home, without upsetting everyone.

"Penny for them."

Looking down, I could see Blaze's eyes twinkling in the semi-darkness. "You're mad that I left."

"I'm not mad because you left, cupcake. I'm mad because it got to the point where you _had_ to leave."

"So you're mad that I left."

He sighed, wriggled his leg free from under a tangle of Daniel and Jonathan's, and pulled me to the other end of our massive lounge close to a new cabinet he'd filled with my geeky collectibles. I didn't miss the fact that he'd set them all out in exactly the same places they'd been in my old flat. He always paid attention to smaller details like that, and it was those small courtesies that proved he loved me.

Making sure I was comfortable and settled in a deep-seated swivel armchair, he knelt down on the floor in front of it and rested his head in my lap. "When you leave, it always feels like I'm being punished or taught a lesson. That can be hard to swallow, but it's a means to a more positive end, right? Sometimes I forget that you managed just fine before I came along. I needed reminding that you can look after yourself and I don't need to be your watcher. You're my gift, not my responsibility."

"You really do say the most lovely things."

"Ah hah. That seems like a good time to proposition you sexually."

"Again?" Where did the guy find all his energy? It could have been a pent up tension situation, we hadn't exactly been at it like rabbits for a while...

Not since the last night we'd spent in Cardiff. There had to be something in the water. It couldn't possibly be that being back in the hometown we'd sought to escape made us happy...

Noise woke me the next morning, the same kind of racket that'd stir me when Blaze woke me up with breakfast in bed. But from the hoarse groan of, 'what the fuck?', I knew that he was still beside me before I'd even opened my eyes or reached for him.

A few seconds of eye rubbing later, I remembered that Daniel, Jonathan and Chris had stayed the night. Nice of them to help themselves to my kitchen. If there wasn't a coffee sat on the breakfast bar with my name on it, I was fully prepared to raise hell.

My lazy aggression was scuppered by the sound of rich female laughter resonating through the house. Wide-eyed, I turned to Blaze and squeaked, "Esme?!"

"Why don't you go and find out?" His big, smug smile said everything, really. His was the Cheshire Cat grin of a man who'd been in on a scheme and it had all gone exactly according to plan.

I rushed out, grabbing the first clothes I could lay my hands on. Bedraggled and wearing a Van Halen t-shirt with Blaze's _Spiderman_ lounge pants, I ran down to the ground floor level and tripped over my own feet on the last stair, landing myself into a surprisingly graceful forward roll at Esme's feet.

She stared down at me, blinked once, and raised an eyebrow.

"Tah-dah?"

"Oh, Emmy."

I'd heard that same resigned sigh of adoration many times before. "You still wuv me?"

"Of course I do, you tit. Here."

I grabbed the hand she held out and pulled myself up from the floor. It felt like a lifetime since I'd last seen her, not less than a fortnight, and I felt an overwhelming sense of relief to see her there now, still on my side after everything I'd done. They were all there; the people who knew the very rawest version of me the best. They would _always_ be there.

Until I left. Just a few days, and I'd be off on our honeymoon. A few days after that and I'd be overseas for three months, and then out of the London for good. I'd rarely see any of them again.

"Emmy, are you crying?"

"I don't wanna go to Chicago!" I tried to put as much humour into my heart breaking as I could, dropping back to my knees with my fists clenched, screaming, "No!" Joking aside, it hurt to imagine only having four days left with my friends when I'd only just gotten them back. "I haven't finished with you yet."

"The shoes are designer, Emmeline Elizabeth. You snot on 'em, you pay for 'em."

"Designer?" Wiping a half-theatrical tear, I gaped up from her ankles in awe. The only times Esme ever cared about getting anything on her shoes, called me by my full name or wore actual bone fide designer pumps, were the times she needed to wow with everything but her face. "You've had an interview?"

"Yes, though if you hadn't pussied off to Greece, you'd already know that, and if you weren't still snivelling over my pumps, I'd be elaborating now."

A hint was a hint. For the second time, Esme held out a hand and helped me to my feet, while my mind did cartwheels over the last couple of minutes.

And yet the first question I asked, of all the possibilities, was—

"I was in Greece?"

"How did you not know that?"

"Tudor Special Services? Super secret car-shuffling fun, windows blacked out on both sides and Roman frontier escort ninja shit, right?"

"You know what I hate?"

"Umm..." The list was endless, really. My over-active imagination, my tendency to end a sentence with a question if I was pushing the conversational limits of sanity. Pleather. "That what I just said is totally outrageous and unrealistic, and yet it's a perfectly reasonable suggestion when considering the absurdity and almost fictional quality of my life?"

"Yes." Obviously. "But what I hate even more is that you look bloody gorgeous for someone who had a complete mental breakdown. Tell me that tan is all real and I'll eat my hat."

I caught sight of my face in the pristinely polished silver fridge door and felt my cheeks turn a bashful pink. Though hardly few and far between, I'd always struggled to accept a compliment, much less believe in it's sincerity or agree with it. Bizarrely, I looked at myself now and I _did_ think she had a point. The curves Blaze had carved into me with his fussing were back and my skin was downright radiant. If it was even possible, I might have looked even better than ever.

"Seems kind of unreal that you've rounded out so much in just over a week."

"Rounded out?!" My eyes bore a red hot hole of evil into Chris' forehead. "I have not 'rounded out'!"

"Anyway..." Luckily for him, Esme pulled me away from Chris and sat me down at the table in front of a full fry up laid out fresh for me by Jonathan. The whole table was set for six, wine glasses already filled with orange juice, and a full range of condiments and hot drinks extras sat with a single daisy on a tray at the centre. "Shut up, eat up and let's talk planning."

"Hell no." I washed down a mouthful of hash brown with rocket fuel Columbian coffee. "I haven't even begun to apologise yet."

"No need. You did me a favour."

The red-haired beauty sat in the seat next to me, leaving the one opposite for Blaze. The rest of the men took their places and started scooping food from the bowls and dishes of breakfast foods scattered over the impressively large left over space across the table top.

It was a completely normal situation, yet it felt like the start of a horror movie. It was all so sterile and artificial. That's always the way a massacre starts.

"Would one of you just rip me a new one already?" Frustrated, I beat my fists against the table and got nothing but looks of confusion in return. They were supposed to hate me. Hell, I wanted them to because I didn't deserve happy hour and a breakfast wake up call. I just wanted _someone_ to give me the ass kicking I'd earned. "I'm sick of getting away with murder. _Really._ "

"Are you feeling okay?" Blaze brushed my bedraggled bed hair away from my hand and laid his palm across my forehead. "You look like you're going through an emotional soiree."

I did feel a little muddled up. I wanted my friends close and was glad to see them, yet somehow resented them being there. Conversely, I really wanted more coffee, yet the gulp before had made me really _not_ want more coffee.

Oh, dear God. I wasn't...?

"Am I pregnant?" Everyone stopped still and stared, confused again. "If I'm mood-swingy and coffee makes me want to throw up, am I pregnant?"

"Emmy, no. You're hungover."

"Oh." Nodding to Dan uncertainly, I eyed the remaining two-thirds of a cup of java dubiously. It really did taste fucking awful.

"Why would she say that?" Alarmed, Esme looked back and forth between all of us. "She's had a million hangovers before, why now would she be thinking babies?"

"Hunter. Siobhan's up t'stick."

"Oh. Aah." Grinning, she turned to face me and rested her chin daintily on a curled up fist.

"I have to explain this, don't I?" A full update on my little trip had taken a good few hours the night before and recalling it all again was a dire prospect. Talk about getting bored of your own stories... "I've changed my mind. I need that coffee after all."

It was basically lunchtime by the time all of the breakfast plates had been cleaned and put away. Blaze and Chris shared the four hour old leftovers between them as they made some of the mountain of last minute confirmation calls to people all over the country.

As far as I knew, Monday's Miracle were still playing in the evening. What I _didn't_ know was that they were arriving two days before the wedding and staying with us.

"Putting up rockstars, get you." Esme stared dreamily across my studio to a wall-mounted canvas of Blaze on stage, back in the day. "You've not done at all badly for someone with no discernible talent."

"Hah. Thank you." I stuck my tongue out at her as I inched through the door she was holding open with her foot. In my arms was a box full of RSVPs that had already been checked a thousand times over, but needed checking again for final numbers—apparently. I doubted many other grooms were quite so figure obsessed. "I don't believe you let me finish grovelling."

"I don't want you to grovel. Like I said earlier, you did me a favour."

We walked down to the lounge expecting to find Daniel and Jonathan cooing over flower arrangements, but instead arrived to find it empty, no sound but raised voices outside. A delivery van had pulled up and Blaze looked to be screaming at the guy in the drivers seat.

"Jones' Bakery... How long until the wedding?"

"Four days."

And the cake was being delivered already. Looked serious. I probably should have gone out there as back up. On the other hand... "You never told me about this job you've been for."

"Ah, the job. But first—the back story."

With a graceful wave of the hand, Esme beckoned me over to a couch and sat with her feet tucked up underneath her. She'd never had the grooming to pass herself off as a member of the elite, but she had the natural poise of a debutante on her side if she ever wanted to try.

"My career has been great but I've purposely been holding myself back to avoid my face being seen. I've turned down more acting auditions than I could count, offered on my voice alone, but I've been so scared of my waste of space mother finding me. I've been so damn careful for so damn long."

"So explain to me how lifting the veil on you was a favour."

"Because, little Emmy White, one split second lapse of caution caught me out. It also taught me that there are much bigger things in life than whether a ghost breaks out of it's grave. So what if she tracks me down? Now everybody knows my face, nobody is going to stand by and watch her extort me. Your personal life always becomes public access if your name goes up in lights. Shit, it's pretty much part of the job description. By the time the old hag found me, I'd already sold my story to a magazine and had a few of your dear old dad's goons as body guards. She can't get near me, not anymore."

Everything seemed to have worked out for Esme, but as glad as I was for it, I still didn't feel any better about the circumstances under which it had happened. I'd fucked up big time, and I wasn't going to stop trying to compensate for it, no matter how fortunate the consequences had been.

"Do you need a kidney or something? Because I have no idea how to make up for being an idiot in four days."

"Emmy, I wouldn't take a kidney from you for all the tea in China. It would hardly lengthen my life expectancy after the shit you've put your body through. But trust me, you'll have longer than that to kiss my pert little butt-cushion."

