Grace, the terrified teenager named Daisy says in my head. Make them understand.

“He was… is… not well. But even though he really messed with my head, he never touched me sexually. And he could’ve. At any time, he could’ve. So I spent a lot of time thinking about this. Why didn’t he do that? What did he really want? And I came to the conclusion that he wanted me to want him. So if I told him he was forgiven, maybe he’d see that as a fair trade to let me die in peace.”

“But he didn’t kill you.”

“Obviously.”

“So your words touched him?”

“I suppose. He did drug me, but not enough to kill me. At least not quickly. He dropped me off on the front lawn of a small-town hospital in Nebraska.”

“Is that where he was keeping you? In Nebraska?”

I shrug my shoulders. “I have no idea.”

“Could you pick him out of a lineup if you wanted to try and put him away? Make him pay for what he did to you?”

I shake my head no. “He wore a mask the entire time we were in the same room.”

“What kind of mask?”

“It was one of those lifelike ones. Like they make of presidents and stuff. Only this was not a famous person. It was…” I clear my throat and swallow hard. “He was wearing a mask of a boy. A boy I knew from summer camp.” I add in a whisper.

Everyone is silent again as they all think about this.

“That’s creepy,” the reporter finally says. “Did you tell anyone about this mask?”

I shake my head. “I never told anyone anything.”

“Why?”

“Why do you think? I’m sure you can figure that one out.”

Sam scoots in close to me and puts her arm around my shoulder. She rests her head against mine, like she’s my very best friend in the world. I think Bebe will hate me when she sees this. I never told her. I never told anyone. And now this family I barely know and this reporter who has no connection to me at all, they are the first to hear it.

“What were your days like?” the reporter asks to keep the flow of the interview going.

But I’m done talking. I don’t even bother to say that, either. I just stop.

“I feel so stupid,” Sam says. “I called this interview so I could tell the world about a secret I was hiding. But now that I’ve heard Grace’s story, I realize I have no idea what it means to suffer true, deep, emotional pain. I’m so sorry, Grace.”

I nod and then unhook the little microphone from my shirt and hand it to the stunned reporter. She’s probably wondering what just happened. A moment later, Vaughn is there, leading me out of the room. We keep walking, right to the car. He opens my door and places me inside, drawing the seatbelt tightly across my chest before closing the door and walking around to his side.

When he gets in, he lets out a long exhale and starts the engine. “I don’t know what to say. I shouldn’t have left you alone in there. I’m sorry if you feel ambushed.”

“I don’t,” I say back, gently placing my hand over his on the gearshift. “I was talking to your sister, and she asked me if I ever felt like a victim.”

Vaughn looks over at me quickly.

“Because she said she feels like a victim. But I told her no. Because even though I do feel like a victim, I have had all the proper answers fed to me while I was in recovery. I lied. I do feel like a victim. Well…” I stop for a moment so I can try and make sense of it. “Daisy Bryndle was a victim. But Grace Kinsella did a pretty good job at keeping that useless emotion at bay with her fantasy world.”

He places his hand on my leg. “Is that why you were on Twitter? To live in a world where you had all the power?”

I can’t look at him. I’m embarrassed to admit I’ve been running from my weakness. Covering it up with a rich, online fantasy world.

“I love you, Grace.”

I look up at the real Vaughn Asher and force the tears back. “Why?”

“You’re my fantasy girl,” he says softly. “All the best fairytale princesses have the most horrific pasts. But they endure and persevere. And even though the fantasy dictates that the prince saves her, that’s not how it really happens.”

I gaze up at the man who wants to be my prince with longing and hope. “How does it really happen?”

A single finger tips my chin up so I have to look him straight in the eyes.

“Grace, the princess always survives, and she does that all on her own. Never mind the rescue—the real challenge is surviving long enough for help to arrive. And all the fairytale princesses do that all on their own. You’re not a victim, you’re a survivor. And I get it. I understand what you meant back in Vegas when you said sometimes living is the worst possible thing that can happen. And you’re right. Giving up is so much easier. But you never did give up. The fact that you’re here—a strong-willed woman with a college degree and a life eked out from the debris of Daisy Bryndle—well, sweets, that’s the opposite of victim. That’s badass.”

I giggle and shake my head.

“Bad. Ass. Princess. That’s you, babe.”

And then he starts the car, revs the engine, and leaves the castle.

Maybe a little sadder than when we came, but maybe a little stronger too.

Chapter Twelve

#Flashbacks

I LOSE track of time after that. I lose track of life after that. Her eyes, her words, her body… these are the only things I see, or hear, or feel for the next twenty-four hours. We drink, and eat, and fuck, and swim.

And this is all I care about. I blow off phone calls. I blow off a Friday afternoon meeting about IM2 marketing. I don’t return messages. Hell, I don’t even check messages. My life is a whirlwind called Grace.

And the next day, when I wake up and she’s all pressed up against me, comfortable, safe, and still asleep… I know I can’t keep hiding it from her.

I need to come clean.

I do. I know this. Every day I wait to tell her, it compounds the repercussions. But I’m not ready to end this… this… whatever it is. This perfect weekend. This chance she represents. I don’t want her to know I’m a sneaky asshole, even though she probably already knows that. I’m getting the impression that I’ve erased some of my bad behavior on Saint Thomas and I really don’t want to fuck that up.