Chapter Fourteen

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

L YON RETURNED TO their rooms. The door to the bedroom was still closed, and when he went to try and open it, he found it locked.

He knocked. "Beau?" he called through the door. "You must unlock the door for me. We need to talk." He would confess everything. Love and soft spots and what he hoped for the future. He would tell her the realizations she'd brought out.

And together, they would build some sort of future where his fear of failure did not rule him. Where he could make her as happy as she'd made him.

But she didn't respond in any way. And the door did not unlock. He jiggled the knob once more. "Beau?" He set his ear to the door. It wasn't like she could have disappeared. She had to be in there somewhere. Perhaps she'd gone into the bathroom and couldn't hear.

He had a key to this door somewhere, but he didn't want to have to call Mr. Filini to track it down as then there'd be speculation as to why his wife had locked him out of their bedroom. Or should that matter? Should he—

Then he heard it. Not her responding, but the faint sounds of...gasping? Like she was struggling to breathe. She must be having some kind of...medical event.

Terror speared through him, and he shook the door in renewed earnest. "Beau? Answer me."

He didn't hear her say anything, but as he was rearing back to fling himself against the door, the knob moved. Then the door creaked open the tiniest crack.

He rushed forward into the room, heart pounding and worry and fear clawing through him. The light was dim—the curtains drawn. He looked around in a panic, and didn't see her at first, but he heard her. A terrible, gasping noise. Coming from...

She was on the floor. Tears were pouring out of her eyes, and every breath sounded labored and terrible. She shook like she might simply shake apart.

For only a second he was rendered completely frozen with terror. "I'll get the doctor," he managed to say. He wanted to run to her, but she needed help he couldn't give.

She shook her head violently. She opened her mouth but no sound came out. Then he strode forward, gathered her in his arms. "I will take you to the doctor," he said firmly.

"It's n-not an ill—illness," she managed to say, though her voice was weak and her entire being shook in his arms.

"Then what—?" But the fact she could speak now had eased something inside of him enough to recognize certain things. If it wasn't medical, that meant it was something else. And the only something else that he knew could have physical symptoms like that was anxiety.

"You've had a panic attack," he murmured in surprise. It was hard to believe Beau panicked about anything.

She didn't respond, but she leaned into him and he held on. He settled them both onto the bed, her in his lap as he rocked her gently and murmured reassuring words that she was all right. She would be all right.

It took time. First, she began to breathe easier. Then the tears stopped and she allowed him to brush the wet off her face. The shakes remained, but they lessened in severity. When he thought she was calm enough to talk, he ran a hand over her hair and held her close.

"Is this because of the fight with my mother? I've handled it, tesoruccia ." He pressed a kiss to her temple. Something inside of him that had been tied tight these weeks eased.

This was right. Not that she would be in such a state, but that they would be close. That he would hold her and she would lean against him. That they would have soft spots for one another. That they would talk .

Not hide from everything they were. And poor Beaugonia had gotten herself into such a frenzy she'd had a panic attack. Which was probably his own fault. He'd put too many responsibilities on her shoulders.

Well, no more.

"We must talk, Beau. We must... This has not been working, has it? I am to blame. We will sort it all out. Don't worry any more, amore mio . Everything will be fine."

But she shook her head, even as she sagged against him. "It will never be fine."

"Beaugonia..."

"These attacks are never because of one thing," she said, sounding utterly exhausted. "I admit, this one stemmed from my argument with your mother, but that's hardly the reason I have panic attacks."

Anything that eased began to tighten up again. Those words... These ...attack s ...as if a panic attack was a common occurrence for her. Not because of something he'd done. Not because of a pressure that was too much.

He looked down at her tousled hair. He tried to make sense of this. She'd mentioned her childhood social anxiety, and he'd understood. His anxiety had not been related to crowds. It had been more...generalized. But he'd never had a full-blown panic attack. Or at least, nothing that looked like this. Still, he could see how if it had been left unchecked, he might have.

But she had claimed that...she had grown out of her anxiety. That it no longer defined her, though her parents had continued to define her by it. He had assumed that perhaps, like him, she had gotten help. Because she had been fine in all social situations. She had been perfect at their wedding dinner, on the video. She handled the staff well, and her position.