"Are you asking me to do a Blaze and send you daily love notes via email?"

"Well, I'm not saying no to that but daily serenades in person might be nice."

"That's a hell of a commute, Es."

"Emmy." She smiled at me but I already knew what she was going to say, on some profound level. "I was going to keep this for a wedding present, but seeing as you actually turned up; one of the golden rules is that it's not what you know, it's who you know. And I know a man committed to a film that had a female lead drop out last week, so..."

"You're my new on-screen sister-in-law." I'd had enough sentimentality to keep up to date with the latest news with Blaze's upcoming film. The publicity around us had drawn so much attention to his new fledgling Hollywood career that the media was well and truly on the pulse before filming had even started. "Esme, that's great. I'm so pleased for you."

And yet, my face showed nothing. Despite my chest feeling pumped full to capacity with pride and happiness for my best girl friend, I couldn't make that joy apparent with words or expressions.

"Emmy, are you okay?"

"I don't know." I didn't know whether to be worried, or whether I was just having a weird moment of apathy. "It's disorienting, really. Everything is going to well, like everyone wants, but it all just seems too shiny and rehearsed to be real."

"It could be the new medication," she pointed out carefully. "You've been backwards and forwards between time zones a lot recently. And you're just coming around from what I hear was a somewhat psychotic breakdown. It's just right that you're fragile. But honestly..." Her head dipped towards me, closing the gap between us to speak in a whisper. "Don't tell your fiancé down there I said this, but you've had a lot to surpass to survive in this relationship, and a run of shit luck spanning nearly a decade. It would be crazy if you weren't feeling a little cynical or sceptical. Anyone else would feel the same way in your position—that or they would have given up already."

I suppose if I'd felt spiteful, I'd have made a mental list of all the extreme circumstances I'd been put under to be with Blaze. It would have been really easy to point out to him all the ways he'd done me an injustice to make him see how lucky he was. I could have been one of those women who have to be the alpha in their marriage.

Or I could have dropped dead and rotted. I hadn't ever viewed what we had as a score board, each of us trying to be the 'better' half of the couple. If I did, I'd have been very resentful.

"Yeah, it's probably the drugs," I grumbled moodily, unable to shed the idea that something was going to go horribly wrong. "Just keep me distracted."

And she did. For the next three days, I was committed to constructing decorations, complaining about petty details and stamping my feet for discounts. For the next three nights, I slept like shit, plagued with mental images of satin bows and sugared almonds.

And for the next three nights, I dreamt that I was back in Natasha's bedroom, post killing. Not riddled with panic. Not even moving. Just a corpse like her, lying lifeless by her side on the mattress.

Neither of us were spared a hellish afterlife. Neither of us was saved.

Both of our lives ended that night. To carry on walking through, as I had, was an abomination. Sixty-five days after the unexpected death of Natasha Valentine, the Reaper came back for me and he held no prisoners. My borrowed time as Emmeline Tudor came to an end. Life and death would never be the same again.

#  seventeen

#

My wedding day started out with me reaching across the bed to find an empty space, and instantly feeling miserable. Blaze was a field away, at his mother's house, with his grooms-men. I had rooms full of my wedding party around me, yet I felt so alone.

The house beneath me was already buzzing with life; Ivy and Tallulah panicking over misplaced items and Esme verbally battering off newsrooms and independent columnists over the phone. The ground floor kitchen wafted out the aroma of extremely strong coffee and food I felt too sick to even think about eating.

Then it hit me. Three things, actually. The horrific cramps, the migraine and the earthy breeze coming in through a door left open.

I was about to get my period _and_ there'd be a bad storm. On that day. On the day of my outdoor wedding.

"Who pissed on your chips?" My ever-loud big sister shoved in past me, jolting my shoulder just slightly, but it felt like it'd bruise. Tallulah circled around to stand in front of me and pulled a face. "Oh dear."

"What?"

"How much did you drink last night?"

"A glass of wine, maybe three." Maybe a bottle. We'd gone out on the town the previous night to celebrate my last day of marital freedom—it would have been rude not to drink with everyone else.

Her lip curled up at the corner, the curve and angle a perfect match to her raised eyebrow. "I've seen how much you can put away, so I'm calling bullshit. You look like you found the bottom of a bottle of brandy then let someone fuck you in the shitter with it."

"Thank you, Tally. Always good for a compliment when I need it most."

As bad as it tasted, I took the cup of coffee she passed me and sat down at the kitchen table with my face down against the wood. It was going to be a bad day, I could tell. Everything was going to go wrong, I just feel it in my bones.

"You having second thoughts?"

I lifted my head enough to narrow my eyes across the room at Tallulah. "Why would you say that?"

"Because you're way out of his league?" Undoubtedly, that was the nicest thing she'd ever said to me.

"What do you want? What bad news have you been sent to bestow upon me?"

"Caroline's here." I groaned and folded my arms over my head. "You have to know that this dress fits, Emmy. No good putting it on an hour before the ceremony to find out it's too big again."

"You know about that?"

"Duh," Tallulah tutted. "She's the biggest gossip in London. She told us as soon as you were out of earshot."

"Just fabulous." Disgruntled, I shoved my chair back and stood. If trying my nightmare frock on again would banish Caroline back to her hole to hide with the other guests until the sunset ceremony, I'd gladly do it to get her out of eye-shot.

We'd spoken briefly over the phone, and Blaze had taken and barked out my new measurements for her to work with. A little disbelieving of my weight gain, she said she'd work day and night to give the gown some 'flexibility'. Basically, I figured she was going to give it a little nip and tuck, and rely on the corseted back to widen out enough to cater to my needs.

Sure enough, I walked into the lounge and Caroline immediately hit me with a proud little speech about how she'd taken in the top half of the dress at the seams, extended the strip of O-ring rivets to down below the waist into the train and added in a 'modesty panel' so no skin would be on show. Blah blah blah.

"All right, then," I sighed, dreading every second of the oncoming fitting. "Let the games begin."

Caroline's assistant carefully unpacked the bridesmaid and maid of honour dresses from their garment bags, then politely gestured towards the stairs so we could go somewhere a little more private. My dress, unlike my mental health, apparently remained secret.

Naturally, Caroline hopped ahead of me and snatched the biggest garment bag from the poor assistant's hand. A talon-fingered hand rushed at the zip, and...

Nothing. She became very still and very vacant. Esme, my mother and a make-up artist had assembled and were watching in quiet confusion by the time Caroline spoke again.

"Brooke, dear. Fetch the other bag from the van, silly pet."

Her assistant stammered slightly, presumably thrown off by the saccharine sweet endearment. "There is no other bag, Miss Caroline."

"The white bag. Please, sweetheart."

"That _is_ the white bag."

"No, this is eggshell." Looked white to me... "I asked you to bring the white bag I hung on the rail, not the eggshell bag hung on the back door."

With a burst of unexpected and pent up frustration, the pretty young girl huffed and rolled her eyes. "That is the white bag you hung on the rail. I picked up the 'eggshell' bag and you told me to put it back."

It was quite clear from that point that mistakes had no place in Caroline's life, particularly not those she'd made herself. Tomato-faced and flustered, she reeled out the names of other assistants to call, just to be told they'd been sent overseas or dismissed over other silly 'discrepancies'. Nobody left to blame, she threw the garment bag down on the couch and dropped like a stone into the seat next to it.

"Then call my bloody husband, you incompetent twit!"

"Sure," the assistant laughed. "I'm the twit."

"And now you're the incompetent twit on the unemployment line. You're fired."

"Thank you!" She threw her hands up and, honestly looking emotionally a tonne lighter, grabbed the car keys sat on my coffee table with a flourish. "Good luck getting home, you old witch, because the van is mine. And your husband—who totally isn't banging his _male_ apprentice—is across the field cupping the groom's in-seam."

I watched, stunned, as one flighty, seriously pissed off but wildly triumphant brunette slammed out of my house and went screeching out of the driveway in a knackered old Transit van. Once the dust settled over the gravel, I reassessed the last few minutes and turned calmly to Caroline.

"Call me crazy, but I'm pretty sure what I just witnessed was you opening the 'eggshell' garment bag of the wrong wedding dress, not having anyone available in London to bring it here, and you _firing_ the only person able to drive you back to fetch it yourself. By deductive reasoning, that would mean my dress is still in your shop and nobody can get it here on time."

She lowered her head, looked up at me sheepishly and pursed her lips. "I told that stupid girl that this was important. She should have double-checked."

"If it was that important, _you_ would have double-checked before the van started moving!"

My eyes flashed a blinding white. Dizziness ensued. Bile in the back of my throat, I felt the familiar burning wetness in my nostrils before I heard the gasps that confirmed it; yes. Nosebleed.

"Christ, sit her down!" Someone—or sometwo—hoisted me up into the cradle of their joined arms and set me down cautiously on the couch. I didn't care if blood was dripping down my face or how clammy I'd gotten. I wanted to know what was going to be done about my damn dress. Everyone I knew was in Wales. Everyone but—

"Mrs. Reynolds," I gasped. "My old boss, Chris' mother. He's picking her up later on. He can bring it back with him!"

"That would leave no time for alterations..."

"Then you want to hope it fits." Caroline was in touching distance, so I grabbed her hand and squeezed it. "Because your ex-assistant took the van with all your equipment, and for every step I have to take wearing a bridal gown that doesn't fit like a glove, I'm gonna break one of your fucking bones. Starting with these. Do you understand the words I am speaking?"

"Clear as a bell, Miss Tudor. I'll speak with the best man immediately."

"You do that."

At which point, my mother started wailing and screaming my father's name at people like a profanity; as a threat and a punishment. About the same time, I announced that I needed a drink. The only way I was going to through the day was by being smashed.

"Oh no, you mustn't!" A boney hand clapped over the rims of the glass I was working toward putting wine in. "Emmy love, you can't walk down the aisle stinking of booze! What will Blaze think?"

"I'm sure Blaze has already thought of this idea himself and will be just about sober enough to stand up straight for twenty minutes. So if you don't mind."

Ivy didn't release the glass, so I snatched up the bottle and swigged from its neck. Covered in blood, a shower really felt like more of a necessity than a common courtesy, so I was completely justified in raising the bottle high in a solemn toast, raised the middle finger of the other hand and told them all to go fuck themselves.

