Twisted-Games

anything but cruel. But they mirrored my doubts—about how I wasn’t good
enough and how she deserved better—too much for them not to affect me.
I hit the bottom of the bottle. I tossed it aside in disgust, hating myself for
sinking so low I’d turned to alcohol and hating myself even more for leaving
things the way I had with Bridget.
I’d walked out on her in the heat of the moment, when the anger and hurt
had overridden everything else, and I’d regretted it before I even hit the
lobby.
She’d done what she thought she had to, and it fucking broke my heart,
but it wasn’t her fault.
As if on cue, the camera cut to a shot of Bridget exiting the hospital with
the king and her brother. She was elegant and polished, as always, but her
smile looked empty as she waved to the press. Sad and lonely, two things I
never, ever wanted her to be.
My chest burned, and it wasn’t from the whiskey. At the same time,
something hardened within me: determination.
Bridget wasn’t happy. I wasn’t happy. And it was about damn time I did
something about it.
I didn’t give a fuck what the law said. She wasn’t marrying Steffan. I’d
visit every minister in Parliament and force them to rewrite the law if I had
to.
Someone knocked. “Housekeeping.”
My spine turned rigid at the familiar voice.
Two seconds later, I threw open the door with a scowl. “What the fuck are
you doing here?”
Christian arched an eyebrow. “Is that the proper way to greet your boss?”
“Fuck you.”
He laughed, but the sound lacked humor. “Charming as always. Now let
me in so we can clean up your mess.”
I gritted my teeth and stepped aside, already regretting this day, this
week, and my whole damn life.
He walked in, his gaze skimming over my half-unpacked suitcase and the
remains of my room service dinner on the coffee table before resting on the
empty whiskey bottle. Surprise flashed across his face before he covered it
up.
“Well, this is sad,” he said. “You’re at the nicest hotel in Athenberg and
you couldn’t spring for the filet mignon?”