Jilted By Prince, Claimed By King

Edris Mcclure sucked in a breath so sharp it felt like swallowing broken glass. Her lungs expanded, screaming against the sudden influx of freezing air, expecting the suffocating burn of salt water. Her hands flew to her throat, clawing at the skin, anticipating the rough bite of a hemp rope, the finality of the weight dragging her down.

But there was no rope.

Her fingers met the soft, expensive weave of a cashmere scarf.

Edris's eyes snapped open. The world spun, a kaleidoscope of blurred lights and shadows, before snapping into a terrifyingly crisp focus.

She wasn't beneath the Golden Gate Bridge. The roar in her ears wasn't the ocean crashing against steel pylons; it was the muffled thrum of a bass line from a distant ballroom. And falling from the sky wasn't the mist of the bay, but fat, silent flakes of snow.

She looked down at her hands. They weren't swollen or blue. Her manicure was perfect-a soft, iridescent pearl shade she hadn't worn in years.

A wave of nausea rolled through her, so violent she stumbled, her hip colliding with the stone balustrade. The cold bite of the snow-covered stone against her palm was a shock, a physical tether to a reality that shouldn't exist.

Pain exploded in her temples. With it came the memories, not as a fade-in, but as a violent crash. The headlines. The viral videos. The sneer on Prince Clement's face. The signature on the disownment papers. The wind whipping her hair as she stepped off the ledge.

She gripped the railing, her knuckles turning white. She pulled her phone from her clutch with trembling fingers. The screen lit up, the brightness stabbing at her retinas.

December 12th.

Three years ago.

The date was branded into her soul. This was the night of the Winter Chalet Gala. The night her life had officially ended before she had even died.

A sudden, unnatural heat bloomed in her lower belly. It wasn't the warmth of life; it was an inferno, chemical and cloying, spreading through her veins like liquid fire. Her knees buckled. She gasped, the sound wet and desperate in the quiet night.

She knew this heat.

The champagne.

Bailee had handed it to her twenty minutes ago. "Just a sip for luck, big sister."

In her past life-or her future memory-Edris had stumbled back into the hallway, disoriented by the drug. There, a "homeless" man, planted by the tabloids and paid for by someone she trusted, had grabbed her. The photos of her disheveled, seemingly drunk and intimate with a stranger, had been the first nail in her coffin.

Edris bit down on the tip of her tongue. The sharp, copper taste of blood flooded her mouth, a grounding anchor against the drug threatening to dissolve her consciousness.

She whipped her head around toward the floor-to-ceiling glass doors leading back to the gala. Shadows moved behind the sheer curtains. She saw the glint of a camera lens. They were waiting. The vultures were already circling, waiting for the carcass to stumble into view.

No.

The word didn't make it past her lips, but it screamed in her mind. She would not go back in there. Going back meant death. It meant the slow, agonizing dismantling of her dignity until suicide looked like mercy.

She turned her back on the warmth of the party and looked over the other side of the balcony. Below lay a drop that would break legs. To the left, separated by a precarious stone partition, was the terrace of the Royal Wing.

The Royal Wing.

Strictly off-limits. Guarded by the elite. And tonight, occupied by the one man whose power eclipsed even the Mcclure family's political clout.

King Ignatius Fisher.

The drug surged again, a pink haze creeping into the edges of her vision. Her skin felt too tight for her body. The cold air, which should have been freezing, felt like a lover's caress against her feverish skin.

She kicked off her heels. The snow bit into her bare soles, a shocking, necessary pain. She grabbed her shoes, hooking her fingers through the straps.

She didn't look back. She couldn't. The sound of the latch clicking on the balcony door behind her was the starting gun.

Edris hiked up her gown, the heavy silk bunching in her fist, and climbed onto the stone railing. The wind howled, threatening to tip her over, but desperation was a center of gravity all its own. Her muscles screamed in protest, weakened by the poison coursing through her. The stone was slick with ice beneath her trembling hands. She swung one leg over the abyss, the heavy fabric of her dress catching on a rough edge, nearly pulling her off balance. Her heart hammered against her ribs. This wasn't a graceful leap; it was a clumsy, desperate fall.

With a silent prayer to a God she thought had abandoned her, she pushed off.

For a second, there was only the sickening lurch of gravity reclaiming her, the wind a shriek in her ears.