Or not. Five minutes later, I was sobbing on the bathroom floor over the whole dress debacle, convinced that everyone hated me.

"Emmy?" Esme tapped on the door twice before walking right in anyway. An idiot would have looked at her and thought her hair and make-up were done for the wedding several hours too early. Someone smarter would know she was in her version of slouch mode, and just naturally beautiful—the outright bitch. "Your old man and Chris have taken a bloody chopper of all things to London for your dress. They're not going to tell dear Lottie, just land close to her house and march in. Poor woman is probably still in her rollers and nightie, so there'll probably be some delay."

Lottie? She had to mean Mrs. Reynolds. I'd worked with the woman for years, yet I never knew her first name. That was nuts and a little inhospitable of me.

"You like Chris' mum."

Esme half-smiled and sat down on the heated tiles next to me. "I like mums in general, funnily enough. It's interesting to meet the child then the parent just to see the little ways they've influenced each other."

"You like my mum."

She glanced shiftily sideways at me and shook her head. "I'm not after a new mother figure, Emmy. I'm fond of her because she's so much like you. In these past months, she's been the second best alternative and I admit I've become a little protective. You're do very alike in ways you wouldn't realise. For one, she blames herself so much for your anorexia. You're the only other person I know who beats themselves up over something they can't take blame for."

"What does that mean? Like what?"

"Natasha."

For a brief moment, my reaction was panic. I honestly believed that Esme somehow knew about my involvement in Natasha's death. Exhausted tears burned the back of my eyes; too wet and weary to cry anymore. A confession danced on the end of my tongue.

"Why would you bring her up today, of all days?"

"I didn't... No, Emmy." Startled, Esme shuffled around in front of me and took my hands. "Nobody blames you. It was an accident waiting to happen. You'd never have lasted long without Henry finding out, even if you were comfortable with it."

"What has my father been saying to you?"

"Nothing! What... I don't understand why you're so upset about this now. You've had a long time to get your head around the idea. You never could have known that Blaze was married."

"You—" Shit. A total over-reaction on my part, and over something so small. What the hell could I expect from similar conversations in the future? How long until I dropped myself into a whole load of trouble and jail time?

I had to bullshit my way out of it, and fast. In desperation, I crawled past to the toilet and dry heaved until she backed out of the bathroom. I'd never wished so hard for vomit in my life.

Just the name, 'Natasha', brought me out in hives and self-damnation. I couldn't escape it. It would always be forever etched on as a flaw in my past, and I wasn't sure that I'd get away with it for long. Chances were, I'd hear a lot more of her name, in particular on that day. Her existence hadn't been kept secret enough to elude the vicious gossip, Helen Rosen, and my sister, though who knew how much of the story they actually knew.

It was ridiculous to think that I'd walk away a free woman for the rest of my life, and it was unfair to even try. Too many people would get caught in the middle. Too many lives would fall to pieces.

_Jesus Christ._ I had to call off the wedding. The whole thing was a bloody travesty, built on lies and secrets.

"Emmy?" Esme's voice at the door, more puzzled than concerned like before. "There's a gift for you. It was just delivered. No note or name."

Sounded ominous, and looked it, too. The wrapped box was no bigger than a cylindrical ring box, the bow bigger than the package.

"So, are you going to open it?"

"I dunno..." Something gave me a really bad feeling about the unexpected gift. Somehow, I knew I wouldn't be impressed by it's contents. "I don't like it. Why send me an anonymous present now when all the wedding gifts are being piled up in the gazebo?"

"Oh, come on. Open it. You can't get married with a load of loose ends dangling about."

"Why!" I turned to her quickly, my eyebrows high, my voice higher. "Why all the talk of Natasha and loose ends today?"

"I've said each of those things once."

"And once too many! Please!"

Esme sank back against the door frame, throwing the box so vaguely in my direction that it narrowly missed the toilet bowl. "Just open it, fool. Be glad it's your wedding day and you have an excuse to act like a spastic, or I'd be thinking you've got a guilty conscience about something."

What was I? Transparent? Fuelled by frustration, I ripped the paper off the box by it's stupid bow in one movement.

My initial guess of ring box was spot on. The clean white velvet vessel was spoiled by a hand-scrawled message of 'Something Borrowed' in cheap golden gel ink. One infinitesimal look inside and my decision was sealed.

"Call Blaze. Wedding's off."

"What the fuck, Emmy?" Seething, Esme snatched the box back from my hand and examined it for a second before peeking inside and admitting: "Oh shit, that's bad."

Someone had been inside the safe holding all of our valuables and important documents, removed the ring Natasha had left to me, and sent it back as a gift with the venomous message. Was I borrowing Blaze? Is that what they meant?

"This is clearly a sick joke, Emmy. Don't ruin your life over it."

"It was stolen from _this_ house, Esme. Someone has been into this house to play tricks on me. Someone _in_ this house is playing tricks on me." Caroline? Her now ex-assistant? Esme and my mother adored Blaze, my male friends just didn't think that way. Which left—"Tallulah! That spineless—"

"I really don't think—"

"—Bitch always hated that we were together. This isn't the first time she—"

"Emmy!" Grabbing my forearms, Esme shook me so hard my teeth knocked together. "Tallulah didn't do this. Tallulah _likes_ Blaze, and frankly she's more concerned with her own relationship."

"Tally has a boyfriend?" Blind? Deaf? Dumb? All of the above? "Is he real?"

_"She_ happens to be your top rate make-up artist for the day, actually."

"She?" The shit you find out... "My sister is a lesbian? Now that would explain why she kept taking all the bra's off my dolls."

"Your dolls had bras?"

"A platitude for the precocious puberty. Long story. I don't have big tits because I was 'blessed', let's put it that way."

"I—" At a loss for words, Esme simply shook her head and drew my attention back to the ring box. "This was a sick prank by a sick bastard, and Henry will get to the bottom of it. But you can't take it to heart. You cannot 'borrow' a husband from a dead woman."

So it was what I thought. A message of warning that she'd be back for him. Somewhere along the way, she'd haunt us. He was only on loan to me. His place was by her side.

"Oh my God, someone is going to murder Blaze!"

"Okay, screw this." Esme's hand clamped down on my shoulder and forced me out beyond the bathroom door, back into the kitchen. "Ivy's a doll, but I'm calling this one. You need alcohol and you need it now."

Five glasses of wine and a cheeky cigarette made of Esme's favourite black cherry tobacco made me calm enough to check the safe and find Natasha's ring still tucked away carefully like a cursed talisman. The ring I'd been delivered was just eerily similar in design, colour and size, even down to the etching along the inner band.

Except this was legible, barely. 'Souls mated by thunder' was carved into the platinum, a sentiment that made no sense to me.

"Things like this can happen to public figures," Ivy cooed protectively. She stood behind me braiding my hair, regardless of the fact it would be professionally styled a few hours later. "You've led a life that's enticed the likes of stalkers and psychos."

"Are you calling me a slapper?"

"Heavens no! I mean you've walked through the days bearing a beauty that pushes men to the brink of sanity." Nice save. Mother's appeared to be particularly skilled in the art of covering blunders. "But you can't let this rule you. If you back out at the first sign of trouble, all sorts of people would realise you're a coward and not very self-assured. Goodness knows how your vulnerability could get you hurt or worse. You could end up anywhere on the planet—in several places at once, even."

Behind that grotesque prophecy, there was a hint I'd been waiting for her to drop since Ivy had arrived in Cardiff the previous morning. She'd pointedly avoided the subject of my European rendezvous, talking us round in circles if I ever tried to broach it.

My mother was hurt and I understood that. She'd been the last of my immediate circle to find out I'd left because it had been actively kept secret from her. It was probably that—not feeling trusted—which she hated more than anything. The sting of betrayal could be much harsher than plain old ignorance.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you about Greece." Ivy sighed quietly and took the seat next to me. Despite her earlier attempt to implement an alcohol ban, she'd been filling my glass for an hour and matching my every sip.

"Don't apologise, love. It's not your fault that everyone thought I'd blab to the papers."

"You are kind of loose-lipped, Mum."

"I don't... I don't know what you mean!" She spat out a few indignant grunts of protest, rolled her eyes, and snatched up her glass. "Oh, all right. I'm easily excitable. But it's only because I'm so very proud of you picking your life up and settling down with a handsome, financially stable and caring man."

"You called it," I pointed out, hoping to boost her fragile ego. "You said we were a perfect match."

"I did!" Grinning ear to ear, she whipped out a small bag from behind a cushion and shoved it at me. "And here's my contribution to the day. 'Something new', love. I hope it'll match."

It didn't take much to figure out that she'd brought me jewellery, but the necklace I unwrapped was admittedly stunning. The simple but very classy string of pearls fastened at the front with an intricate ruby studded catch. Both hues of stone would fit perfectly with the colour scheme of my dress. How lucky. Unless...

"You've seen it. You've seen my wedding dress."

Fear, denial and panic manifested in a single, "Um..." from my mother's lips before she clasped her head and sagged back into the plush fabric of her armchair. "Yes, all right. I might have caught a peek."

"Mother..."

"Okay, fine. Caroline showed Tally and I when Esme chased you out onto the street."

_Oh, give me a break._ The only thing I'd wanted more than anything was for that dress to be a surprise, and for Ivy to weep when she saw it. Yes, chances were she'd sobbed anyway, but it wasn't the same to see a dress up on a rail. The first time anyone but Caroline and her staff saw the dress, I'd wanted to be wearing it.

"She's ruined it. _Again_. It was bad enough to forget it, but to go against my wishes _again._ " She'd done too much and she knew too much for me to be comfortable around her. Blaze may have rated her as a seamstress, but she was a bleak example of a confidante. I desperately hoped that I'd never have to deal with the woman again.

"I know what'd cheer you up!" A cheerful spring in her step, Ivy bounced up to her feet, tapped a quick message into her phone, and paced near the doorway. She had a look about her; well-meaning intervention spliced with self-delight and arrogance. "We should probably not tell your father about this."

Miraculously, I didn't guess from that afterthought what was waiting for me. I was as surprised by the arrival of my next gift as I had been the last time it'd parked itself on my doorstep.

"Hunter Rosen, as I live and breathe!"

"Is that a fucking catchphrase or something?"

