But it was a bridge too far. Octavio knew what was in his heart, he was pretty sure he knew what was in hers, too. This wasn’t love, for either of them. He wasn’t a complete bastard though. He had no interest in saying things that were bound to hurt her.
‘I’ve said how I feel.’
‘No, you haven’t. Not directly. So say it,’ she challenged, shoulders squared.
He focused hard on her face, willing her to see into his soul, to understand that he would never love anyone. It just wasn’t a part of his capabilities any more. It was no deficiency of hers; it wasjust how Octavio was. As he’d been bred to be, after his parents’ death. ‘I have no wish to hurt you.’
She flinched.
‘I have always been clear about that.’
‘Yes, you have. Calculatedly so.’
‘You say that as if it’s a bad thing.’
Her lips trembled a little. He felt the bones in his body grow tight and painful. He looked away, dragging a hand through his hair. ‘I’m not running away,’ he said quietly. ‘But we both need some space from this. In a few days, you’ll realise how stupid it all is.’
She flinched again. ‘Loving someone isn’t stupid.’
‘Did you love Christopher?’
Her face paled. ‘Don’t bring him into this.’
‘Why not? You were wrong about him. How do you know you’re not wrong about me?’
‘Because you’re a completely different person. Don’t you think I’ve thought of that? Don’t you think I’ve been fighting with myself about that—you, him, my flawed judgement—this whole time? But you arenothim, just like you’ve said. You are his exact opposite in every way. Loving you is not a mistake, and it’s not based on a lie.’
‘Maybe it is. Maybe I’ve been lying to you without realising it. Because if you’re standing there expecting me to be able to say that I love you, then you’ve totally misunderstood who I am and what I want in life. And how can you be in love with me, if that’s the case? How can you love someone you don’t know?’ He felt as though he’d landed the winning shot. His words made so much sense, all the sense in the world, so he breathed out, relieved that he’d offered an argument that would surely sway her.
He took a step backwards, preparing to escape, but as he turned his back, she said, sadly, softly, ‘Or what if I know you better than you know yourself? What if I can see what you’re notcapable of seeing? What if I love you so much that I understand how hard it is for you to admit you love me back, but I’m willing to wait? What about that, Tavi?’
He didn’t want to hear that. He didn’t want to hear it and take it on board, and so he kept walking, shoulders squared, face set in a mould of determination. It was only as the helicopter took off that he dropped his head forward and admitted to himself that he had the strangest sense his world was crumbling down around him again, in almost the same way it had when his parents had died.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THEHELICOPTERLIFTEDand the palace began to look small. Tiny, really. A place that held so many memories for Octavio, so many memories of his life. His time with his parents and Rodrigo, times of happiness and care, of love and warmth. Times that he hated to think back to, despite their warmth, because of how badly they contrasted with what came next.
The loss, the grief, the despair. The feeling of being completely uprooted from everything and everyone he’d ever known. The conclusion he’d reached at that point, that there were no guarantees in life. That the only thing he would ever be able to control was himself, his interactions with people and who he let near him.
And so he’d been careful.
He’d been careful in terms of who he surrounded himself with, he was careful with his time, attention, focus, relationships. His boundaries and rules. He was carefulall the time.And it was exhausting. But what was exhaustion when the alternative was allowing someone else to hold the controls to your life and happiness?
So he was still careful, even with Phoebe, which was precisely how he knew he didn’t love her. He didn’tneedher. He’d be fine without her. The whole idea of her loving him was a construct, some kind of romantic notion dreamed up becauseof the pregnancy. Just like he’d said to her. She was hormonal. Fanciful. Just plain wrong.
He dropped his head forward as the air whooshed out of his lungs.
Had he actually said that to her?
The morning’s conversation came rushing back to him, the conversation he’d been avoiding remembering all day. He could see now how hurtful he’d been. He’d chosen words almost as if deliberately aiming to wound her, to insult her intelligence and—what had she called it?—gaslight her. He’d been so afraid of what she was saying, of the picture she was painting, of even the merest possibility that he might not have been able to maintain the control he fought so hard for, that he’d responded to her brave confession by shutting it down in the most direct way possible. Because he hadn’t wanted to hear it.
He’d panicked.
The city was now a blanket of lights, and yet he could still pick out the landmarks, the layout, the streets and parks he knew so well and was now in command of.
He loved this place. He loved his people. He loved the honour that had been bestowed upon him, to be King of this ancient Mediterranean country. There he was able to love without restraint, because countries could not hurt people. Countries could not wound.
Was he so afraid of Phoebe hurting him?
