Hate That I Want You

Chapter 18

“Quite the performance tonight,” Lady Pemberton’s voice cuts through the after-party chatter like a blade. “Though I must say, your choice of partner was… unexpected.”

I turn from the champagne table, my ice-blue gown still catching admiring glances despite the late hour. “Unexpected how?”

“Well, darling,” she purrs, her fan snapping shut with precision, “one doesn’t usually see princes dancing with charity cases.”

The insult lands like a slap, but I keep my smile steady. “Perhaps you need better spectacles, Lady Pemberton. The prince seemed quite satisfied with his choice.”

Her laugh is sharp as winter wind. “Oh, my dear child. You think one dance changes anything? How delightfully naive.”

Before I can respond, a crystal flute appears at my elbow. I turn to find Calla standing there, her smile saccharine sweet, her eyes glittering with malice.

“For the evening’s star,” she says, her voice honey over poison. “You must be parched after such… exertion.”

I stare at the champagne, then at her face. “How thoughtful.”

“Isn’t it?” She tilts her head, blonde curls catching the light. “I do so admire your… resilience. Most girls would have crumbled by now.”

“Most girls aren’t me.”

“No,” she agrees, her smile widening. “They’re not.”

I take the glass, noting how her fingers linger on the crystal stem. “To resilience, then.”

“To getting what one deserves,” she replies, raising her own flute.

We drink. The champagne is crisp, effervescent, with just a hint of something bitter underneath. I dismiss it as poor quality wine and take another sip.

“Enjoy the rest of your evening, Helena,” Calla says, already turning away. “I suspect it will be… memorable.”

The first sign something’s wrong comes five minutes later. The ballroom tilts slightly, like I’m standing on a ship’s deck. I grip the nearest table for support.

“Helena?” Isadora appears at my side, her young face creased with concern. “You look pale.”

“I’m fine,” I manage, but my voice sounds distant, muffled. “Just tired.”

“Perhaps you should sit—”

The floor lurches beneath my feet. My knees buckle, and I barely catch myself against the wall. The chandelier above spins like a carousel, its light fracturing into painful shards.

“Something’s wrong,” I gasp, my tongue thick and clumsy. “I can’t—”

“Help!” Isadora’s voice cuts through the ballroom chatter like a scream. “Someone help her!”

Faces turn toward us—noble masks of concern and barely concealed excitement. I see Calla watching from across the room, her expression perfectly neutral, perfectly composed.

My vision blurs. The world tilts sideways. I’m falling, falling—

Strong arms catch me before I hit the marble floor.

“Helena!” Henry’s voice is sharp with panic. “What happened? What’s wrong?”

“Can’t… breathe…” I try to speak, but the words come out slurred, broken.

“Move!” Henry’s command cuts through the crowd like a sword. “Everyone back!”

He lifts me into his arms, cradling me against his chest. I can feel his heart hammering against my cheek, can hear the barely controlled fury in his voice as he barks orders.

“Get the physician! Now!”

“Your Highness,” someone protests, “perhaps we should—”

“I said NOW!” The prince’s roar silences the ballroom. “And if I find out someone did this deliberately, I will destroy them.”

The threat hangs in the air like a sword. No one moves. No one speaks. They just watch as Henry carries me toward the doors, his face a mask of deadly calm.

As darkness claims me, I hear Calla’s voice one last time:

“How tragic. And she was doing so well.”