He laughed as I squealed and scurried towards him, legs all a-tangle with the charger cables for my phone and laptop. What had only been a few days felt like months. If I'd seen him every day, it still might not have felt like often enough.

Ivy shocked us both by politely excusing herself, giving me the opportunity to trap Hunter with the huge hug I'd been holding back on. Hunter held me, gaping over my shoulder at the home I had on show.

"This is some house, Emmeline."

"Screw the house. What are you doing here?"

"Blaze invited me." He shook his head, reassessing his answer. "Blaze invited Siobhan. Not sure if he was being facetious or if there's some secret tit-for-tat, 'I'll show you mine if you show me yours' policy on wedding breakfasts I was unaware of. But she RSVP'd weeks ago with a plus one and Blaze said he'd tolerate my presence for your sake."

"How very magnanimous." I wasn't sure whether to be more impressed that Blaze had let Hunter attend or that Hunter had sought Blaze's blessing before turning up. "Tell me you've come to save me from this hell."

"Bad day?"

"Don't even. I understand why you got shit-faced now."

"Do you?"

Okay, maybe not. My experience was just lousy; he'd been in love with another woman when he started saying his vows. Putting it into perspective, I probably didn't completely get it. However, I did agree that it was a good idea. "Marriage makes a good case for alcoholism."

"Oh, you just wait."

"You aren't married."

"I will be. Siobhan and I are picking up where we left off."

"Oh. Good." I was happy for him, I really was. It was my inner child that turned a genuine smile into a grimace, spitefully pouting at having to share her toys. "So what brings you to the brides chamber on the morn before t'weddin'?"

Hunter cocked his head and laughed. "Oh dear, you're trashed. I'm here after an emergency call from Esme which Ivy is taking credit for, actually. Big emergency—something about a borrowed ring?"

"Oh." I explained the whole day's fiasco in detail, getting the kind of reaction I'd wanted from Esme.

"That's fucked up, Emmeline. I don't like it."

"Me, either. How can I get married if I have to wear jeans and say 'I do' behind SWAT shields?"

"Well firstly, I'd maybe consider wearing your underwear down the aisle before you head out in jeans. Secondly, you're being a tad dramatic, but it's your wedding day so I forgive you. Third and finally, I now understand why I was drafted in. Hold this."

His next movements were a process of removing all the formality from his outfit. The cufflinks came first, then the watch, tie and belt. Shoes and socks next, the top shirt button undone...

"I know it's pretty common knowledge that a good seeing to tends to calm me, but I really don't think this is the way it should be administered." Not that it didn't tempt me to scurry off to a dark corner and see to myself. I knew that if I'd slept next to Blaze and had a little morning glory, I wouldn't feel so fraught.

"Oh, I'm going to see to you all right, Tudor. I'm going to give you a real spanking." He leaned close, nearly caging me against the wall. "Pass me a Wii controller."

"God, I'm so hot for you right now. But wouldn't you prefer to use a spatula or hair brush? Hell, this belt..."

"Jesus, Emmeline." Hunter staggered back in a fit of laughter, unable to follow my act. Gasping for air, he held my face in his hands and kissed my forehead. "I'm going to beat your ass on Wii Tennis, then you're going to shower, have some lunch, then tell me that you still want out of this wedding."

I couldn't. An hour of cardio, a good scrub and a sandwich later, I felt like a different creature. I still had my doubts about marriage, but that was normal. Right?

"Of course it's normal to get cold feet. It's a massive commitment and Blaze is the first serious relationship you've been in. It's all passed at rocket speed, so of course you're apprehensive. The longevity of a relationship rarely makes that completely disappear."

"Aren't you supposed to be talking me back on track? You're just giving me reasons to back out."

"Am I?"

"Yes."

"Am I, though?"

"Yes!"

"Am I?" Hunter pressed a finger to my lips before I could say it again. "Am I giving you reasons, or are you looking for them? I gave you justification for your nerves, not a get out clause. Why are you so scared of marrying Blaze?"

"Because it'll never last!" Admitting it hurt me inside, like a knife to the heart. "It won't last and it'll hurt more for the higher level of commitment."

"Okay, statistically yes, your marriage is unlikely to last. But it's not impossible and the run up to dissolution may be blissful. _'You have to die a few times before you can really live,'_ said Charles Bukowski, and you've faced more than your share of death."

"Are you saying I should grab the bull by the horns?"

"No, honey. I'm telling you that you've already caught the bull, but it wasn't the horns you grabbed. Let go of the junk keeping you back, take a step forward, and try a new approach. Believe me, if you hold on and try to go anywhere, it's going to hurt like hell for everyone involved."

"There's a difference between looking and seeing. You're looking for justifiable reasons to validate that your relationship is 'good' and 'strong' enough for marriage. You're not seeing that even without validation, your relationship _is_ good and strong enough. Differentiate between how yours and Blaze's relationship feels internally, and how you believe others can perceive it. Don't sacrifice perfection for caution. Nobody's opinion but yours and his matter, and you have no idea what's around the corner."

He was right, I didn't. If I'd known what was lurking there, I might have been a little more wary that day. "What if I know for sure it's going to be tough?"

"Then you have a terrific husband and lots of friends to get through it with you. Be honest, a lot of people would disown you if you back out now."

"I suppose you _would_ be the leading authority on that."

A flurry of activity downstairs forced an end to our conversation. Hunter had given me all the help he could and I'd be eternally grateful for that. If not for him, I'd still be filthy and stressed. Now I just felt a strange sense of melancholy as my old friend walked to the door.

"Oh, here." Hunter bottlenecked in the doorway, hands dug deep into his pockets. From one of them, he pulled out a tattered old friendship bracelet I'd made for him when I was fourteen. It was blue because it reminded me of his eyes, but I never told him that. It meant more to me than it did to him. "Something blue."

"I made this for you, Hunter. You're meant to keep this to remind yourself of my unwavering friendship."

"Emmeline, what I can't carry inside my heart and mind is superfluous. If I have nothing but this bracelet to remember you by, I was a terrible friend."

A fair point, but it caused a terrible crushing in my chest. I'd experienced no pain like it, a sadness so deep it made usual fits of depression seem like toddler tantrums. "This feels like goodbye, Hunter. You're giving me your friendship back."

"You never gave me your friendship, Emmeline. I just... borrowed it. Borrowed and blue."

Yes, he was. And saying goodbye after he'd been such a huge influence on my life for so long was so awful it rendered me useless for the rest of the afternoon.

Nothing else could go wrong. One more hiccup and I was walking out of the door. The bad omens were totting up, the bad luck getting worse and worse. There had to come a point where optimism became tedious and unproductive.

"Ma'am." Chris dangled the _eggshell_ garment bag in front of my face, looking awfully proud of himself. He'd been spared from best-man duty for a while so his lovely old ma could have a cup of tea in 'the big posh mirror house.' We'd not really spoken properly over the last four days of preparation, but I'd noted that he still looked moodier than usual, particularly when Esme was around.

"You doing okay?" He grunted moodily in response. "Very eloquent. Thank you."

"Pleasure to be of your disservice."

Quick back and forth skits like that were the full extent of our interaction these days. I knew I'd been distant over the past months so we'd dropped out of touch a bit, but this was extreme.

"Emmy, it's time to get dressed."

I looked up at Esme dubiously, keeping still to let my sister's apparent girlfriend add the last touches to my make-up. From the shoulders up, I was all glamour model. Everything south was yet to be completed.

We'd agreed—or rather, I'd insisted—that I would initially try the dress on alone and call Caroline in when I'd finished... reacting. An hour had been left open before guests started to assemble to get any last adjustments in, plenty of time without being in a rush.

The garment bag was unbelievably heavy. Ivy helped me carry it up the stairs and kissed my cheek for good luck before we left. All that remained was to open it and try it on.

_Come on._ I needed this dress to fit. If it didn't, I'd see it as the next and last sign that this marriage was all wrong. A single stitch, I'd spot it in a minute and surrender...

A perfect fit. I almost wished I'd tried it on once before I'd been painted up because it was such an effort not to cry with relief. The bodice was immaculate and well-shaped, the laces at the back only tight enough to look decorative rather than supportive.

I looked like a bride. I was ready to go out there and get my man. And since there was nothing to do with the dress, I could have a careful glass of wine and unwind for a while. If I'd felt like it, I probably could have asked to move the ceremony forward.

I took one last good look at myself before shouting down to Caroline. She was going to work her pompous butt off for me while I had her there, so I almost wanted to find a loose bead or thread.

Not a thing. But something was missing, and I'd been upstairs too long. A creaking floorboard triggered the answer—veil! My veil was not in the garment bag like it should have been. Perfect.

Sensing someone in the doorway, I grabbed for a towel to cover most of my dress. "It fits but you forgot my fucking—"

"Lost something, Miss Tudor?"

Slowly, I felt all the heat slowly drain out of my face and head south towards my stomach. It only took a small turn to the left to see exactly who was standing in the doorway behind me.

It was the last face I ever imagined to see. A face of darker times. The face of deception. A face so powerful, I was already floored before I saw it for the first time.

The face of furious abandonment.

"Calloway."

#  eighteen

#

"How the hell did you get in here?"

"I have my ways, Miss Tudor."

"I'm sure you do. I'd just like to know why you'd use them to break into my home."

"This is not your home."

His first step was a lunge that brought him far enough into the room to close the door behind him. He was too quick and precise, in everything in fact. Every move he had was calculated and well-planned. One false move and he could easily grab me, or worse.

"Why are you here, Calloway?"

"I'm here to take back what's mine."

"Nothing here belongs to you."

I hated to admit it, but the same visceral magnetism still existed between us. His dark hair was longer and unruly, his icy blue eyes still stony yet strangely enrapturing. His body screamed 'sex' as an afterthought, total domination his priority. The moment I let helpless attraction rule me, he'd have caught me in his tidy trap.

That was his style. He lured women in with a wink and a smile, then physically and emotionally bullied modifications into her until she looked acceptable to be seen at his side. No aspect of her life would be free from control. A number of women were thrown away, taking tales of his abuse to broadsheets and lawyers. One was so desperate for his love, she remained his assistant after being binned off for a Russian dentist.

