Gemma James

“He should be here with you,”

5,760 minutes.

96 hours.

Four days.

Roughly, that’s how long it’s been since Heath Bordeaux fit me for my crown. Those days snuck by in the blink of an eye, in the microseconds a bolt of lightning steals when striking the ground…in the time it takes to break a heart.

Leaving the haven of Liam Castle broke mine.

The chancellor’s absence is like a gushing wound in my chest. I’m devastated he chose not to escort me himself—leaving my ladies to do it—but I understand why he made the decision.

I think back to my last ten minutes with him, on the cusp of his penthouse door.

“I’m not ready to say goodbye,”

“This isn’t goodbye, my sweet girl.”

“It feels a lot like goodbye, Chancellor.”

“I know we’ve grown close enough this past month for you to be comfortable using my name.”

“The title just slipped out,”

“If you’re begging for my hand as a delaying tactic, it won’t work. I won’t cause your tardiness for the inevitable.”

I’d lied, hoping he’d scold me, spank me, lock me up and keep me as punishment for my refusal to use his name. Anything but sending me out that door.