Maybe she had gotten help but because they hadn't communicated, such help had fallen by the wayside. Maybe this was just... He didn't know. He was misunderstanding something, surely. "Do you take anything?"

"Take anything?" she repeated, like she didn't understand the question.

"Medication? For anxiety or panic disorders?"

"I..." She shook her head. "No. My father was insistent I never be treated. I did research on my own, but I was too...worried about what might happen if he caught me with medication or speaking to a therapist even via video. It was a blight against our name, in his eyes."

"Your father..." And then a few facts started to fall into place. The fact this was not...new, or out of place. Her father and research and the resigned way she spoke of all this, like she knew exactly how this went.

She didn't have medication because it was not allowed.

Because this was commonplace. And had been.

And she had never told him.

"How often do you have these attacks?" he asked, still searching for some way to understand this that did not cause this terrible rending inside of him.

She stiffened against him, then began to ease away. He would have held on to her, but his limbs felt numb.

"I'm feeling much better. Do you mind if I take a bath? And then a nap? I'm quite tired." She didn't get to her feet, but she edged away so there was space between them on the end of the bed.

He could only stare at her. Avoiding the question. A simple question. What should be simple . Unless she'd been lying to him. "Beau."

She sighed heavily. "Yes, I have panic attacks. They are sporadic. Uncontrollable. Sometimes there is a cause, sometimes there is not. You needn't worry about it."

He made a noise. He wasn't sure what kind of noise, but no words would encompass his reaction to You needn't worry about it . He was worried. She'd terrified him.

She'd lied to him. To his face. Over and over again for all these weeks.

"I can hide it," she said firmly. "I have been hiding it. And still, you're the only one who knows beyond my family. It's all right. No one else has to know. You needn't..." She trailed off, but she didn't look at him.

He was still sitting on the bed, trying to work through this turn of events. "What is it you think I'll do?"

A long looming silence settled in between them. She didn't answer, kept her gaze on the opposite wall, and he found himself relieved.

He didn't want to know what horrible thing she thought of him, it turned out.

All this time, and she'd been lying to him. Hiding this from him. And then it dawned on him. Not just this lie, but... "This is why your father did not want you to be his heir."

For a moment she did not respond. He heard her swallow. "Yes."

This was the secret his mother had been worried she'd been keeping. It was hardly the end of any worlds. If she'd kept it a secret this long in her life, they could continue to do so. It wasn't the panic attacks themselves, he of all people understood that one could not always control the things the brain did.

But she had lied to him. She did not trust him with this information even now. When he'd been ready to...

Change everything for her. Admit soft spots and love , and this was how little she thought of him. He knew she hadn't been happy, but he thought she felt at least some of what he did.

Surely there was just something he wasn't understanding. He needed more information. "How many have you had since coming here?"

She looked over at him miserably. "Does it matter?"

That she had had them? Hid them? Lied to him? And still he thought details would somehow...help ease this yawning ache inside of him growing deeper and more painful by the moment. "How many?"

She looked down at her lap. "Three."

Three . They had been married only three weeks. She had hidden three panic attacks from him. Well, two. But she would have hidden this from him if he hadn't... "When were they?"

"I'm very tired and—"

"When were they, Beaugonia?"

She lifted her chin. There was something, a hint of life in her eyes, but it was shrouded in a misery that settled in him like a stab to the gut.

"If you must know, though it matters not at all. The first night at the chalet. Last week in the library. Today, after arguing with your mother."

The chalet. "How... But we were in such close quarters at the chalet. How?"

"I know how to hide it. I told you. It was the middle of the night. I got out of bed without waking you."

And then she'd come back. Lied to him about being cold. And then... Lyon got to his feet. He wanted to rip the collar off his neck, the pressure squeezing just there. He stalked away from her, then turned back.

"So once a week. Once a week you've had these...attacks. And hidden it from me?"

"Yes." She didn't sound the least bit repentant. She just sat there on the bed, staring at her lap.

"Why would you have kept this from me?"

Her head whipped up. "Are you joking? A weakness like this? When you're obsessed with being seen as stable and respectable? Why would I ever admit this to you?"

"Obsessed." It felt like an indictment. One he could hardly defend himself from. It was true.

Except he hardly viewed a panic attack as some weakness . The fact she thought he would...

"Can you please leave me be now? I'd like to rest. Alone."