Calloway had never risen a hand to me. I'd been the only woman to stand my ground and he'd subsequently fallen completely in love with me, even knowing that I couldn't love him back. We only shared a bed to fuck—a bed too similar to Natasha's. Dreams of Blaze kept me from sleeping by his side, and mostly from sleeping at all. We mostly cohabited, socialised and ate together.

All that had amounted... to this?

As I'd suspected, Calloway was in front of me in one more gliding step, far too close for comfort. The small patch of exposed skin between my shoulder blades pressed back against the mirror, and the ruching crumpled and gathered at the small of my back. It was ludicrous that in this situation, with my mad ex-boyfriend pinioning me mere minutes before my wedding, I was dripping with concern that my train would crease.

"The way I remember it, Emmeline, is that I went away to see my family for Thanksgiving with a nice British girlfriend waiting at home for me. My trip home was delayed for a day by snow so I tried to call you, but I only got your voicemail.

"I left ten messages, then I saw them; the reports that you'd hooked up with good old Blaze again in England. Do you have any idea how humiliating it was to try and explain that to my parents after spending days telling them how wonderful you are?"

His hand slammed down flat against the mirror next to my head and I desperately tried not to fixate on the way he'd used present tense. This man was clearly dangerous and not looking for love. Mistaking anything as tender and gentle could have been fatal.

"Well? Do you have any idea?"

"N-no, I don't. I'm so sorry."

"Sorry! Oh, she's sorry!" Calloway pushed back from me, running his fingers angrily into his glossy black mane, shaking with pent up fury. "Sorry, sorry, sorry. How many people are going to say that to me before someone really means it, Emmeline? How many roads must a man walk down for a genuine apology?"

Those last two words were screamed in my face, hot, pungent breath burning my skin. From the stench, I'd have put bets on him clearing out a whole liquor cabinet before he'd arrived. Who knows; maybe that cabinet was mine and he'd been lurking all day.

I stared him dead in the eye because it was all I was capable of—that and breathing so shallowly in case the sound of it pissed him off.

"He took you away from me, and look what happened to you. You tried to cut yourself open because of him."

Automatically, my hands crossed to meet the wrist of the other, defending my actions and defending Blaze. "How do you even know about that?"

"Oh, I have my ways."

"So you keep saying but never explaining."

Seeing some of my usual spunk seemed to please him. With a hack of bright laughter, he retreated once again and pulled a silver whiskey flask from his pocket. Like his damned money clip, the flask was intricately engraved with the initials, C.R. Calloway Ryan: tamer and torturer.

"What do you want?" I asked calmly, willing my legs to stop shaking. "You got yourself a new girl. Why do you want me?"

"It's a matter of principle, Miss Tudor." He came at me again, though this time made me feel sick. His hand brushed down the left side of my face, the right side victim of his lips and nose kissing and nuzzling. "You're so fucking beautiful. You belong to me. I've come back for the soul with whom mine mated with under the glow of lightning."

Souls mated under the glow of lightning? That sounded so much like—

"Souls mated by thunder. You. It was you who sent the ring."

"Don't you like it?"

"Are you shitting me? Even if you weren't an absolute nutter, sending a wedding ring to a woman you're not romantically involved with is creepy."

"Who says we're not romantically involved?" Calloway leaned closer and drew a long, distressing breath against my neck. I managed to keep myself from recoiling, but I couldn't control the goose bumps of disgust mistaken as a thrill. "Ah, a reaction. See, I still share a romantic connection with you. I still feel the same degree of what you might call love. Except I'm mighty pissed off that you ran away."

"I swear, none of it was planned. I hoped he wouldn't be there that night."

"Did you hope he'd be with his wife?"

I had the same draining, twisting feeling in my gut that I'd had when Calloway first walked in. How could he possibly have known about Natasha? Why?

"I don't know what you're talking about. Blaze doesn't have a wife. Not yet."

"You mean, 'anymore'."

Run.

My little heard conscience spoke only one single syllable, which ran out true and clear. But where was the way out of this difficult situation? The window or in a body bag, it felt like.

"Blaze is entitled to have had a life before me," I bluffed. "I had mine."

"But it wasn't really 'before', was it? Now she's dead. Boohoo."

I felt heat in my nostrils again and recognised it fast enough to stanch the blood with the towel I'd tried to cover up with before it started to flow. To my alarm and surprise, Calloway swooped in with a monogrammed handkerchief at my neck, trying to catch a few rogue droplets that had wandered free.

Between our efforts, only one pinprick of blood hit my dress. It was barely visible to the naked eye, yet Calloway erupted once again.

A bizarre scenario developed, in which I attempted to console and placate my own attacker. He knew things that made it too risky to provoke him. If I couldn't calm him, I didn't know what I'd be dealing with next.

But I couldn't. He was irate and clearly drunk. Trying to touch him just got me slapped, trying to move towards the door earned me a kick in the legs. I tried both repeatedly and had taken quite a beating by the time I fell to the floor in a heap after a particularly artful slap that rivalled Esme's.

"Just tell me what you want from me! I'll give you anything."

"What I want is to take you back to New York and kill that interloping bastard Blaze!" Just the suggestion of him hurting Blaze made me cry out in fear. That was my biggest mistake. Calloway saw that I'd protect the man who'd wronged me and wasn't exactly impressed. His fingers dug into my formal up-do, forcing bobby pins painfully into my scalp. With excruciating force, he pulled me up by the hair until my toes were clear of the ground.

"But you fucked me, too. Didn't you, Emmeline? So I came here to give you a choice. Me or Blaze. Pick me, I kill him for being obstructive. Pick him, I kill you. If I can't have you, nobody can."

"Sounds reasonable." Or not. They might have sounded like options but they were really a fork in the road leading to two dead ends. I picked Calloway, I lived with Blaze's death on my conscience and allowed myself to be slowly maimed to death. If I picked Blaze, I'd die and he'd just follow suit.

And yet, it was a no-brainer. I blurted out Blaze's name without a seconds thought and was thrown to the ground like trash. More than anything, I hated the idea of Blaze loosing his life at the hands of a chicken-shit woman beater like Callowank Ryan.

Remembering 'Callowank', as Chris had so delicately dubbed him, I laughed until my sides hurt. It was probably shock that caused it, but it felt uniquely freeing to sit there and howl in the face of death. "Show me my maker, Ryan. I've teased him enough."

"Stop laughing at me! You know, there's nothing stopping me from killing you both!"

"I know." But I was still laughing. I must have cracked but was clinging on to sanity by the finger nails. "But even if you did, everyone would figure out that I died first defending him."

"Then I'll kill him first and make you watch." Not an option I was happy to consider, of course. It was enough to break my hilarity and become completely silent.

No, none of this was funny. This was distressing beyond the pale. I'd believed that Natasha was the worst phantom that could find us. I hadn't once considered the monsters that dwell inside the living.

"You have no idea what kind of investment you're making in murder, Calloway. Spare yourself the misery."

"What about the misery I've already suffered, huh? I'm supposed to just let it go?"

"Yes!" Bloody and aching, I used the last ounce of fighting spirit to stand up straight and proud. How had nobody heard all the commotion? Why was nobody coming to save me?

That was it, I knew it. This time I'd die and nobody would be able to stop it. My own actions had led me to an unpleasant death—mine and mine alone.

"Blaze doesn't deserve this. I'm an adult and I made the decision to leave you. I've done a lot of stupid things but he's not to blame. Your problem is with me."

"He stole my fucking girlfriend, Emmeline. He stole the last shred of goodness in my life. And _that's_ not his fault?!"

"No. He didn't steal me." A heartbeat passed. The next brought with it one last surge of bad attitude. " _You_ borrowed me."

Calloway drew a flip-knife from his pocket. Okay, so I was going to get stabbed to death. There might have been something sentimental about that. Maybe he'd go for my left side just to be funny.

"I'm going to mess you up something fierce, Miss Tudor. Then I'm going to watch when they find your body. Then I'm going to obliterate Blaze's career by telling everyone how his wife really died, _then_ I'm going to kill him. Like the sound of that?"

"Obviously not, dickhead. You think you won't go through a personal hell of your own?"

"I was born in my hell." He advanced. I took a step back. He moved closer in his own sleek way until my back was up against the closed door. "And you were born there, too."

The tip of the knife brushed against my stomach, the touch quaking outwards to the rest of my body. I suddenly realised then, that I wasn't afraid to die. I just wanted to get it over and done with, without the slow, tedious verbal torture.

"What goes around comes around, Calloway. I'm certainly getting my comeuppance."

"You completed my life, Emmeline. My beautiful English rose who cared for me like no other. Is it so wrong for me to want to preserve that picture?"

Every artist has his own methods and perspective of a scene, I suppose. If that's what helped him sleep at night; sure. He was well within his rights.

"I want you to pass on a message. If I lit you up so much and you're going to do so many awful things to my friends and family, you at least owe me this, in some form or another."

He contemplated it briefly, straightened his shoulders and nodded. "Fine. I will pass on your message."

A message, really? That's what I asked for when he probably would have given me something more helpful, like a fucking phone call? How did I even respond to that? 'Remind Blaze that the bins go out on Thursdays'? A meaningful quote or heartfelt sonata? A Broadway musical?

"Tell my family to let me go this time. Six is too many times to die. And tell Blaze I'm sorry for what I did."

"Deal."

The door shoved open behind me.

"Emmy, you soppy dipshit. You forgot your—"

Calloway took a split second glance away from my face, and I took the advantage. My knee met his groin, which doubled him over. An elbow to the back of the neck. A knee to face. The sound of his nose breaking was audible. The horrid crack made me wince.

A final kick to the kidneys and I was done, a hollow wreck in a heap on the floor. People crowded in around us both. Jonathan pinned down a fairly immobile Calloway down with his front on the floor, arms held behind his back, and I just stared. I stared at Calloway and I stared at the knife still in his hand.

How was I still alive?

"Emmy, holy shit!" Daniel crouched next to me and pulled me close. Until I'd leaned on someone solid, I had no idea how badly I was trembling. My tremors would have put a care home full of Parkinson's patients to shame. "Are you hurt?"

"No. Yes." Hurt where? On the outside, sure. Inside, it was impossible to quantify the damage.

"Emmy, I'm being serious now. Did that bastard hurt you?"

"He knows. He knows about Natasha."

