Uncommon (BWWM)

Chapter 21

Grace stumbles into her flat, feeling drained.

With both hands, she pushes the door closed stopping to rest her forehead on the cold wood. Only then does she truly feel the weight of the day. The tears start to escape her eyes one by one, slowly evolving into two continuous streams.

Is she overreacting? She isn't sure.

She had felt so alone, sitting there while Arthur's mother spoke to her like a child, like a criminal. The questions she asked, the way she asked them, tore at Grace's already abysmal self-esteem.

And Arthur just sat there and watched, as if a half-assed warning was a sufficient defence against the force of nature that was Alexandra, Duchess of Gloucester.

Grace doesn't think that she has a right to feel angry at Arthur, this was his mother, for god's sake, she couldn't blame him for not wanting to be harsh with her.

But she can't help but feel put out. Arthur had said it himself, he had promised to always make her feel loved, to feel like she was worthy of him. If so, then where was he when his mother was clawing at her resolve like a lion to a carcass? Grace doesn't need to be babied, she doesn't need him to reassure her every moment of the day, but no one can blame her for holding him to his promises. Today was a test of his word, and he had failed.

It makes her angry. Angry that he didn't keep his promise, and angrier that she needed him to at all. All you ever hear about are these strong women, strong black women, who little girls are supposed to aspire to be. But no one ever talks about the ones who are weak, who are delicate. The one's who have to muster up all of their courage just to stand up for themselves. Apparently, there's no strength in sensitivity.

Right now, however, Grace wants to cry. And cry she does. She doesn't feel like talking to anyone, not Elina, not Bex, and especially not Arthur.

She sighs, lifting her head away from the door and wiping the tears from her hot, blotchy face.

Sluggishly, she takes a few steps toward the kitchen, fixing herself a glass of tap water before hopping to rest on the counter. She sits for a while, just staring into space, taking sips from her glass sporadically.

Ten deep breaths. In. Out.

Grace can feel her heart rate slow back to a normal and hops off of her perch. Midway through rinsing her glass, there is a knock on the door.

She feels as though her arms are going to fall to the floor with how much her shoulders sag.

With a huff of breath, she spins around and makes her way to the door.

"Hello, Grace," the woman before her says, a wry smile on her face, "I think we should have a private chat."

Grace's face drops, leaving her feeling like a basset hound. She gulps and nods, stepping aside, allowing the woman to come inside.

"Alexandra..." Grace says, not even bothering to school her tone, "Pleasure."

"I highly doubt that, Sweetheart, after the way our last conversation went."

She's not wrong, Grace thinks with a scoff, sitting down on her cheap sofa.

"So, uh, what did you want to talk about?"

Duchess Alexandra smiles softly, removing her coat and resting it on the back of the armchair in the corner of the room before settling down onto the seat.

"Firstly, I want to apologise." The woman starts, a sincere look in her eyes, "I know I acted a little bit hostile in Arthur's flat."

Grace stares at her, letting one eyebrow cock upwards. She shifts in her seat, a little bit uncomfortable and unsure how to respond.