We’re shifting again without deciding to, standing between two armchairs in the middle of the living room. The house is warm, and Natalie Portman reappears briefly, as if to confirm that this is, in fact, his domain, before vanishing up the stairs.
Cecilia’s gaze drifts over the space, taking it in—the photos on the wall, the clean lines, the calm colors.
“It suits you,” she says.
“What does?”
“This.” She gestures with her hand in the direction of the large windows, her eyes never leaving mine. “It’s not performative.”
“I don’t perform at home, Ceci,” I say.
Her eyes flick to my mouth.
“Good,” she murmurs.
There’s another pause. But this one feels like an eternity. Finally, she steps closer, her own hands grazing my waist this time with less hesitation than before.
“Does Natalie approve of guests?” she asks, voice lower now.
“He’s selective.” I look at her, standing in my living room, hair mussed from the walk, eyes still sharp from earlier, jaw relaxed enough to tell me she feels this, too.
“And you? Are you selective with your guests?”
The question hangs in the air, waiting for my response, and it feels heavier than it should.
“I am.”
Her fingers tighten at my waist just slightly. “Then why am I here?”
I don’t answer right away. My fingers find the hem of my top, still damp and clinging, and I pull it off in one smooth motion, dropping it over the back of the nearest chair.
Cecilia goes still. Similar to the way she gets when she’s trying not to react. But I see it. The way her shoulders square. The way her jaw tightens for half a second before she relaxes it.
Her eyes move over me slowly, not greedy or shy, either. Intentional. Taking in the lines of my shoulders, the faint flush still lingering across my skin from the walk and the drinks, the way my hair is probably rowdy and loose around my collarbones.
Her gaze drifts lower, and I feel it everywhere.
And there’s something electric about being looked at like that—not as a headline or a legend or a symbol—but as a body in a room, warm and exciting and within reach.
“Princess,” she murmurs, and the word ricochets in my living room so loudly that it makes me gasp. Cecilia’s mouth curves, but her gaze stays heavy.
I step backward towards the staircase, not breaking eye contact.
“Are you coming?” I ask.
That does it. Cecilia exhales through her nose like she’s losing an argument with herself, then follows.
CHAPTER 18
CECILIA
Walkinginto Isabella’s room feels like the spread of a high-end design magazine collided with the quiet aftermath of an elite athlete’s career. Everything is beautiful and deliberate: warm wood, soft textiles, windows open to the dark outline of the mountains, but threaded through it are pieces of a life lived at impossible speed.
On her dresser there is a framed credential from one of the Games, half-hidden behind a lamp. Hanging on the wall in a very creative way, there’s a pair of worn skate guards, and if I were to guess, they are probably the last ones she used before retiring.
There is evidence everywhere that excellence happened here, even if she refuses to center it during this phase of her life.
When I turn around, Isabella is waiting at the foot of the bed, half-clothed, breathing heavy. The tension we carried from the bar hasn’t faded; it’s condensed, sharpened in the dark of her room.