Henry must have heard me. Our eyes met and he sped out of the room with a phone in each hand. If, after nearly thirty years, he couldn't make a problem like this disappear, he'd amassed to nothing.

But I knew it wasn't as simple as throwing money at it, as was his usual style. Calloway was already a rich man with a company of his own. Coins were frugal and irrelevant. What he needed was a bargaining chip, and a damn good one at that.

Yes, Calloway Ryan had hurt me. However, that pain was nothing compared to what I had and would inflict on everyone else. I was just a catalyst.

The wedding was provisionally postponed by an hour while the authorities spoke to everyone and dealt with Calloway. I watched on numbly as Henry's men worked the wounded madman over, bending back fingers and jabbing bruises until he admitted that he only knew that Natasha had existed and had died by overdose. He had enough defiance in him to refuse to say how he'd found out.

My own guilt had exacerbated the fear. A public announcement that I'd been Blaze's other woman alongside a disabled, suicidal woman would make us both look awful, but neither of us would do time for it. On the other hand, Calloway would have gladly ruined Blaze's career over a brief affair. All he had to do was get a slightly more elaborate and exaggerated account to the media before we could, and Blaze could kiss goodbye to a star on Hollywood Boulevard.

Slowly, the uniformed bad boys started to trickle out of the house. I had no idea how much the guests outside—or even Blaze—knew about what had happened. They all could have been told that there was a dress emergency for all I knew. All would be well to them provided we caught the final glow of the sunset. Maybe nobody outside of that house apart from the officers would find out that it had ever happened.

Finally, after the last car left with Calloway locked inside, Chris stood and said it was probably time I got tidied up for the photographers. I didn't move. With one look, he saw exactly where my head was at in that moment.

"Don't you dare let your fucknut ex-boyfriend ruin your life. It was a freak accident and they happen. But like every community struck by a tsunami, earthquake, hurricane or katana-wielding axe-murderer, you just have to carry on as normally as possible."

"Why would an axe-murderer need a katana?"

"Emmy." Chris grabbed a newspaper from the closest table, rolled it up and tapped me on the nose with it. "Don't force me to take twenty quid off you every time you use inappropriate humour to cope with a tense situation."

"What? It was a valid question."

"And your valid answer is that said axe-murderer has the ability to duel-wield. Now are you going to get your shit together?"

"A katana and an axe? Well that's disproportionate. I mean, are we talking a 'break here for axe in case of fire' axe or a wood-cutting axe? Because those are two-handed."

"Emmeline Elizabethan BaDonkADonk Tudor!"

"BaDonkADonk?"

"Emmy!" Okay, I was getting stupid. I blamed it on shock. "Calloway _wants_ you to cancel that wedding. Do you understand that? His proprietorial bitch fit was nothing but a scream out for attention fronted by a misguided screw up. He's having some sort of nervous breakdown 'cause his business went bust paying damages to all the women he's trampled. Are you going to let that control you?"

"No, but—"

"But nothing, Emmy. Calloway Ryan is just a raging lunatic in the cinema of your life. There was absolutely no reason why this had to happen, it just did."

"I can sort of see it from his point of view, though. What we had wasn't real, but it was functional. I think he strives on that and holds onto it out of desperation. Once I marry Blaze—boom—lovely Emmeline is gone for good."

Chris folded his arms and cleared his throat impatiently. "Are you seriously sympathising with the man who just tried to kill you? Who next? Charles Manson?"

"That's an inane speculation."

"Life is inane. It's inane, cruel and headed down the hot road into Hell. There's been too much grief lately; it's been shit for everyone. You've been ill, Blaze has been a bit of a cunt generally, Esme is leaving—"

"Wait..." _Oh my God._ It finally clicked. And he had the nerve to lecture me on my love life and try to prod me down the road to a 'happy' ending. "You're such a fucking hypocrite."

That seemed to hit a nerve. A rather large one. I wasn't even sorry for it, I just hated hypocrisy with a passion. "Do you know what, Emmy? You actually have a really good life and it's tough for the people who love you to just stand by and watch you try and force it all away. We know your fiancé better than you do, you realise that? Now we have to see two good friends get married and disappear on shaky foundations. I'd kill for a love like yours and Blaze's. I'd trade in everything for a woman who loves me the way Blaze loves you."

"So why haven't you told Esme you're in love with her yet?"

Chris stammered and turned away, his one visible cheek a glowing pink. If that wasn't an admission of love, I'd have gladly walked out into Connie's garden and declared my status as a sleep-walking killer myself. "She's a redhead, Emmy. I'm programmed to want to tap that."

"Oh, bollocks. I've got you pegged. All those times you two flipped a coin over me—you hated the idea of Esme getting it on with someone else, so that's why you sulked. If you won, it meant she went home alone." I laughed to myself, amazed that I'd been so blind for so long. "And here I was thinking it was me you wanted white picket fences with."

"Fine, so I'm in love with Esme." Chris fake-smiled bitterly in response to my applause. "But she's fucking off and I probably won't see her anymore, so is it so wrong for me to want someone else to be happy?"

"Yes." It was wrong because all he had to do was tell her. There wasn't even anything to stop him from moving to Chicago with her. His parents were both still alive, very happily married, and his mother thought Esme was the cat's pyjamas. They'd have been elated to see him move out and settle down with someone as awesome as her.

Ultimately, we were both scared of the same thing: rejection. Neither of us wanted to confess something that could see us being pushed away as a consequence.

"How about a bribe?" I offered, now fixated on the idea of getting my two single friends together. "You tell Esme that you're in love with her and I'll get married." I didn't say it out loud, but I'd also come clean about Natasha before it happened. If he could find the courage to give away his secrets, I could, too. At least I already knew Blaze loved me. Chris' potential drop to humiliation was much steeper and further than mine, I thought.

"That's cruel."

"Life is cruel. It's cruel, inane and headed down a hot road into Hell. A wise man told me that."

"You drive me nuts, do you know that?"

"A little crazier every day, I hope."

His resignation was obvious. As luck had it, Esme chose that exact moment to enter the room, make-up wipes in hand, to deliver some news that brought on a whole new wave of nausea.

"Blaze is here, Emmy. He wants to see you."

"He can't see her," Chris snapped sourly. "It's bad luck."

"Bad luck?" Esme swiftly threw the packet of wipes at him. "Karma can kiss my sweet tits, Christopher. She owes them."

Jesus, the sexual tension between was extreme. Chris broke out in a heavy sweat just looking at her. If I'd been able to figure out his real feelings, Esme had to have, too.

Not that she gave anything away. Her composure was as ironclad as ever, a smirk just touching the corner of her lips. "You owe me, too."

"How do you figure?"

"You've hardly spoken to me. I've been trying to pin you down in a conversation for days."

"He's here now," I interjected. "He owes me, too."

Not strictly true, but it did the trick. Esme never had to know that we'd discussed bribery, and if he spoke up—which I thought unlikely—I'd be the one who owed him.

Chris turned and gave me the dirtiest look I'd ever seen, and I figured I deserved it. The deal was he 'fessed up and I got married. Putting the responsibility of getting a wedding ring on my finger on him wasn't my intention, but that's simply how it had played out.

Would I still get married if he didn't do it? I still wasn't sure.

Grimly determined, Chris squared his shoulders and turned to Esme, who hadn't moved an inch. "I need to ask you something." Dear God. He was going to do it.

"Me first, please. I want you to come to Chicago with me."

I felt my heart stop in wonder. "You want him to do _what_?"

"I want him to come to Chicago. I've been thinking about it, and I can't stand the idea of not seeing him for three months or more. Dan and Jon will video call but you know what this one's like."

Scoffing in utter disbelief, Chris pulled a face and headed for the doorway. "Not gonna happen."

"And why not? I already asked your mummy if you can come out to play and she practically begged me to take you away. Get the hint, caveman." Not waiting for his response, Esme walked straight out past him and called out behind her, "By the way, I told them you're my boyfriend so we have to share a bed. Not viewing that as a problem 'cause... you know."

As far as talking about her feelings went, that was about the extent Esme was capable of, and that was really saying something. She hadn't revealed the degree of reciprocation, but it made a good hint at it. Realistically, it was the best result Chris ever could have hoped for and he hadn't had to do anything to get it.

When he turned around to face me with a crafty looking grin smeared across his face, I knew exactly what he was going to say.

"She did all the talking, you admitting nothing. The deal is invalid."

"No, _you're_ invalid. If that can happen to me, you've got a universe full of opportunity waiting for you."

He had a point, but he also didn't have a clue. He thought it was as simple as me using my feet to walk a few yards and then say a few sentences. And I could have just done that, but I'd made a promise to myself. I couldn't do it without talking to Blaze first.

"I want to see him." Warring with his traditionalist ideals, Chris submitted and made for the kitchen to collect my groom. "Wait! I need a pearl of wisdom; encouragement or advice."

"Seriously?" He thought for a moment, then nodded to himself. It was going to be gold-dust, I knew it. "When you're feeling bad about yourself, just think of all the other big shit going on in the world. Look at major corporations going bankrupt, major fraud, war—... Just think of those things, knowing they were all ultimately caused by the actions of one idiot.

"And you weren't one of those idiots, Emmy. You go, girl!"

"I so deeply hate you right now. There's a line, and you just tea-bagged it."

"It's okay, I bought it dinner first."

Laughter spilled from both our mouths, creating joy in spite of the day's events. At the same time, someone cracked a joke downstairs and their mirth met ours halfway.

Happiness filled my house, though it stank of lies and sin. I thought all that evil was mine and I had a duty to carry it all myself.

I couldn't have been more wrong.

The house emptied out when Blaze came up to see me, the original itinerary back on track. Cars for the wedding party were queued outside on the driveway, and had been waiting to transport everyone but Henry and I since I'd gone to dress. Almost immediately after I'd reached my bedroom, they'd arrived early and everyone had gone outside to admire the sleek Rolls Royce convoy.

That was why nobody had heard Calloway screaming at me.

The skies outside had started to darken, the sun's lowest curve starting to dip under the horizon. We were running out of time, my fancy hairstyle was ruined, my make-up smudged and smeared. Still Blazed looked at me when he walked in, smiled and said, "Emmeline. You look beautiful." I was pushed to tears again.

I let him clean me up the way he had done before; unpinning the tangled tresses and brushing them out smooth, then removing most of my make-up and replacing it with more. We didn't talk the whole time, just let each other do our thing. He needed to care for me and I needed caring for. It worked out perfectly.