Alone. When he'd thought... It was all too much. He needed to sort through the...layers of it all. So perhaps alone would be best. She could rest and he could think.

But he didn't want anything hanging over her head, worrying her unnecessarily. "You do not need to attend the parliamentary dinner if you do not wish." He would make her excuses. Find a way to make certain she didn't have to deal with it. "I'll leave the decision up to you."

She looked at him then, her hazel eyes reflecting a hurt he did not understand. She didn't say anything.

So he gave her what she wanted. Time to rest. Alone .

Beau didn't rest. Because she felt the wreckage of everything like a sharp weight against her lungs.

He would never look at her the same. He would hide her away.

You do not need to attend the parliamentary dinner if you do not wish.

He did not need to be any clearer. He was embarrassed by her now. She'd ruined everything. All the years of refusing to believe what her parents thought of her, but now...

Maybe they were right. She was weak. And Lyon needed strength, stability, respectability. That could never be her.

What is it you think I'll do?

He'd sounded so horrified. So affronted.

Lock me away. Hate me.

She wouldn't stand for it. Not again. Maybe she loved him. Maybe it broke her heart into a million pieces, but she would not be locked away. And if she told herself it was that , and not that the worst thing she could imagine was having to live with him knowing he viewed her as what she was: less , then maybe she could get through this.

Because there were always options. She could fall apart. She could let this break her into all the pieces she stitched together after each and every panic attack. Or she could refuse to be ended no matter how much her heart hurt.

She hadn't been herself for weeks now. So maybe this was an opportunity. To get back to the person she'd been before she'd been stupid enough to soften her heart to someone who expected perfection.

That Beau had been strong, determined, sure of herself. Maybe there'd been a decided lack of joy, a loneliness, particularly after Zia had run away and she'd been left alone with her parents, but she hadn't felt destroyed.

Nothing was worse than this feeling. It would choke her until there was nothing left. She had to...get out.

She grabbed her phone, called Zia. "Zia. I know you're busy, and the babies must come first, but..."

"Beau, what is it?"

"I need help. I need...to run away." It was the only answer. She wouldn't be locked away. She wouldn't be hidden. She wouldn't keep living this...strange, gray version of turning into her mother.

She wouldn't stay and make Lyon unhappy. He would be angry about that, because it didn't look good from the outside, but she was tired of the damn outside. He could make up a lie. The version of her that was his wife could be a story people told, just like the story of her as a princess had always been.

She existed. She wasn't seen. Only instead of hiding in his castle, she would be free. She would be free .

Zia had run away and all had worked out, so this would too.

"What's happened? Did he hurt you? I'll kill him. Well, no, I'll send Cristhian to kill him. That's far scarier."

She wanted to be warmed by the viciousness in Zia's voice, but she didn't feel the least bit bloodthirsty. She wasn't angry at Lyon. She was just...devastated. "No, no. It isn't that."

"Then what is it?"

"Lyon...discovered my panic attacks."

There was a beat of silence. "Did you think you could hide it forever?" Zia asked gently.

The truth was, Beau had thought exactly that. Or maybe held on to the hope she was in control of some facet of her life and that she would be able to.

All up in smoke now.

"No, I suppose not, but... I can't be what Lyon needs me to be now. He knows I'm defective, and he'll hide me away."

"Did he call you that?" Zia demanded. "I am going to kill him. With my bare hands."

Beau thought back. No, he hadn't said anything like her father would have, but she'd seen it in his face. In the way he'd pulled back. He saw her differently now. Maybe there was enough kindness in him not to say it to her face, but she was broken now in his eyes.

She would not make him happy now that he knew this. She could not be the partner he needed, expected. "Not in so many words, no. He has a kindness to him. This isn't about...cruelty. I just can't be someone's dirty little secret again, hidden away. I won't be."

Again, Zia was silent for a few seconds. "All right. Then we'll get you out. All you have to do is get out of the palace. Find somewhere to hide. No need to call. Cristhian will find you. It's what he does."

"But the babies..."

"I am hardly alone, Beau. I have help. Cristhian will find you. And we'll have you back here before the day is out. Here and safe. I promise. Just get out of the palace."

Beau looked around the room that had begun to feel like hers. The life that held both misery and joy. Complicated feelings she'd never expected. A life she wanted...and couldn't have.

At least that was familiar.

Then she hung up the phone.

And planned her escape.