Page 48 of Cruel King

So not much will change once my father dies. I’ll get his office. That will be different, but it’s meaningless. Much like everything else in my life.

My mind drifts back to those days Ava and I spent in this room talking and laughing. And sleeping together. After all those months of wishing I didn’t have to obey my father’s rule of staying away from her, I finally threw caution to the wind and took a chance she could forgive me for being rotten to her for so long.

She should have told me to go fuck myself and kicked me in the face when I was crouched down in front of her taking off her wet shoes. I deserved at least that much nastiness from her.

But that’s not who she is. She forgave me without making me grovel or humiliate myself like other women would have. Her gentle nature left her no choice.

And for that, I repaid her sweetness with what I did today. I should have forgiven her by now for leaving me. I know in my heart she never meant to hurt me, but seeing her again brought all those emotions to the surface, and as I always do, I lashed out.

At the only person in the world I love.

The memories of that time do their slow march through my mind. Her face down in that snowbank. Me carrying her up to this room as she fought me the entire way. The way she smelled so perfect and innocent because of her perfume that reminded me of flowers. Her being her sweet self and me trying to push her away.

Me finally giving in to what I’d wanted for so long and never believed I could have.

Then the memory of her letting me draw her pops into my head, so I reach over to open the top drawer of my nightstand. I know Eleanor has the housekeeper clean all the rooms every week, not that they need it since none of us live here anymore. I wonder if my old sketchbook is still here.

I feel around and it’s right there on top where I left it. Lifting it out, I hold it in front of me, running my fingers across the front cover. Nothing made me happier than when I could draw back then. How long has it been since I sketched anything? Not since I moved to London. My wife doesn’t even know it’s one of my favorite things to do.

When I open the sketchbook, I see the picture of those trees I drew when I knew nothing about shadow or depth. I was just drawing because it made me happy. With each page I flip to, I see myself growing in my ability to capture what I saw. I can’t help but be proud. My mother was right. She always said if I kept at it, I’d get better and better.

Twelve years she’s been gone, and still the thought of her smiling at me and handing me that first sketchbook makes my breath catch in my chest. She had no idea what that gift gave me. I always knew my destiny as the firstborn son of Maximilian King. It was set in stone the day I was born.

But art gave me a reprieve from my sentence.

I continue to flip through the book, knowing what sketch is last. I haven’t drawn a single thing since that time. Consumed by unhappiness at my fate and losing her, I never bothered again.

When I reach that page, I want to keep moving, to ignore her like I’ve forced myself to for all this time. I can’t, though. She’s as beautiful in my sketch as she was that day. As she is today. I don’t know how I possibly captured her gentleness and that hint of shyness she showed me as I drew her that snowy afternoon, but there it is on full display in every stroke I made.

I swear if I close my eyes right now, I can smell her flowery perfume still hanging in the air.

Why didn’t she say goodbye? What made her leave without a word to me after what we shared together? Was it because I fell asleep and didn’t get to go to her that morning? Why didn’t she try to get in touch with me like she did with Theo?

I’ve asked myself these same questions hundreds, if not thousands, of times since that day I woke up and never saw her again. Until today. Sometimes I think I know the answers, and other times I’m utterly clueless as to what happened.

All I know is every time I ask myself them, I feel the same way. I hate her. Then I love her. Then I hate her again for infecting me like some virus I can’t shake even years later.

What is it about little Ava Sutton? She’s not the most beautiful woman in the world. I’ve met better. I’ve had hotter. But her looks were never all she was. Even now, I have to admit that.

To this day, I don’t know what it is about her that I can’t forget. It’s everything about her, not just what she looks like.

I can’t keep chasing ghosts like I have. Being back here at this house makes me hate myself more than I usually do. All I want is to be free of the memory of her.

But that’s a lie I tell myself when the loneliness gets too much. I don’t want to be free of Ava. Ever. And that’s the problem.

Frustrated, I throw the sketchbook across the room. It slams off the wall next to the bathroom door and hits the floor with a thud.

Closing my eyes again, I try to think of anything but her. Why does she torment me like this?

My phone vibrates against my ribs, so I fish it out of my suit jacket and hold it up in front of my eyes. Jillian. Jesus, I can’t take another fight with her right now.

But maybe it won’t be like that this time, so I answer it. “Hey, I got here. When are you coming? The airport was a goddamned nightmare, so whenever your flight is, get there like three hours early.”

The phone is silent for so long that I wonder if it dropped the call, but finally, Jillian quietly says, “I’m not coming.”

“Oh. Okay.”

What the hell else can I say?