Blaze took a step back to admire his handiwork, held out a hand and finally said, "Are you ready to come and make me a very happy man?" I sat there useless once more.

As much as I placed Blaze's happiness above everything else—or tried to—I didn't see how our relationship could possibly bring joy. It might have, at first, but it couldn't forever. Regardless of everyone else's semi-optimistic philosophy to carpe diem the crap out of life, I thought and knew from experience that it would hurt less to rip the bandage off a fresh wound than one healing and only partially knitted back together.

I couldn't give Blaze one hundred percent while Natasha was on my conscience and that was less than he even deserved. I would ruin everything one way or another and I was becoming increasingly keen on instant gratification.

"Emmeline, please."

"I can't marry you."

"I knew you were going to say that." Collapsing backwards onto the couch next to me, Blaze tried to reach for me but I moved away. One tiny touch and I'd concede defeat, committing to a lifetime of holding back. If I so much as felt his breath on my skin, my resolve would start to decay. "Why does it keep coming to this?"

"Because we can't take hints."

"Right. Of course. We're going down on a sinking ship but we're trying to bail out the water instead of putting out the fires."

"I guess..." It sort of worked but wasn't especially cheerful in either direction. He could be forgiven for being off his game. "I love your hammy metaphors."

Blaze cut me off quickly. "A reason, Emmeline. You owe me a reason and it can't be Calloway. He's an adult, and he should be able to handle being dumped like an adult. You cannot let this ruin our—"

"I'm not!" And I was so sick of people telling me I was. "This isn't Calloway's fault, this is mine."

"Then give me a fucking reason!"

My mouth opened but no sound came out. I couldn't do it. In the best scenario for it, I couldn't tell him what I'd done. "I can't."

"No, Emmeline." Agitated, Blaze jumped to his feet and started to prowl around the lounge. "Don't do this. Not when our guests are assembling in my mother's garden. I don't care what it is you think makes you ill-placed for this marriage—I _love_ you unconditionally."

"You say that now."

"I'll say that forever. Emmeline. Please. Emmy."

Something about him shortening my name down tipped me over the edge. In four letters were what felt like our bond breaking. It made me feel hopeless. It made me wonder if I'd become a shadow of myself that not even Blaze understood anymore.

"You don't call me that!" I tried to rush to my feet but stepped on the front of my dress and met the floor instead. My teeth ground at the sound of a tear there weren't enough minutes to repair. "You don't call me Emmy. I'm Emmeline, I've always been Emmeline. _Your_ Emmeline."

"You think it makes any difference what I call you? If I called you Betty, I wouldn't love you any less."

Looking up at Blaze and past all my emotion, I saw what my refusal was doing to _him._ The eight weeks since he almost lost me had been mounting up to this day and I was denying him the fruit of all his patience and hard work.

"I am so sorry."

"Don't be sorry. Be my wife!"

"I can't!"

Everything about this discussion felt like the end. The end of us, the end of freedom... I couldn't possibly imagine a life after the next second. The future wasn't just bleak, it was a vacuous black hole pulling everything into it's springe, growing bigger and blacker.

All was already lost. There was nothing to lose. "I need to tell you something."

"Tell me after the ceremony. Whatever it is, I don't care. We can get through anything, or do you need another near-death encounter to realise that?"  
"Define 'anything'."

"Anything is anything. I am always on your side. Whatever you believe and invest in, whether I agree with it or not, I will always back your corner." Blaze sat down on the floor next to me and wiped away a new thick, mascara streaked tear. "No matter what."

As expected, I fell apart from the closeness. I was desperate to believe that when he said our relationship could beat anything, he really did mean _anything._ I'd seen every side of him and only seen him lose his cool once. Blaze was not a threat or danger to me. _I am always on your side._

"I killed Natasha."

He stared at me blankly and shook his head. "No, you didn't."

"I did. Maybe. I know the inquest said she died from a fatal overdose but... I can't dispute lab results but there's a possibility that she may have died from suffocation."

Blaze scurried back across the carpet like I'd bitten him. "What?"

"I was sleep-walking or something. I woke up and I couldn't really control my own body. It was like I knew the way through that manor shaking with thunder and lightning, and just ended up in her room holding a pillow down over her face. I'd dreamt of doing it since shortly after we met."

_"She_ was the woman in your nightmare?" Springing back up again, Blaze started to pace and prowl the same three steps backward and forward right in front of me. He was on edge—that much was obvious. But he gave no other clues as to how he was reacting. "Is this why you tried to kill yourself?"

"Karmic retribution, Blaze. I didn't get my brain back until it was done, and I thought of you and how much you'd hate me. A life in prison I could have dealt with. A lifetime of your loathing was too much to stand. It was a coward's way out and I have the yellowest socks Shakespeare would have ever seen. I couldn't lose you. It hurt less to lose myself."

"No." A pointed finger aimed at my face, an inch from my nose. It shook violently and stayed there even as Blaze continued to walk. "You're wrong. It was one of your episodes or something. There was no thunder or lightning that night, Emmeline; the skies were clear. If this has been weighing on your conscience for the past eight weeks, you should have told me so I could set you straight."

I reached for that damned pointed finger, just to have it pull away. "I wanted to. Dad wouldn't let me."

"Henry knows?!" The anger in that question made me flinch. How was it that my father knowing the truth was the factor that really pissed him off? "I'll fucking kill him. I should have been told."

"He thought you'd blame yourself and I didn't want that. There was nothing you could have done to stop it. Nothing anyone could have done."

"I could have done _everything_ to stop you blaming yourself _._ "

"No, Blaze. I have taken full moral responsibility for what I did. I wanted Natasha pulled out of her grave to prove it was my fault but I was told not to rock the boat. Everyone is happy to believe that she committed suicide but I know that I did it."

_"You didn't do it!"_ Head lifted, Blaze growled up at the sky and clawed at his face until brutal red marks marred his skin. At some point soon, the denial would die off and the real ugly truth of how much he hated me would come out. I just wanted that to happen, for this all to be over and done with.

"I'm so sorry to do this on our wedding day."

"Jesus Christ, Emmeline. It's been eating at you, hasn't it? That why you've been such a mess. You think you're a murderer."

"I—" If he didn't start taking me seriously, I was going to make the death toll two.

"You didn't kill her, okay? Whether you tried or not, it wasn't you who ended her life."

"You can't possibly know that."

"Yes, I can."

"How?"

The terse atmosphere drained out of the entire house, leaving us standing in a dead aired vessel of ugly resentment. Blaze's head lowered, reality dawning on him with a harsh, infernal light. The many layers of his positivity stripped away under the intense heat. Everything I thought I knew and understood about the absolute love of my life was eviscerated. I was completely unprepared for what happened next.

"You didn't kill Natasha, Emmeline." Blaze blew out a slow breath, taking several steps backwards that seemed to created an enormous, impassable gulf of distance between us. "Because I did."

#  nineteen

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On a sharp inhale, Blaze took a further step back from me and changed. The restlessness faded to hopelessness. I knew it because I'd been the same at times—so furious one minute but so resigned the next. I stared at him open-mouthed as he dropped to the floor and curled up into a little ball of shame and guilt. I'd never seen him look so small.

"It's the first time I've had to say that out loud."

"Is this where you break into one of your great monologues and recount a scene of my life from your side? I don't think I have the mental fortitude to handle that right now."

"No, cupcake. Jeez. We don't have time for that. But if you'll let me, I'll explain myself."

By silent agreement, he continued. An explanation did sound ideal—he kept talking of time but it seemed to be standing still that day, pausing at crucial moments to prolong the suffering.

"Forgive me if sometimes I sound a little extreme but—"

"We've both just admitted to the same murder, I think we're past extreme."

"Fair point." Ever the insufferable fidget, Blaze moved across the floor to grab the latest bottle of wine I'd been nursing and poured us both a glass. "You know, I'm absolutely slaughtered."

_Knew it._ Saying so at least made me smile. "I know."

"Yeah... I guess it'd be best to start from the beginning but you already know about all that. So maybe, we go from the point when you and I had been together a little while—from the masquerade ball. The morning after, actually. When I found out you were a Tudor."

"Sounds great, but you said this wasn't a monologue."

"I lied."

Blaze shook off his blazer and laid it on the floor next to him, inviting me to sit on it like a picnic blanket. In a moment so strangely sedate, it would have felt rude not to. Once at his side, Blaze took my hand and wove our fingers together. It was the same hand and grip I'd always known and loved. If he felt the same, nothing had changed between us.

"Until I decided to give you your ring, I'd done my best to keep Natasha at the back of my mind, but I knew it would always pose a problem. The plan had always been to sit it out and stick with her to prove I was the better man they swore I wasn't, but it was no longer an option."

"You knew? You knew all along about their bet."

"Guilty as charged. They didn't realise I was in the house and I overheard them."

"And her MS?"

Blaze squinted at me, slowly shaking his head. "You know, I'm almost insulted that you really thought I was that stupid. I made the mistake of becoming empathetic far too early. Young, stupid and mostly drunk, I _did_ believe Natasha when she said she could only take next of kin to appointments, so we were married before I got to sit in. She'd been sketchy on the details of her illness—'something neurological', she said. The moment I heard the words 'multiple sclerosis, I knew I'd been screwed over.

"So I stuck around in defiance, keeping home-life and work separate. Then Tasha's father died and she had a massive relapse. I guess now I know that Mona contesting the will probably had a lot to do with that. I had to become her carer, so she became a job. It was easy that way until I met you.

"I had to get out of that marriage, but it was such a big deal to me to get what I'd earned. If I went in there and told them I knew everything, I'd be kicked out with nothing. It felt like chasing a hopeless cause until I met that old woman in the hospital. Do you remember?"

" 'Fuck it'."

"Right. I told Natasha about you and she was that in love with me, she supported anything that made me happy. Mona took her abroad to see an MS specialist, and I got to spend all that time with you. It was awesome and I fell for you more every day. I knew I wanted to marry you, I just needed to figure out how."

"This story isn't starting from The Roses."

"Shut up. When I saw Henry that morning after the ball—" Blaze paused, letting me revel in what felt like a minuscule victory. "When I found out he was your dad, I was relieved. Henry had always helped me out before and was always willing to help again. I took him for that walk around the hotels garden, told him _everything_ about Natasha. He wasn't exactly happy that I'd gotten married and not told him, but he agreed to help me as long as I told you I had a wife. I was fully prepared to do that, but Tallulah got there first.

"He didn't think that damage was irreparable. He called me the next day with his plan."

"Murder Natasha."

"Murder is such an ugly word. The way he said it was, 'aid the passing you've been led to expect.' I'd been playing clueless so long even _you_ believed it, and I'd acted so long that I'd be able to grieve convincingly. We could have done it as soon as she came back from Normandy, if I could only get you to hold on long enough to do it before I told you about her. If you didn't know, you had no motive. You were safe from blame when her family became suspicious.

"As odd luck would have it, you already knew and you left me over it. You removed yourself from the picture completely. Henry was convinced you'd be back and was keen to stick with our plan—which would be even easier to pull off if I was lovesick. But I felt so demotivated and depressed that I didn't go back to Natasha's house at all. I couch-surfed until you were gone, not really caring if I was penniless, homeless and dirtier than a hobo."

Blaze took a break from talking to empty his glass and refill it. Mine hadn't yet touched my lips, my attention acutely focused on fitting all this new information around what I'd already known.

A murder plot led by my father. The implications were horrendous. I felt almost guilty that it hadn't been conducted by a callous killer, but by a dad who just wanted to secure happiness for his broken little girl.

"I can't even explain how it felt when you came back." Blaze wiped the residue of wine from his mouth and stuck his bottom lip out thoughtfully. "I couldn't really believe it for a while. After it sunk in that you were staying, I filed for divorce and asked nothing of Natasha but a signature. She refused to sign the petition, insisting that we could all live together in harmony and she'd die soon so there was no need for courts.

"Then you said you'd let me continue being her carer so long as I came home every night. It was all very cushy and put up a great front of unity should anyone have ever found out about her. We moved into your flat and were like any other couple. Until Japan.

"Finally telling me you loved me... My priorities changed. I wanted to marry you right away. Natasha had to disappear. There was no more time to wait, no reason not to get the plan back on track. Are you ready for this to get ugly?"

_No._ What kind of woman wanted to hear about how her fiancé killed off his wife just to put a ring on her finger? As far as hearing that story went, I was as unready as I'd ever be. "Okay, go ahead."

"Okay..." He sighed and puffed out his cheeks, releasing the air with a muted 'pop'. "In the days after Hunter's wedding and the time we were in New York, Henry put in a lot of work to tie up all loose ends and set your own ingenious plan into motion. Again, without knowing anything, you made yourself look like an upstanding, honest person and removed yourself as a suspect—for the most part. For that little part of doubt, we protected you by intentionally keeping you in the dark. If you were questioned, there was nothing to inveigle out of you. You were in the clear.

"Most of Henry's effort went into removing further suspicion. Foremost, housing. We were the illegitimate couple existing alongside a sick, rich woman, living in a squat. We'd have benefited a lot from Natasha's death, and that right there is motive. There was still work being done on your studio and only so much that could be rushed through. He had the suite in the hotel vacated, waiting for us as temporary accommodation."

"Wait, so when I suggested getting our own place last December—"

"Yes. This was planned. I always knew I'd get us here. While we were at Natasha's dinner party, Henry and some removal men were boxing up and moving everything out of the flat. Anyone who might have been spying would have seen us moving out _before_ Natasha died. I'd planned to take you out to the house the morning after the dinner party. It was perfect."

"But not ugly." There was a distinct lack of obscene cruelty I'd built myself up for. In fact, it was all very clinical and understated; the most well-meaning murder of all time.

"It was ugly living it. It was ugly having to visit Henry at his office to talk about how to kill her. Making it look like suicide was the only way to get around it, so we sourced a pharmacy in India that sold Natasha's sleeping tablets online. Just when we were wondering how to get them into her, Natasha suggested that you and I go to her house so you could meet her. It was still too close quarters, so I twisted it around somehow to make her think that it had been my idea, and from a spontaneous jolt of inspiration, I invited your friends. A house full of people increases the suspects, but it also makes questioning a longer process, biding us time Henry could use to cover my tracks. Then we got there and she'd rallied her friends and family in. An even longer list to get through."

We were quiet again, so I took the chance to set things straight in my mind. Things I'd taken as knee-jerk reactions—like being moved out of my flat—were not results of my family believing I'd die. They were part of a bigger scheme between the two most prominent male figures to place my life somewhere better than it was.

"So we're at the dinner party," I whispered, staring down into my still unsipped wine. "The end of the story."

Blaze looked down at my hand and let it go, the way I'd have done in a moment of self-depreciation. "I crushed the tablets before we left the flat while you were working. The cleaning team who went in after the removal guys would have wiped away all traces of powder left over. I slipped a little bit into every drink Natasha had that night, then mixed the rest into the cream on her cheesecake, using your cupcake as an excuse to be in the kitchen. I was in high spirits, truly believing the end was nigh.

"But then we told her about the consummation clause for divorce and she caught me out with the statutory rape thing. As soon as she pulled that out of the bag, everyone on our side of the table had motive again. I told her I didn't care, even though it felt like the whole thing was fucked. I'd tried to just save you but instead, I put everyone in danger. You were reeling, your friends were confused and Natasha had a truckload of drugs swimming around in her blood stream. It couldn't get any worse.

"And yet it did. Some sadistic higher power threw down the worst tragedy in my life, and yet the best caveat of all."

"I tried to kill myself."

Blaze's thumb rubbed across my inner wrist and he shuddered, as if feeling it triggered the memory again. "About the same time Natasha breathed her last, yes. She'd gone to bed straight after her closest friends, mother and sister had watched me tell her she'd never have me. She slipped away to her room depressed and never woke up. You wouldn't be suspected, I wouldn't, nor would any of our friends.

"It sickens me to say it, but what you did that night saved my ass. Things I might have had to do like report her death were shoved aside for you. As a result, nobody found her body until the next morning. _You_ saved us both from what could have been a gruesome fate.

"But I could never see it that way. Sitting on that kitchen floor, holding you, covered in your blood and watching you die... It felt like payback and I've regretted what I did ever since. I've tried to redeem myself these past eight weeks—convince myself that I deserved to have you here, alive, with me, the murderer. And all I've done is wrong you, so blinded by my own guilt that I couldn't see this happening to you. If I'd had a single clue that you would end up feeling responsible, Natasha would still be alive." Blaze pulled a face and shook his head. "Maybe."

"What do you mean, 'maybe'?"

"The toxicology results were much different to what I was expecting. She'd ingested far more than I had slipped her. Maybe double. She did actually try and kill herself, but nobody knows who gave her the pill that finished her off."

"Or if it was me."

We would never know who'd really killed her. It would be mystery that spanned the ages and we'd go on living like no harm had ever been done. What I'd spent weeks believing would tear us apart instead provoked truth and brought us together into this... Very strange but calm new place. I never had to live another day scared that Blaze would find out what I'd done and hate me, and neither did he. Our relationship was truer and somehow purer than ever.

"I tried to bribe her into the divorce, you know. I figured it out about the MS straight away and said I'd tell you if she didn't sign."

"Good." Blaze put his arm around my shoulders and urged my head to lean against him. It felt good to be close to him again with a clear conscience. It felt better to know we'd fought the same battle in our own ways and won.

"God, what monsters we are. We take lives in cold blood and excuse it with feeble reasons of love and virtue. We are damned to Hell... No. Hell is damned to us."

"I'd like to be on the throne next to you when we overpower the Underworld, Emmeline. We deserve peace now the war is over."

That sounded nice, but I was still lingering in a life-pause. Time had not yet begun to pass again, we were still frozen in this nightmare with no way out in sight. "Where do we go from here?"

"Up, Emmeline. It's the only way." To make his point, Blaze stood and pulled me up with him. "Now outside, down an aisle, to the bar, to a Caribbean island, then Chicago. Then who knows where. Will you walk with me, cupcake? We've been through Hell and back already. Next stop, a well-earned happy ending with no regrets. If you won't, all of this was for nothing."

Of course I would. In the worst and best ways, we were so well-matched. He was the lighter side of my blackened soul and in return, I was his. He was the reason I'd abandoned one identity to forge another, I was his reason to break free of oppression.

Our respective crimes would tie us together more strongly than any number of promises. We had both shown incredible strength and perseverance over the months. Yes, we had earned this.

I slipped my hand around the curve of his arm and let him lead me out of the house towards my future mother-in-law's garden to take the vows we'd already proven that we could uphold.

For better, for worse,

For richer, for poorer,

In sickness and in health,

Until death do us part.

Nobody's death but our own.

#  acknowledgements

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NOTABLE MENTIONS

Serena Van Der Woodsen

From 'Gossip Girl'

Samantha Jones

From 'Sex And The City

Baby Jane Hudson

From 'Whatever Happened To Baby Jane'

'You have to die a few times before you can really live.'

Charles Bukowski

I owe a massive thank you to everyone who has painstakingly waited fifteen months for this book. Every one I write is a journey, and this path has been a rocky one. Please know that, without the overwhelming support you've offered, I probably would have just written off the last instalment of this series and posted a blog about how the story would end. I know that this story is fairly open-ended. That was kind of the point. No matter how deeply you feel you may have carved your future in stone, there is always uncertainty and surprise waiting out there for you. This time last year, I was stupid enough to think my life was solid. I joked that falling in love would ruin my ability to write from a depressive view-point. Talk about a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Obvious recognition goes to Chris Hall for being... well, himself. If you ever bother to read this, I hope I wrote you true to form, and that you are satisfied with your HEA with the red bombshell voice actress (also open ended; I'm trusting you not to fuck it up). Also, a shout out to anyone who's had to listen to me reel off my favourite one-liners or tolerate talk of that release party I'm not getting. A HUGE thanks heads overseas to my new beta reader, Dee Donley—not just for being ridiculously efficient, but for harvesting fans in the US of A. Your gratitude will come to you via Chuck Stahlheber, because the two of you have been the best friends I will probably never meet in person. Sarcastic praise to my kids and five cats for interfering in just about every stage of producing this book and consistently setting me back several days.

And, of course, the biggest thanks goes to my better half, John, for making me happy.

And making this series so fucking hard to finish.

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